#lyk writes

On the right was a small kitchen with a tiled floor and floral wallpaper. The cabinets were handmade of dark wood, the countertops finely fashioned of stone. The oven and all other appliances meant for cooking – including the pans and implements hanging along the walls – were covered with a fine layer of dust that made Anteira wrinkle his nose. The small table in the center of the space was a mess of papers, quills, baubles, and ritual paraphernalia. The only sign that anyone had been in the kitchen in the past year were the deep scores in all the woodwork, showing fresh and white in the gloom. Anteira gripped the hilt of his sword and stepped further inside.

“Nathaniel i Avis Ancilarum?” he called, quickly sweeping his gaze about the darkened living area to his left, which was similarly disheveled, books and furniture overturned on the floor. “In the name of Her Majesty’s Royal Messengers, I charge you to answer me.” His voice sounded dull to his ears as he carefully advanced to a hallway that led deeper into the apartments. It was also dark, wall sconces covered in wax drippings but devoid of lamps now. His boot came down with a crunch on a litter of broken glass and he drew his sword.

One by one he checked the rooms along the hall. The water closet was empty and pristine. A pantry full of spider webs and an empty guest room crammed with more books, foreign trophies, and instruments of magic were also devoid of people. That left one more room, at the end of the hall. Anteira pushed it open with his foot, sword at the ready, and squinted at the sudden influx of sunlight.

The insane hornet crackle of a bolt of magical energy whizzed past him into the hallway and exploded against the floor, throwing up glass and wood splinters and bathing the area in a sickly blue glow before snuffing out. It left behind a reek of scorched hair and ozone. Anteira shouted in anger and a sudden deep fear that he was in over his head. Brandishing his weapon, he pushed into the room, hoping his rank would save him another brush with decapitation.

“I am Jaxal Anteira mik Malafease of Her Majesty’s Royal Messengers! Any harm you do to me is seen as a slight against the country and you will be hunted to the ends of the earth! Stand down!”

“Shit,” said a soft voice from the corner. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Anteira, still tense, sword glittering in the new wealth of light, took a deep breath and squinted at the corner. The bank of skylights above dazzled his eyes, but slowly he made out a low bed, piled with blankets, pillows, scarves, and sundries. On the bed in the middle of the nest-like chaos was the angel Nathaniel, or Anteira supposed so. The angel looked nothing like he had last time Anteira had seen him. 

There were the wings for one. They were folded haphazardly, the pure white pinions of one of them trailing on the ground amid the clutter. Anteira guessed that the span of them unfurled would top twenty feet; here they were awkwardly bunched and taking up most of the corner. He’d never seen an angel’s wings before. Usually they were cloaked or transformed with glamours and other spells. Nathaniel’s hair was also a luminous copper today, unnatural in its hue and luster. It flowed down his bare back like a spill of precious jewels, longer than Anteira could make out.

Nathaniel was still holding out a hand which glowed faintly with the aftermath of the energy bolt, though he lowered it as Anteira took in his appearance. “I felt like a change,” he said laconically, and sat up with a great shifting of feathers. The impressive effect was somewhat ruined when he had to spit out a wayward strand of hair.

“Clearly,” said Anteira, not yet sheathing his weapon. “Why did you fire upon a Royal Messenger?” Was it to be a confrontation? He’d had no inkling that Nathaniel, of all of the angels, had turned hostile to Her Majesty’s wishes. Or perhaps Nathaniel had been expecting an attack? These were uncertain times indeed.

“Like I said, I didn’t mean to,” replied Nathaniel, honeyed voice unrepentant. “You woke me up. It’s very rude of you to have done so. I think it would be best for you to go.” He nodded to the door.

Anteira hesitated and then slipped away his sword. “Of course. I don’t know what could have come over me. I’ll take my leave of you then, Nathaniel i Avis Ancil-” He stopped and growled. “Are you using a spell on me?”

Nathaniel blinked and frowned.

