They’d made it through another year alive. That was something worth celebrating, even if it was just the two of them. It was a little strange how all of his friends had been miraculously busy for New Year’s. Well, not too strange on the girls’ part. They had their boyfriends, or in Willow and Tara’s case, each other, to spend the evening with. Giles had something with his books, and his buddies at work all had their families to be with. That left the list of party attendees down to a whopping two, including himself.

Still it wasn’t too bad to be left with just him and Spike. Sure, it meant that his original plan for the evening had flopped worse than the Titanic, but Xander was nothing if not the master of improvisation.

Okay, so that wasn’t quite true. His talent for improvising only went so far, but he still thought he’d managed to do a decent job. He had a whole box of microwave popcorn – the good kind, he’d splurged for the special occasion – and a stack of rentals. Tonight’s theme was the living dead.

The phrase stuck in Xander’s head and he instantly corrected himself. Zombies. The night’s theme was zombies. Thankfully, not literally, just on the TV. He already had the living dead staying in the apartment, which meant it wasn’t so much a theme as a staple.

“Stupid git.” Spike snorted at the TV and munched a handful of popcorn from his seat beside Xander. The movie playing was corny and not very interesting as far as Xander was concerned. His mind wandered.

This was kind of cozy, just the two of them in a dark room, snuggled close on the couch, watching monster slayage that they didn’t have to take part in.

“Don’t they know better than to shoot something that’s already dead? Wankers wouldn’t last a second against a real zombie.”

Xander shuddered, remembering their last encounter with zombies. That had been rather unpleasant, and not just because of the smell.

Spike’s arm came around his shoulders automatically, drawing Xander closer while not once taking his eyes off the TV.

Xander glanced at the hand on his shoulder and then back over at Spike. The vampire looked like he was fully engrossed in the movie. Xander wondered if he could test that.

He shifted closer to Spike on the couch. Spike didn’t move, but his arm followed Xander, keeping the same hold on his shoulder. He shifted again, until their legs were touching, and rested his head on Spike’s shoulder. The bowl of popcorn balanced on Spike’s leg wobbled.

Spike shifted the bowl of popcorn into his lap and tightened his grip around Xander’s shoulders, rubbing his fingers absently over Xander’s arm. His eyes never left the TV.

It was time to up the stakes. Xander shifted the arm between them, settling his hand on the point where their knees touched.

The vampire didn’t seem to notice.

He slid his hand down along their thighs, enchanted by the feel of cotton and jean rubbing his palm together. Spike didn’t seem to notice so he continued, sliding his hand along the seam where their legs met. That got boring after the first couple times so he varied, running his hand in circles or lines or however his brain decided to direct it.

“Having fun there?”

Apparently if he fidgeted enough, Spike really would pay attention to him. He blushed and smiled, a goofy grin spreading across his face. “Yeah. A bit.”

“Not that I mind you getting all feely, but I thought you wanted to watch movies, eh?”

Xander frowned. He’d probably had way too much sugar and coffee today. He felt like he had the attention span of a five year-old right now. “It’s boring.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Spike switched off the movie and set the popcorn on the coffee table. “Could have found a way to entertain you if I’d known you needed entertained.”

Twin leers stretched across their faces.

“I could still use some entertainment.”

Spike was eager to remedy that. He shifted, pushing Xander down onto his back. Anticipation raced through Xander’s body, sparking interest in his groin. Lips descended. He opened his mouth to let in a probing tongue while his pants were opened for a probing hand.

Now this was the way to spend a holiday.

Twisting his fingers in the hem of Spike’s t-shirt, he pulled, rolling the fabric up Spike’s chest. They parted long enough for the shirt to be tossed over the back of the couch and then Spike was diving down again, latching onto Xander’s mouth like a suction cup.

As much as Xander loved Spike’s kisses, there were disadvantages to having a boyfriend that didn’t breathe. Thankfully Spike remembered, most of the time, that mortals needed oxygen. Spike shifted, trailing kisses down the line of his jaw, back under his ear, and then down the curve of his neck.

They really needed to do something about their pants and the fact that they were still wearing them. Blunt teeth scraped over a vein in his neck and Xander shivered. He tugged on the top of Spike’s jeans, hoping to get his point across.

Quick hands opened Spike’s jeans, sliding them down to free an already hard cock.

They took each other in hand, too wound up to bother with anything more complicated. Cold flesh warmed under Xander’s touch, leaking precum after only a short minute. They were both close. That happened, whenever they spent any amount of time next to each other. It was hard to be in the same room as Spike and not think dirty thoughts – particularly when he knew Spike would be eager to act them out.

Xander moaned and arched his hips off the couch. He wished they could do more. The engorged flesh in his hand tempted him, as it always did. He wanted to slip it between his lips, suck it for hours and then drink his fill. He wanted his cock in Spike’s mouth, cool lips tight around him while Spike’s fingers played inside of him. He wanted Spike inside of him, fucking him into the mattress so hard he wouldn’t be able to stand the next day.

Xander knew he wouldn’t last long enough to do any of that, not yet. He wasn’t even sure he’d make it though the next few minutes. Spike was jerking him hard, almost painfully. He tried to match the pace on Spike’s erection but it was difficult to divide his attention. His motor skills never did keep up with his brain.

He felt Spike’s face shift, felt sharpened teeth prick the side of his neck. Xander tilted his head, exposing more of the curve of his neck.

Spike’s teeth plunged into him and they both came.

The teeth were gone by the time he came back to himself. His hand was sticky, and his neck. An eager tongue lapped at the welling blood, licking him clean and helping the puncture wounds to close.

“Not bored now?”

Xander shook his head quickly. “Definitely not.”

“Good. Wanna hit bed early? Maybe ring in the new year with more than just a kiss?”

Xander had a feeling he’d just discovered his new favorite way to celebrate New Years.

“Here, hold this.”

Gil took the proffered garland and held it above his head while Greg balanced somewhat precariously on the step ladder with a staple gun in one hand. In the back of his mind, Gil was trying to remember if he’d ever run across a crime scene with this kind of situation. He remembered a number that had involved staple guns, though most had been ruled as accidents. There had been the one with the Christmas tree but that had involved a hacksaw and twine.

“This isn’t necessary, you know,” Gil commented calmly. His words fell on deaf ears. He knew exactly the kind of response that comment was going to get. This was not the first time they’d had this argument recently.

Greg glared down at him briefly before turning back to the garland. He wielded the staple gun with more force that was strictly necessary. “Yes. It. Is.” He punctuated each word with a click of the gun.

“Your parents will understand if the apartment isn’t brimming with ‘festive cheer’.” That’s what Greg had been calling it all weekend, while they forced themselves through crowded stores hunting for last-minute decorations and enough food to feed twice the number of people that were coming.

Originally they’d planned to spend this Christmas, their first as an official couple in the apartment they now shared, together with Greg’s parents in San Francisco. It would be Gil’s first time meeting them face-to-face, though he’d talked to them enough over the phone and through Greg that he had no worries about how they’d receive him.

Unfortunately those plans had fallen through and now Greg’s family was coming to visit them in Las Vegas. Then they’d spent every free moment they had between work and sleep wrapping gifts and hanging decorations.

There was a tree in the corner of the living room, plastic thankfully. Gil didn’t think he could deal with cleaning up pine needles, not after everything else they would have to take down in two weeks. The decorations on it were all Greg’s work, and Gil had to admit Greg had done a spectacular job. There were white lights on the tree and tinsel. Plastic balls in silver and red hung at random intervals, scattered among the snowflakes and snowmen ornaments Greg had insisted they buy.

Greg had a certain flair for decorating that shone during Christmas. The apartment certainly looked a lot more festive after Greg’s attention but the effort left Greg anything but cheerful.

“Of course they’ll understand,” Greg gritted out while he fought with an uncooperative section of garland. After a few tugs he got it untangled enough to hang properly. “They didn’t want us to go to any trouble. They said we didn’t need to worry, which is exactly why we have to.”

No matter how much time he spent with Greg, Grissom didn’t think he was ever going to fully understand his young lover. Each time he thought he understood Greg, a new quirk would pop up to surprise him.

That was probably one of the reasons they worked so well together. Greg was an eternal mystery to him, one that he was intent on solving.

Greg at least understood him and answered the question bubbling in Gil’s head without him having to ask.

“It’s not Christmas if there aren’t decorations. If you’d seen my parents’ house you would have understood. They always go all out this time of the year.”

“I really wouldn’t mind if you wanted to visit them. Termites have never bothered me.”

Greg shook his head. “My parents would be mortified if you saw the house in that state. I don’t think they even want me there if it’s not decorated.” A goofy smile crept across Greg’s face and he relaxed for the first time that week. “It was great when I was a kid. My mom loved Christmas as much as I did, and we’d drive my dad nuts whenever we drug down all the decorations the day after Thanksgiving. Mom would make him set up the tree for us and put on the lights, and then me and mom would take turn hanging ornaments on the tree. Papa Olaf would come over sometimes and help us, or he’d sit in the kitchen telling my dad how incorrigible my mom had been when she was a kid.”

“Sounds like fun.” Gil couldn’t help but smile whenever Greg looked like that, with wonder and happiness dancing in his eyes. “We’ll make it up there next year.”

“You bet we will. Now hand me the mistletoe.”

Grissom handed up the sprig of green plastic. Greg stapled it to the center of the doorway, in the middle of loops of garland and bows.

Gil had been skeptical when Greg had started going after the doorways, but he had to admit the final results looked good. Maybe they’d decorate again next year, even if they were going out of town for Christmas itself. Greg seemed to really enjoy it, as much as he stressed over it, and it would be a little silly to buy all these decorations and only use them once.

“There.” Greg climbed down off the ladder to survey his work. “Perfect.” He beamed over at Gil. “Isn’t it nice?”

“Lovely,” Gil assured him.

“Now what?”

“A break,” Gil insisted. He removed the staple gun from Greg’s grasp, flicking the safety back on before setting it aside. With one hand on the small of Greg’s back, he led the younger man into the kitchen.

Greg looked dubiously around the apartment, scanning for something else that needed done.

“You need to sit down for a few minutes,” Gil ordered sternly. “You’ve been on your feet for the last three hours.”

“But…”

“Sit.”

Greg sat at the kitchen table with a pout. Gil pulled a carton of eggnog out of the refrigerator and poured them each a glass before joining Greg at the table.

“What was your childhood like?” Greg asked suddenly, leaning forward at the table in interest. “Did you have anything special you liked to do? What’re your favorite traditions?”

The question caught Gil slightly off-guard. He sipped his eggnog as he considered it. There wasn’t anything that immediately came to mind.

“It was quiet, I guess,” Gil answered slowly. “It was just my mom and I most of the time. We were more sedate about it than most people.”

Greg frowned. “You didn’t decorate?”

Gil’s brows furrowed as he tried to remember. There were decorations, he knew. Nothing flashy like they sold in the stores nowadays, but he remembered helping his mom set out stuff.

“It was mostly old ornaments.” The image of a ceramic church came to mind, it’s windows ‘stained’ with tiny sprinkles of glass glued on. He’d made it in church when he was very young. His mother put it on the center of the mantle every year. “They blended in. I think we only had a single box of decorations.”

“Do you have any of them still? We could put them out.”

Gil tried to remember what had happened to the box. There had been so many boxes he’d had to sort through after his mother had died. He couldn’t remember what had been in them, let alone where they had all gone.

“They’re with my aunt,” he answered after a few minutes. Aunt Clarice had asked for them specifically. “She has them all.”

“You didn’t keep anything?” Greg sounded confused.

Gil shrugged. “There wasn’t anything that I had a particular attachment to. They went to good use with my aunt. Most of it was things from their childhood.”

Greg frowned but didn’t say anything. He reached across the table and took Gil’s hand in his.

“How about the tree? Was there any way you liked it decorated?”

He shook his head. “Mom always did that. I think we just did the standard – lights and ornaments. Nothing fancy.”

Greg’s brow furrowed in that way that meant he wasn’t going to let go of an idea. Gil found Greg’s strange tenacity rather cute.

“Food.” Greg seemed to have latched onto digging up Gil’s childhood. “There has to be some kind of food she made at Christmas that you liked?”

Now that Greg mentioned it, he could remember one tradition they’d had. Trust Greg to remember something Gil had forgotten.

“Kimmelspritz,” he answered with a smile. “She always made Kimmelspritz cookies.”

“Cool.” Greg was energized again. “What do we need?”

He’d never made them himself, but he could remember the distinct smell of them cooking. “I don’t know. I don’t have the recipe.”

“What about your aunt?”

Gil smiled. “She would.” He got up to search for his phonebook. He knew he had Clarice’s number written somewhere. He’d called her within the last year.

“We’re going to need a spritz press and some caraway seeds,” Gil commented absently. He couldn’t remember if the recipe differed from normal spritz or not.

Greg groaned. “The grocery store is going to be horrid. I hope you know you’re expected to save me from the old biddies with their squeaky carts.”

He found the phonebook in the back of his desk drawer and laughed. “Yes, Greg. They’re not that bad.”

“To you.” Greg was smiling even as he tried in vain to sound indignant. “They don’t like me. I swear one hit me with her purse when I was in Target Wednesday.”

Gil arched an eyebrow.

Greg’s efforts to hold in his laughter failed. “I may have been on the phone talking to Nick about ideas on gifts for his current girlfriend.”

“And how lewd were you being?”

When they had first started dating, Gil had often wondered if Greg had any sense of public decency. After having gone out with him on numerous occasions, Gil could now say with certainty that Greg did not. He had no qualms about being open with their relationship, or public displays of affection, or even, as he was sure had happened at Target, in discussing more eclectic sexual practices over the phone in the middle of crowded stores.

It added a certain sense of amusement to their relationship.

“You could stay here and finish decorating while I get groceries,” Gil offered.

The look Greg gave him was one of undying love and admiration. “My hero!”

Shaking his head, Gil dialed his aunt’s phone number.

They stared at each other across the waiting room.

On one side sat a ruddy blonde-haired man in an impeccable suit, his hair gelled back and fire in his gaze. He sneered at the room’s other occupant, confidant in his superiority. This was not their first encounter. Their rivalry went back years, though recently the rules had been rather drastically altered. Perfectly manicured fingers twitched on the arm of the demon’s chair, the only sign of his agitation.

The focus of his irritation sat on the exact opposite side of the room. The other man smiled, smoking a cigarette in blatant disrespect of his surroundings. One leg hung over the side of the chair, wrinkling the fabric of his pants. Blonde hair stood up in disarray as if he’d just rolled out of bed before arriving. He wore a white shirt and black tie under a brown trench coat, his standard dress.

John Constantine was, perhaps, the last person Balthazar would have ever expected to meet outside Lucifer’s office, which meant that he was the one person Balthazar seemed to run into the most.

He was getting used to it, like he was getting used to the other changes forced upon him by Constantine’s death. Some he was even starting to like, though he would never admit it aloud. That’d ruin his carefully crafted image. He was evil after all.

Balthazar had to admit death looked good on Constantine, possibly even better than life had. Mortality had done Constantine no good. It was… fitting, that’d he’d had to abandon it in the end.

“So, Bally.” John was the first to break the silence between them. “What’s new in Hell? Tortured any more innocent souls recently? Ever thought of redecorating the place a little, maybe put in an ice rink?”

Balthazar glared. “Things are fine. No thanks to you.”

He would have wagered souls that Constantine’s death would be the end of it. No more – or at least a lot less – interference on Earth. It’d tip the balance and give them the edge they needed to finally take over. Of course, he also would have wagered that Constantine was theirs. Suicides were their province.

Leave it to God to change the rules halfway through the game.

Constantine shrugged easily and gave Balthazar an impertinent smirk. “Just doing my job.”

“I’m sure.”

Lucifer was going to be in a foul mood after these meetings. He always was when Constantine was involved.

“What about you, Johnny Boy? Still pretending that you play both sides?”

In name, Constantine wasn’t on either side. He wasn’t God’s and he wasn’t Satan’s. Constantine existed to keep the balance. He was their… referee, so to speak.

That was the official version. Reality was quite different. There was no mistaking which side Constantine favored, no matter how much he play acted. Business was the worst it had ever been.

“I never pretended,” Constantine quipped back. He’d gotten a lot cockier now that he knew Balthazar couldn’t kill him.

That didn’t stop Balthazar from trying.

“Just a different two sides than I’m supposed to be playing,” John finished, a thinly veiled leer spread across his lips. “Eternity lasts a while. I need to find some way to amuse myself.” He shot Balthazar a significant look. “Aside from kicking your ass that is.”

Balthazar was tempted to rise to the challenge. Their location, and the man in the adjoining room, stopped him. “We can prove the fallacy of that statement at another time.”

Constantine continued smiling. “I really do play both sides,” he assured.

One finely trimmed eyebrow arched. “Was that an offer?”

“More of an invitation, but you can take it as you like.” Constantine sounded sure of himself, experienced. Balthazar doubted he had much experience with men, let alone with demons. They were a whole different breed entirely. A superior breed, as far as Balthazar was concerned.

He smirked back. Who did Constantine honestly think he was fooling? Balthazar had encountered far too many curious do-gooders, both on the mortal plane and off of it, to take the man seriously. “And if I were to take you up on the offer? Would you do it?” He challenged.

Constantine didn’t even bat an eye at the words, though he shifted on the chair, spreading his legs wider in obvious invitation. “Your place or mine?”

Balthazar sat back in his chair and stared. Well. This could prove to be quite interesting.

“You always manage to fascinate me, John Constantine,” he admitted. “Even when you enrage me, you fascinate me.”

“Glad to oblige.”

He imagined how else Constantine might oblige him. What could he do with the lips that mocked him? How would he ravage the body that fought him? Would he dominate it, take control for the first time and for once bend Constantine to his will, or would he seduce, show Constantine the benefits of helping their side?

His ruminations were cut short but the sound of a gong. Slinging his leg over the arm of the chair, Constantine stood. Brown fabric billowed around him like leathery wings. “Hope you don’t mind if I go first,” Constantine smirked at him, already heading towards Lucifer’s door.

Balthazar let him. He watched, and contemplated.

There was a way to win this. Constantine had handed him an opening, one that could prove most advantageous. He’d be an idiot – worse than an idiot – if he let it slip through his grasp.

Constantine paused scant paces from Lucifer’s door and turned back towards the waiting demon. “You never did answer my question.”

There were far too many questions flitting around his head to keep track. “Which one was that?”

Constantine smile at him again. That smile was starting to get on Balthazar’s nerves. “Your place or mine?’

Scratch that. The smile infuriated him.

The thought of strolling into God’s domain to bend his servant over the nearest piece of furniture was tempting, but Balthazar had enough sense of self-preservation to know a bad idea when he heard it.

“Mine.” He drawled the word out in a silken purr.

“I’ll be there,” Constantine promised, before disappearing into Lucifer’s office.

Well, Balthazar thought, eternity with Constantine could prove interesting after all.

He found Zack sitting on a hill, about a mile outside of the city. The other Soldier had been gone for hours. The task fell, as always, upon Sephiroth to find him and bring him back before their next attack.

Sephiroth walked up behind the black-haired Soldier and stood silently at his side. Zack didn’t make any overt sign that he’d noticed Sephiroth’s presence. He didn’t need to. There was some type of confection in the younger man’s hand – a strange looking pastry, half-eaten and shaped like a fish. He stared down at the city below them as he ate, lost in thought.

Sephiroth listened to the wind blow through the grass around them and enjoyed the silence. He let himself forget about the war, if only briefly, and relax. It seemed strange to find a moment so calm while they were fighting such a bloody war. Fitting that Zack had led him, if unintentionally, to this moment.

Considering Zack, perhaps it wasn’t unintentional.

“Did you ever notice,” Zack’s voice brought Sephiroth out of his reverie, “how alike we all are?”

He hadn’t, but he didn’t say that. There would be no point to respond with an answer so simple. Instead he stayed silent and considered it. What was the scope?

“Do you mean the Soldiers, or the Wutai?”

Zack watched him out of the corner of his eye. “All of us. You, me, the Soldiers, and the Wutai. Everyone.”

Were they all alike? He hadn’t considered it before, but his first answer would have to be a definite no. He wasn’t Wutai. That wasn’t the answer Zack was looking for. He considered the statement again. He wasn’t Wutai, but there were similarities. “We breathe air,” he answered slowly. “We eat. We drink. We live and we die.” On the basic level there were no differences. It was once he considered beyond that that they separated into distinct types.

“We aren’t any different from the Wutai.” Zack spoke as if he regretted it. Perhaps it was the war he regretted, not the differences. Maybe it was both.

“We are,” Sephiroth argued. He wasn’t Wutai, and while he didn’t mind that fact, he knew there were some that used their differences as fuel for this war.

“But we aren’t. Not really. You said it yourself. We all live and die. Their blood is the same color as mine. They want the same things – to be happy, to be loved, to stay alive.”

Sephiroth shrugged. It didn’t much matter to him if they were the same or different. Orders were orders. He’d fight and kill whoever Shinra told him to, whether they were Wutai or not.

“We’re different, you and I,” Zack continued, waving his hand between the two of them. “In our hair, the shape of our face, in our likes and dislikes, our heights and style of dress. We think differently, we fight differently, we look differently.” Zack stared at him. “So why don’t we kill each other?”

Sephiroth frowned, his eyes narrowing. Zack wasn’t going to give up until Sephiroth finally took part in this stupid debate. What they said didn’t matter. They could debate differences and similarities for hours but nothing would change. There would still be a war, waiting to be fought. He would still be Soldier, under the command of Shinra. He humored Zack anyways. “We have no reason to.”

“Why?” Zack persisted.

“Because we’re allies. We’re on the same side.” There was more to it. They were… friends, in a sense, in the only way Sephiroth could have friends. They were close – compatriots, allies, lovers. They had a bond, invisible, but still tying them closely together.

That didn’t mean that Sephiroth wouldn’t kill Zack if he had to, perhaps even if he was ordered to. But he wouldn’t want to and if it ever came down to it, there was a chance he would disobey orders rather than kill Zack.

Not that Shinra would ever order him to kill Zack. Shinra knew better than to give that kind of order.

“And what about them?” Zack waved his hand toward the village. “Why are we killing them?”

Zack knew the reasons why. He’d been briefed the same time as Sephiroth. He’d done research. But he didn’t say that. He didn’t think he had to. “We were ordered to,” he answered instead.

“Why?” Zack’s voice cracked on the word. Sephiroth didn’t move.

“Because President…”

Zack cut him off. “Don’t give me the political garbage answer. What makes it okay? What is it about the Wutai that’s so different than us that lets the public accept the fact that we’re out here slaughtering them? Women and children are dying down there, and somehow people think it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Sephiroth answered, more to placate Zack than from any real conviction. “The differences are all people see. Their language, their dress, their customs. Even the way they go about their day is different.”

“It’s not.” Zack glared. “They love, just like us. They have the same fight to make it through the day. There are no differences.”

Sephiroth sighed and shifted on his feet. “There are. We’re all different. We always will be. You have to accept that.”

Zack looked ready to fight. Sephiroth wasn’t in the mood to give him one. He turned and started back down the hill.

He didn’t walk alone.

“I will never accept that this kind of killing is right,” Zack stated, bitterness clear in his voice.

“Good,” Sephiroth commented, obviously not the answer Zack was expecting as the younger man stumbled slightly. “That keeps you human. More human than I.”

He knew his failings well. That was part of the reason why he stayed with Zack – Zack was his humanity.

“Different or not, we still have to fight. It’d be best if you remembered that. If you can’t justify it to yourself, make something up. That they’re holding children hostage or they kick puppies – whatever you need to get through battle.” He stopped and turned to face Zack. “You can question it all you want once we’re on the field, but don’t let those questions get in the way of your duty. We have a job to do here. If we don’t, someone else will, so you can at least tell yourself that if we do it, none of the innocents will get hurt.”

There was rage in Zack’s eyes, flashing green like the Mako in their blood. The rage would fade when he finally understood.

They had no choice.

“Fine,” Zack gritted, “but I don’t have to like it, you know.”

Sephiroth turned and started back towards their temporary base.

“I never said you had to.”

There was nothing like a good battle to get his blood roaring. Johannes stood back and watched with a smile on his as Marken called out the rules to the tournament. It was such a fleeting time. Four rounds of combat this year, over barely before it started and then he’d have to start preparing for next year’s event. In his opinion, they got better each year.

Marken saw him watching and smiled back.

Johannes was a sucker for a good fight. He loved old movies, the kind with noble knights and underdogs fighting for just causes. There was romance to battle, if one looked at it right. Sure, there was the clash of swords, or in their current case bats, but with that came sweat, exertion, determination, and will. The will to fight. The will to win.

It was glorious.

Hayner and Roxas paired off, circling the ring as they tested each other. Marken stepped back to the edge, out of the way.

Here, for example, Johannes could see both boys’ ambitions. They wanted to win, for their friend Ollette, for each other, and for the glory of it all. Their senses sharpened. They were part cautious, part reckless. It was like the mating dance of two wild animals, circling each other, looking for both strengths and weaknesses, judging to see if they were a good match.

He’d met Marken similarly, years ago when they were both kids. They’d gone through the same dance, measured each other the same way. Watching Hayner and Roxas, his body remembered what it was like to be in that ring – the clash of bodies, the crossing of bats. He’d lost his battle with Marken, but in the same time he’d won.

They both shared a passion for the Struggle ever since that fated fight. They’d faced each other across the ring ten more times before finally retiring. Johannes had practiced endlessly, and he knew Marken had too, just for one fight. Sometimes Johannes won. More often, Marken did. In the end, it didn’t matter. The battle itself was what counted.

As if on cue with his thoughts, the two boys sprung into action. They ran towards each other, shouting challenges seconds before their bats met. The thwack of rubber echoed through the suddenly silent courtyard, repeated frantically, almost rhythmically as the two friends fought.

He sighed. No matter who fought, he couldn’t help but think how romantic the struggle was.

Roxas scored the first hit, pulling away from Hayner to collect spheres. Hayner chased after him and landed a lucky hit.

Both boys were good fighters. Johannes knew how hard they’d both trained. He’d seen them, in the alleys, sparring with each other and that boy Seifer in preparation for this day. Still, there were some things training alone couldn’t teach. Hayner was good, but he’d never beat Roxas.

Roxas fought like he was born to it, like he’d spent his life doing it. He didn’t know it, but there were abilities hiding in him waiting to be released. Johannes could tell just by looking. He’d trained a number of fighters, fought alongside others. He knew talent when he saw it.

There was talent in the way Roxas moved, in the speed that he raised his blade, and the instinctive way he followed his opponent – almost as if he was watching the fight from outside his body. Roxas could go far if he ever realized his potential.

The fight was over quickly. Roxas won by a bare margin. Hayner stormed off. He was upset, but he’d get over it. Good things could come from defeat. Johannes knew that from experience.

Seifer and Vivi squared off. Johannes would have bet money on the outcome, if he was the betting kind of man. Seifer was a favorite of the crowd. He’d won before, and he was the kind of fighter that could help Roxas bring out his talent. Apparently Vivi had been hiding something from them, since he had Seifer defeated almost before the battle even started.

Johannes shared a look with Marcus. In his head, he reviewed every second of the fight but he couldn’t think of anything that was against the rules. It was surprising, but there was no rule about a contestant playing down their skills. Part of Johannes couldn’t help but feel it was a bit unsportsmanlike. This was supposed to be a fair, open contest. They were all friends in the ring.

Regardless of how Vivi won, he still had won, which brought them to their final battle. Roxas climbed back in the ring and Johannes watched, a bit worriedly, as Marcus ran through the standard announcements.

Now this was a battle the ring was meant for. Vivi was powered up, almost brimming with fighting energy. Roxas’ power wasn’t at quite that level, not yet, but he had ambition.

Johannes watched with bated breath as the boys fought. They were unevenly matched and it seemed almost like Vivi was going to win. Then time seemed to hiccup. Johannes blinked and it was over.

None of them moved, not quite sure what had happened.

Marken was the first to react, declaring Roxas the winner.

The crowd roared to life, cheering. Johannes watched Vivi leave. He seemed almost a different person now, back to his normal self.

He’d seen the ring change people before, but never like that. He filed the oddity away in his mind for later contemplation.

Setzer stepped onto the ring. It was always a joy seeing him fight, and he was in fine form today. This was one battle Roxas couldn’t win, even with his budding talent. He lost, though not horribly. A couple more years and Roxas could probably defeat Setzer.

Johannes couldn’t wait to see that fight.

The crowd drifted away and Marken stepped down to join Johannes. “Good Struggle this year,” he commented.

Johannes nodded, smiling as Marken stopped barely a foot away. “It was.”

Marken leaned in and kissed him lightly, not caring if a few of the stragglers saw. “We’ll have a better one next year,” Marken promised.

Johannes returned the kiss with a wide grin. “Always.”

Their tents were side by side, almost connected. That was their tradition and one they were wont to break, despite the protests of the prince’s entourage. He will betray you, they whispered. He is a commoner, they said. He has no virtue, no honor. Those that whispered ill against him quickly found themselves removed from the prince’s presence. The others… well, they understood.

William was Edward’s knight, not in title but in heart, and he would serve Edward as well he could until the day he died.

That did not, of course, mean that he didn’t question his lord’s logic at times.

“They’re going to find out,” he whispered cautiously. The tent flap was not as secure as he’d like. The prince had ordered solitude but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t still barge in.

“They won’t,” Edward assured him, his hands resting on either side of William’s head. He pulled Will towards him, kissed him lightly on the lips.

Will’s heart warred between guilt and temptation, caution and recklessness.

He kissed back and prayed the flap stayed closed.

Edward’s grip on his hand drew him further in, towards the pile of cushions that marked Edward’s bed for the duration of the tourney. “Stop worrying. It makes these funny wrinkles in the middle of your forehead.” The prince smiled at him and poked Will right over said wrinkles.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the crown prince of England. “There is good reason for us to be cautious.”

“You’ll cross lances with me but are afraid to be caught alone with me?”

“Your father will no doubt have words with me about the lances when we return. He doesn’t like you jousting.” Neither did Will but he knew better than to admit that. It was foolish of Edward to risk his life so needlessly, but Will understood. That was why he would never withdraw against his lord. This, on the other hand, was a different sort of dangers. “Your wife…”

“…will understand,” Edward answered. “Do you honestly think she spends her time pining alone while I am gone?” He sat and tugged on Will’s hand, encouraging Will to join him.

William frowned. Nobles were a strange breed. “My wife, Jocelyn…” Will started again. He felt horrible, betraying her like this. He loved her, truly he did, but she wasn’t the only one he had fallen in love with.

“…is keeping my wife company,” Edward told him with an arched eyebrow.

Will hit the cushions hard, his mouth flapping like a fish out of water. Jocelyn? Jocelyn and… She… He… This was all too odd, yet strangely fitting. He pictured them together in his mind and….

Edward’s tongue slipped in his mouth and he forgot about wives.

This was not the first time they’d met like this, nor would it be the last. Tourneys, battlefields, even at court. Whenever his prince called, he obeyed, though some orders were sweeter than others.

They fell back on the cushions. Hands roved, slipping beneath fabric and loosening ties. Edward’s hand trailed up Will’s chest inside his shirt, counting the bones of his ribcage. Will’s hands fisted in the front of Edward’s tunic. He was always reluctant, when they were just starting out, to let his hands stray. His head said that they’d done this before, that he knew it was alright, but he couldn’t shake that peasant instinct to look but not touch.

As if on cue, Edward gripped Will’s right wrist and shoved it down the front of Edward’s already loosened trousers.

“Hold my lance,” Edward whispered in his ear with a broad grin then laughed at his own joke.

Will did roll his eyes that time, but he took hold nonetheless, wrapping his fingers around his lord’s shaft. Edward did the same to Will and he shivered, already anticipating what was to come.

Each pulled the other free, exposing their cocks to the warm summer’s air. They kissed, shifting closers on the cushions so they could grip more easily. Calloused hands slid along engorged flesh, practiced, trained in the pleasure of another’s touch. Edward, the more experienced of the two, always led. Will followed, eager to serve.

He slid his hand along his prince’s member, gaining confidence in familiarity. He shivered as Edward’s thumb pressed against the head of his cock and closed his eyes to savor the moment.

Voices sounded outside the tent and he froze.

Will gasped as Edward’s hand moved down to tease his balls. “Will you withdraw?” Edward smiled at him, mocking.

The voices moved away, retreating.

“It is not in me to withdraw,” Will answered slowly and renewed his grip.

“Good.” The prince’s eyes closed in pleasure. He returned his attention to Will’s cock, redoubling his pace.

Their hands moved in harmony, encouraged by the slowly rising blend of their voices. If it were any other man, Will would be shamed by the noises he was making. He moaned like a girl, his head falling into the curve of his lord’s shoulder. His free hand clutched Edward’s tunic. The prince tilted his head and dropped kisses in Will’s hair.

Liquid spread beneath Will’s fingers, lubricating his grip and letting his hand slide faster. He was gasping, breath torn from him with each quick tug on his erection.

The finish came, much like the end of a joust, hard, fast, and with enough force to knock his breath out of his chest.

Edward’s arms came around him, holding him tight to the prince’s chest. “Victory, my knight,” Edward whispered in his ear. “Was it worth the battle?”

“A draw,” Will corrected, “and yes.”

They cleaned themselves and rested. At least now, with their clothes back in mostly proper position, Will could make some excuse in case anyone barged in. The fact that Edward held him possessively tight would have to be overlooked.

Sleep tempted him, but his brain returned instead to the prince’s earlier words.

“Jocelyn and your wife?” He would never have guessed. “Really?”

He felt Edward nod against his hair. The wrinkles were back on Will’s forehead.

“Why didn’t she say something?”

“Women like their secrets.”

He couldn’t blame them for not telling him, though he wondered…. “And us?”

“They know,” Edward confirmed.

“Oh.” In a strange way, that explained a lot. Jocelyn’s parting comment about riding hard and staying astride his horse made a lot more sense now.

Will blushed furiously. He hadn’t realized his wife had such a dirty mind.

“Oh, and they wanted me to tell you, whenever you finally figured it out, that we don’t have to sneak around the palace. We’re perfectly welcome to share each other’s beds.”

“But they…”

“…want to watch.”

Will’s face matched the scarlet pillow his head rested on. Edward laughed and hugged him tight.

He really, really, did not understand nobles.

Reiji stared at the couch with a scowl on his face. Part of him wanted to be annoyed. It was his shirt after all, an expensive black silk pinstripe that he’d bought overseas. He’d have to have it dry cleaned to get out all the wrinkles. And then there was the cat hair. The stuff stuck to him enough already without having the kitten sleeping on his shirt. One of these days, Naoya was going to catch a cold sleeping like this.

But the annoyed part of him was quickly loosing the battle to the rest of him – the part that wanted to tip-toe through the apartment to avoid waking them up or maybe bring out a blanket and curl up with them.

Aoe Reiji was not a sap. Or at least he hadn’t been.

Damn kittens.

He quietly set his briefcase by the door. His coat went on a hanger in the closet, the door sliding open with barely a whisper. He glanced at the kitchen as he passed, briefly entertaining then discarding the notion of a cup of tea before bed.

Crossing over to the sofa, he gently picked up the kitten – more of a cat now, really, but in his mind it’d always be as tiny as the day Naoya had found it, staying out in the cold like a moron keeping it company when he should have been in the house with the rest of them.

So many New Year’s had passed since then.

The cat went to the end of the couch, peering sleepily at him through one briefly opened eye before stretching and going back to sleep.

“Naoya,” he spoke softly, a hand resting on the boy… man’s shoulder.

Blue eyes blinked at him and Naoya stretched, much like the cat. A sunny smile greeted him, blooming across Naoya’s face.

“Aoe-san. Welcome home.”

Reiji frowned to keep himself from smiling like a simpering idiot, and stood. “Come to bed.”

“Okay.” Naoya sat up slowly, Reiji’s shirt falling off of him onto the couch.

Naoya squeezed Reiji’s hand lightly as he padded past him into the bedroom, yawning as he went. Reiji glanced once at the rumpled shirt and then turned away. He’d get it in the morning.

“How was your day, Aoe-san?”

Reiji caught up with the younger man, his arms encircling the small waist to draw his lover in tight. “How many times do I have to tell you, it’s Reiji.”

Naoya’s smile nearly blinded him as he looked up. “Reiji.”

Their lips met briefly in a chaste kiss.

“It was fine,” he answered belatedly.

Naoya drifted away to pull back the covers. Aoe watched, out of the corner of his eye, as Naoya undressed for bed. He looked so much better now than he did when Aoe first met him. Not that Aoe wouldn’t like Naoya no matter what he looked like, but Naoya looked healthier now.

He was a lot like the kitten in that respect. They’d both been underfed and soaked through by the rain when Reiji brought them home. A bit wild too, Reiji admitted with a grin, thinking back to the number of times Naoya had left and then returned to his house. He liked to think both of his kittens were tamed now.

Not that Reiji would let anything, or anyone, take his kittens away from him again.

“Reiji?” Naoya’s voice carried through the room like the whisper of the wind.

Glancing once at the naked man waiting for him under the covers, Reiji quickly finished undressing. His clothes were folded and set in the laundry basket on top of Naoya’s. Warm arms wrapped around Reiji’s chest as he settled into bed and he let his own arms snake around Naoya in a possessive grip.

The lights were turned off and the covers pulled up. Naoya was a firm weight on his chest. He couldn’t remember what it was like sleeping without Naoya in his bed. If something were to happen between them, he knew he’d miss this, possibly more than anything. Before Naoya he’d never really understood the kind of comfort that could come from sharing a bed. He’d learned a few other things – how sweet a kiss could be, how a simple touch could make him want to throw all his work out the window so he could go home, and even how much he wanted to be at home rather than at work.

He wasn’t quite sure when he’d turned into such a stupid romantic, or why he couldn’t bring himself to mind.

He actually bought chocolates at Valentines Day now, and presents on Christmas. Even Kiichi’s teasing wasn’t enough to deter him, not when Naoya looked so surprised every time, as if for some reason Aoe wasn’t going to give him anything this year when he’d done so every year for the past five.

Stupid kittens.

There was a loud mewing sound seconds before a light weight landed on the foot of the bed. The kitten – cat – was purring as it padded its way up Reiji’s leg to sit on Reiji’s chest a few inches away from where Naoya slumbered.

He glared at the cat.

It stared back and meowed.

Reiji sighed and let his head fall back against the pillow. Naoya tightened his grip around Reiji’s chest and snuggled closer. The cat circled his stomach for a full minute before finally settling down. It curled into a ball, still purring softly.

He couldn’t bring himself to mind being used as a human pillow. It was pathetic, really, how tightly his two kittens had him wrapped around their whims. He’d do anything for either of them. His entire life had been changed by their appearance.

He wondered if Naoya would like a second cat for his birthday. The answer was obvious. He’d ask Kashima about it when he got in to work tomorrow. Naoya was going to love it. Reiji could already imagine the delight on Naoya’s face.

In his head, Reiji started making plans.

Really, he hated kittens.

While the other boys snuck out to check out Kyoto’s notorious red light district, they stayed in. For them, the real vacation was being out of the Souma household and not having to sneak around to spend a certain amount of ‘quality time’ together. Their classmates knew and respected the three boys’ reputation, which was probably how they’d ‘lucked out’ and ended up the odd pair for room assignments.

Shigure would have pitied any poor soul that might have gotten stuck with them, particularly considering the kind of rampage Ayame was on right now. Ayame was adamant that they go check out the town, and would have stormed out without them if Hatori’s glare hadn’t stopped him. Shigure was tempted, but the idea of staying in their room, blissfully alone, sounded a lot better. Besides, he didn’t see much point in paying money for something he could get for free.

Hatori had used less kind words, ones that a high schooler really shouldn’t be able to rattle off with such ease. Shigure was proud. He’d taught Hatori those words and a number more like them.

He had a feeling they’d have a new nickname when they got back – ‘the inseparable trio so used to sex that even the red light district didn’t tempt them’. If they didn’t, Shigure was tempted to start the rumor himself.

Ayame was pouting. He had that look that meant Shigure and Hatori would have to do something soon if they didn’t want to listen to Ayame bitch all night.

A mischievous grin spread across Shigure’s face and he grabbed an unsuspecting Hatori, spun him around, and kissed him.

That got Ayame’s attention. He was beside them in a flash, pressing against Hatori’s other side and very vocally demanding a kiss. Hatori was happy to oblige and Shigure was happy to start divesting Hatori of his clothing.

There really wasn’t any way to get Ayame’s attention like the promise of sex.

“See, isn’t this better?” Shigure cooed.

Ayame was too busy to answer.

They moved towards the bed as one, clothes falling off like petals from a flower until they landed on the bed in just their skin. Ayame switched targets. Shigure opened his mouth and hummed in pleasure as Ayame’s tongue tangled with his. Hatori rolled away to grab the lube out of Shigure’s suitcase.

Sex came easy and often between the three of them. There were no set roles. They did what pleased them, or what felt right at the time. They’d tried every kink in the book. Well, most of the kinks in the book. There were some that Hatori wouldn’t stand for, and Ayame and Shigure agreed.

Ayame would try anything once as long as he had a willing partner. He was adventurous. Most of their experiments were things he thought up, and he never minding being the test dummy. He liked to tie them up or be tied up, to suck, fuck, or be fucked, and he was always ready for sex. Always. Once, he’d woken up from a deep sleep, rolled over on top of Shigure, fucked him into the floor, then rolled back over and fell asleep. To this day Shigure still didn’t understand Ayame’s sex drive.

Hatori on the other hand was the sedate one out of the three. He was more traditional, vanilla. That didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy their more wild adventures, but he was just as happy doing it missionary style. He’d do whatever Ayame and Shigure wanted him to. He never seemed particularly interested in sex, but then Hatori never seemed particularly interested in anything.

Shigure was… well, Shigure. He had a mischievous streak and a strong sense of adventure, but he also shared Hatori’s practicality. He was their voice of reason, whenever Ayame and Hatori quarreled. He was the middle ground between Ayame and Hatori, often quite literally. He was just happy that the other two were happy and he’d do anything, anything at all, to keep them that way.

Slick fingers worked their way inside Shigure and he moaned, spreading his legs wider for better access. Ayame’s hands were on his chest, which left only one option. Breaking the kiss, Shigure turned to smile at Hatori. Ayame pulled back to give him room to move and Shigure rolled until he was facing Hatori. He took the tube of lube from Hatori, slicked up two fingers, and slid them inside Hatori.

Ayame looked like he couldn’t decide which of his two favorite toys to play with.

Shigure took the choice away from him, rolling them until Hatori was under him. He took his fingers out and replaced them with his cock. Hatori tensed underneath him, exhaling in a slow steady stream as he forced himself to relax. He bent his knees on either side of Shigure and tangled his fingers in Ayame’s hair.

Raising himself up on his knees, Shigure slid his hands under Hatori’s hips and lifted so that Ayame could shove a pillow beneath them. He leaned over Hatori, bending over to give the other man a gentle kiss while he waited. Ayame didn’t make him wait long. A hand trailed slowly down Shigure’s spine before settling on his hip. His cheeks were parted and then Ayame’s thick member slid inside.

Shigure moaned. He loved this, filling and being filled at the same time. He felt connected, like he was part of both Ayame and Hatori, as if some part of him leaked out through the joining of their bodies.

Ayame moved and he almost fell over. Shigure never lasted long like this. Clenching his hands in the sheets on either side of Hatori’s head, he breathed deeply. He had to hold on, had to make sure the other two got as much out of this as he did.

He moved when Ayame did. Pulling back with Ayame and then thrusting forward. Ayame’s cock burned a trail through his lower back. Hatori’s tight heat welcomed him. The sounds of their breathing mingled, forming a strange sort of chorus. Ayame panted, high pitched and keening. Hatori groaned, almost as if he were in pain. Shigure cried out, his voice hitching every time Ayame pushed into him.

A hand tangled in his hair, dragging Shigure down into a kiss. There was a hand between them – Ayame’s – stroking Hatori rapidly. His tongue met Hatori’s and he lost it. He shouted into Hatori’s mouth and came. Hatori followed, spreading warm seed across Shigure’s chest. Behind him, Ayame kept going, his thrusts rocking Shigure into Hatori and making both of them shiver. After what seemed like an eternity, Ayame finally came.

They fell sideways into a tangle of limbs, slowly pulling out and away from each other. Shigure was too tired to move, but that didn’t mater. Ayame cleaned them off while Hatori rearranged the covers on top of him.

Shigure fells asleep in the middle, with two sets of arms holding him tight.

He loved vacations.

No one saw it coming, least of all Greg.

He had thought David hated him. Okay, so maybe hate was a little too strong. He had thought, at least, that David didn’t like him. Apparently, he was wrong.

They’d had a sort of rivalry back when Greg was in the lab. On bad days, it had been an all-out war between trace and DNA, one that Greg would have firmly insisted he was winning until the lab blew up. They’d stopped after that, though Greg wasn’t sure if Hodges had called the truce or if the combination of pain and drugs had made Greg forget about it.

As a CSI, Greg wasn’t sure where he stood. Hodges didn’t act very different, so maybe it was Greg that had changed. There wasn’t any reason for a CSI and a tech to compete. Actually, it would be kind of stupid to try and Greg had a feeling he’d already used up his stupid quota for the year. Without that rivalry, Greg was finding that they actually, strangely, got along.

They were at Archie’s when it happened. Hodges had found a copy of Stratego on the shelf and immediately dragged Greg off to another room to play. Somehow, it had turned into a drinking game. Neither of them remembered who had started it, but by about their twelfth round, Greg was thoroughly plastered.

“I’m gonna go get more beer,” Greg announced suddenly. The remains of three six-packs lay scattered around them.

Unfortunately that was harder said than done. He put his hands on the side of the couch and tried to push himself up but his legs flopped uselessly like lime jello.

He wasn’t sure that analogy made sense, but he was going to go with it until he thought of something better.

Hodges was watching him, slightly red-faced but not nearly as drunk as Greg. Later, he would claim he was completely sober but Greg knew better. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

No, he wasn’t sure, but that wasn’t going to stop him from trying.

He actually got his legs under him on his fourth try. They didn’t stay there for long, but thankfully there was something nice and soft to catch him when he fell. The soft thing made a rather amusing squeaking noise when Greg landed on it. Well, on him, to be precise.

“Sanders?” Hodges asked from amidst their octopus-like tangle of limbs. “I think you might want to move your hand.”

Greg considered it. This spot was actually more comfortable than the floor hand been. He wasn’t quite sure where his hands were.

“Nah. I don’t wanna.” He wiggled closer.

Hodges’s face was a lot redder than it had been.

“If you don’t move your hand, I’m not going to take responsibility for what may happen.”

Hodges would take responsibility for it the next day despite his bluster, even after Greg assured David that he really hadn’t been that drunk. Greg wouldn’t admit until a few years later, when they got him that drunk again, that his inhibitions had a tendency to disappear after a couple beers and after eight he really would sleep with anyone. That is, if both he and the other person were unattached. Even drunk, he still had morals. But Dave Hodges wasn’t just anyone, which is probably what made that whole night turn out okay.

Greg was drunk enough that he didn’t even feel it when his back hit the floor. The tongue down his throat, he definitely felt.

He was not what one would call repressed. Quite the opposite, as his past girlfriends and boyfriends would attest. So, when Greg found himself on his back with David seemingly trying to crawl inside Greg’s skin through his mouth, he did what any red-blooded, single bisexual that hadn’t gotten laid in three months would do – he wrapped his arms around David’s neck and returned the favor. His legs may or may not have wrapped around David’s waist. Neither of them really remembered, but considering Greg it was probably true.

There were hands in places they shouldn’t be. Greg wasn’t sure whose hands they were and what places they were in, he just knew they shouldn’t, not on Archie’s floor.

Apparently David thought so too because he pulled away slowly and scooted back until there was a good two feet of space between them.

Greg lay on the floor and tried to catch his breath.

“Sorry.” That was not the last time David would apologize for it that week. If Greg remembered correctly, the final count had been somewhere around twenty-three, but that number kept changing. David liked to sneak another apology in every once and a while – like on their anniversaries.

“I’m not,” Greg admitted bluntly. David, he had to admit, wasn’t that bad looking, and while he had a sometimes foul demeanor, he was getting better. That, and he was an amazing kisser. There was one thing that confused him. “I thought you didn’t like me.”

David frowned. “Who ever told you that?”

Greg just stared.

“Fine,” the snark was back in David’s tone, but he looked almost like he was trying to fight off a grin. “You’re not that bad, you know, when you’re not being a complete idiot.”

That was probably the nicest thing David had ever said to him. He smiled like a loon. “Cool. I like you too.”

He fell over again. The next day he would claim that it was a strange plot by gravity to bring them together. As it was, he barely avoiding smacking his head into Dave’s crotch. A couple inches to the right and their night would have been a lot different. Either way it was probably the worst moment for Jackie and Bobby to walk in on them. Which of course meant that they did.

Hodges never lived it down. He once complained that he was the only one who got teased over it when there were two people there. Jackie had calmly pointed out that they expected that kind of thing from Greg when he was drunk so it wasn’t anything new on Greg’s part. It took a full year before Hodges would let Greg have more than two beers at a party after that.

Still, it was somewhat fortunate that they had been caught in that position, since it meant that they couldn’t pretend that it never happened the next day. Not with every single tech working innuendo into every conversation the next day. The CSIs joined in halfway through the shift after one of the techs so considerately informed them about the previous nights’ events.

Greg had a feeling that Dave asked him out just to get the lab’s rumor mill to shut up. It worked, though it took a couple months before people stopped smirking every time they saw Greg and Hodges in the same room. Greg didn’t mind. A little embarrassment wasn’t a bad price to pay for the quirky relationship he found himself in. He’d never look at Stratego the same again.

The knock on the door wasn’t unexpected, though it came about five years late. Draco took one look at the figure and stepped aside.

“Come in, Harry.”

The war had changed Potter. It had changed all of those fortunate enough to live through it, but it seemed that it was the years after that had hit Potter the hardest. Black hair that had been slightly unkempt at Hogwarts was now an unruly mess barely contained by a loose ponytail. There was a jagged scar running along the side of Harry’s face, an almost perfect imitation of the one on his forehead. Draco remembered that scar as being one of Voldemort’s parting gifts. He had one, almost its twin, on his lower back.

There were more scars, he knew. Many more. He’d been there for some, but not all or even the majority of them. Most, like the ones Draco carried, were worn on the inside.

Draco shut the door without a word. Locks both magical and Muggle snapped shut with the wave of a hand.

“Tea?”

He didn’t wait for a response. Brushing past the silent man, he headed for the small kitchen. There was a kettle already on the stove and he relit the fire beneath it with a muttered word. He heard Harry shuffle into the kitchen as he rummaged through the cabinets. The bags were labeled, not by word, but by color and symbol. He pulled out a small brown bag folded over with red tape and tapped out a portion of leaves into the strainer of the already waiting pot.

The kettle whistled. He lowered the fire but kept it on to heat water for a second pot. The scent of oranges filled the room as he poured hot water over the tea leaves, closing the lid to let it steep while he refilled the kettle.

“Cream, sugar, or honey?” Draco asked as he pulled down two mismatched mugs from the cupboard.

“Honey.”

So Potter did still have his voice. Draco had been starting to wonder. The cups went on opposite ends of the table, quickly filled before he set the teapot in the middle. Turning back to the cupboard he pulled out a jar of honey for Potter and the sugar bowl for himself. There was already a spoon in the sugar, and he used that to measure out two generous mounds of sugar and stir his tea, returning the spoon to the bowl when he was finished.

Across the table, Harry had opened the honey and poured a good portion of the jar into his cup.

“Do you want a spoon?” Draco started to rise.

“No, it’s fine.” As if to prove his point, Potter sipped at the tea. He stopped as he was about to lower the mug and sniffed. “What kind is this?”

“Blood orange. It’s a specialty mix from one of the shops down the street.”

“Oh.”

Silence filled the table between them. Draco pursed his lips and studied the other wizard, more than a little curious as to what brought Potter here. There had been a few rumors of the Boy Who Won’s whereabouts over the last five years, but the press had been strangely silent. He wondered if the journalist that lived next door would believe him if he said he had the scoop of the century.

Well, no use putting off the inevitable.

“So, what brings the infamous Mister Potter to my doorstep?”

Harry looked up from his mug as if suddenly remembering there was someone else in the room. “What?”

It seems Draco wasn’t the only one wandering in his thoughts. “I was just wondering if there was any purpose to your visit or if you were just paying a social call.”

Harry’s face darkened almost imperceptibly as he frowned. Uncertainty was clear on Harry’s face. Clear to Draco at least, though he doubted others would have noticed. Draco had gotten good at reading people during the war and he was hardly one to let his talents dwindle.

“Do I have to have a reason?” Harry asked bitterly.

Draco wondered what kind of company Harry was keeping to give him such a sharp tongue. Considering how many had died on Harry’s side during the war, perhaps there wasn’t much company left to keep.

“No,” Draco answered calmly, “you don’t. I was merely curious.”

Harry’s frown remained but he didn’t respond.

“I am impressed,” Draco started, determined to carry the conversation himself since Harry seemed unwilling, “that you managed to find me. Few have.”

“I’m good at tracking people down.” There was that bitterness again. Not that Draco blamed Harry for being… different than what he once was. He understood. They had been on the same side, almost. If Draco had picked a side he would have picked Harry’s and not just because they’d won.

“I remember.” This wasn’t the first time Harry had tracked him down. He hoped he’d made it a bit harder this time.

“I was a bit surprised to find a Malfoy living in a Muggle neighborhood.” The spark was back in Harry’s eyes for a brief second and it was like they were students again. “Why Moody?”

So Harry had noticed the name on the mailbox. Draco shrugged. “I liked him, even if his doppelganger did turn me into a ferret. We got along better during the war.” To this day he still missed the man. It had hurt more to see him go than when his old man had died. Kind of fitting, considering they’d killed each other. Bittersweet memories welled up and he smiled. “He knew I was planning to change my name before he died.”

“Why give it up?” He could tell Harry was confused. He couldn’t blame him. Back in school he would have thought it daft of anyone wanting to stop being a Malfoy.

Draco shrugged. He’d buried the pain of betrayal a long time ago. “The Malfoy’s are dead and gone. That line ended with my parents. I’m not a part of it. Not anymore.”

“That doesn’t stop you from using their money,” Harry accused. There was the bitterness again, though Draco had no clue why. Either Harry would tell him, or he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter.

“Actually, it did,” he answered calmly as he sipped his tea. “I gave everything they had to the Reconstruction Committee. What I have, I earned. A Slytherin can do well in the Muggle world, even without magic.” He smiled around the rim of his cup. “Did you know they turned Malfoy Manor into a home for war orphans? My father’s probably rolling over in his grave at the thought of half-bloods running through his house.”

Harry watched him carefully. “And how did you earn your money? Black market trading? War profiteering?”

If he didn’t know, in full detail, what the war had done to Harry, he would have thrown the man out of his house on the spot. Instead, he set his cup down with a bit too much force and glared. “I run a legitimate business, Harry Potter, and you would do well to remember that,” he bit out. “If you don’t believe me we can go down to the shop right now. I’ll show you my books. Every cent is accounted for.”

They stared at each other for several long minutes before Harry finally dropped his gaze back to his cup.

“That was rude of me. I apologize.”

Draco drained his cup before answering. “It’s all right,” he said quietly. “I’m not who I was during school. Moody and the others, they taught me better.”

“Then why didn’t you join us?” The words came out barely above a whisper. He’d wondered why Harry had never asked him that before.

He turned his empty cup in his hand as he considered his response. There was no simple answer. He poured himself another cup, stirring in more sugar than he normally took.

“I was never as good as you, Harry,” he answered finally. He got up to put the sugar away and turned off the stovetop. He didn’t think he could stomach another cup. “How do you choose between destroying the world and killing your friends and family?”

Harry didn’t answer him. Draco sighed. Picking up his mug, he dumped it down the drain without drinking any.

“I’m going to bed,” he announced. Leaving the kitchen felt almost like running away.

He crawled into bed in only his boxers, glad for the quiet and the dark and the lack of questions that brought up old regrets. The door opened and closed. He heard the rustle of fabric and then another body settled against his. An arm snaked over his chest, palm resting over his heart. Warm breath ghosted over his shoulder. Soft hair tickled his neck.

“Why are you here?” Draco asked again.

“You’re the last one left.”

Draco stiffened briefly and then sighed. So, it was over then. They were the only ones left who’d been there.

He put his hand over Harry’s and carded their fingers together. It was strangely fitting that they’d be the last.

The offer was understood but Draco felt the need to voice it anyways. “Stay here.”

“Okay.”

In his head, Draco was tallying up the added cost of another body in the house, another mouth to feed. They’d get by. He had a few investments. They could clear out the study, give Harry a room to… do whatever it was he wanted to do. Draco could use another hand at the shop, but he’d get by if Harry didn’t want to.

They’d worry about it in the morning. Right now he was tired. Part of him was grieving over the loss of an age.

Eventually they’d have to go back. There were still stories to tell. Draco had been writing them down, in case he never made it back. The wizarding world had to know, and remember. There wouldn’t be another Lord Voldemort or another Harry Potter. Draco would make sure of that. He had to, if only for one reason.

There had been too many sacrifices. He was going to make sure they didn’t die in vain. It was his apology, for not standing by their sides. It was a legacy, for those who had nothing left to leave.

It was the aftermath of a war nobody won.