“Using a glamour on a Messenger is tantamount to deceiving the Queen herself,” snapped Anteira. “You know that!”

Nathaniel sighed gustily. “Yes. You weren’t supposed to notice, obviously.” Still frowning, he shivered and so did the air around him. When it was through, Anteira felt different. It was if a lingering perfume had suddenly been cleared away by the wind. “Is that better?” Nathaniel asked, and the change was apparent immediately. His voice was low and hoarse, nothing like before. “Because it hasn’t done me any favors.”

“What happened to you?” asked Anteira, striding over to the bed. He wouldn’t say he was worried. One didn’t usually worry about beings that could crush someone with a gesture. But he was mildly concerned. For the fate of his missive.

Nathaniel shrugged. His golden eyes – these were familiar at least – were shadowed and his face was flushed. His nose especially was raw and chapped, looking painful to the touch. “I’m sick.” A rough cough forced its way out of him. “It happens.”

“Does it?” asked Anteira, bewildered. “But you’re an angel.”

“Still stuck in a terrestrial body,” said Nathaniel irritably. “For the time being. Do you think I wouldn’t ascend and be done with this if I could?” He raised an eyebrow, shuffling his wings. His pale chest was well-muscled but sported goosebumps. “It’s the fault of petty mortals like you and your Queen and those bastard sons of whores who-” He stopped suddenly, staring straight ahead. His well-shaped nostrils flared.

“I don’t think angels are supposed to swear,” said Anteira dryly.

“Fucking hell,” declared Nathaniel, and then sneezed. “Hrreschhiu!” His copper hair fell over his face in a curtain, so Anteira didn’t see anything of the aftermath, but when the angel straightened back up, glaring, he was sniffling heavily.

Anteira stared for a moment, then mentally kicked himself. “Should I bless you?” he asked, a tad gruffly. This isn’t at all what he’d been expecting to find when he’d been sent out this morning. “Do angels like that kind of thing? Does it even actually do anything?”

“Why don’t you just tell me why you’re here?” snapped Nathaniel. He reached around in the blankets for something, a tissue box perhaps, but couldn’t find it. Grimacing, he resorted to pinching his nose in long, delicate fingers. He started to massage it.

“Right.” Anteira straightened. “By order of Her Royal Majesty, Queen Azraen Kalathir min Braechik-”

“Skip all of that,” said Nathaniel, waving his hand dismissively and coughing again.

Anteira scowled but got to the point. “Queen Kalathir is hosting a war council this evening and requires the presence of all House-affiliated parties, including Angels of the Light and Hearth, to attend to her. The need may be quite dire soon for the assembly of a combat force equipped to take on Henthal in the North. You, being of the Angels, while one of the youngest, are talented in the magical arts of electromancy, glamour, truthspeaking, and psychometry, and therefore the Queen asks that you come to her side at your earliest convenience.”

“Next year, then,” replied Nathaniel nasally. “Or the year after. Or perhaps another decade or so.”

Anteira crossed his arms. “You’ve always been a pain in the ass, but even you wouldn’t ignore a direct order from Her Majesty. That would be treason.”

“You’re keen to dish out the damnations today.” Nathaniel pushed his hair back behind his ears with a harsh sigh. “Speaking of pains in the ass. But in all truth, I won’t be able to go to her little war party – not today anyway, at the bare minimum.” He coughed and rubbed his throat.

‘Why don’t you just put on another glamour?” asked Anteira. “You looked fine when I came in. I wouldn’t expect you to neglect your duties over a thing like vanity.”

“Then you don’t know me very well,” said Nathaniel. “But anyway, I can’t. Things go sideways when I’m sick. You saw it yourself, didn’t you? I almost took off your head. Despite how I may feel about messengers interrupting my sleep, I wasn’t intending to kill you for the offense.” 

“You won’t be called upon to use that kind of magic tonight,” said Anteira. Good thing, too. “Just pretty yourself up and let’s go. I have others to see.”

“Asked you to make sure I moved my ass, hm?” Nathaniel glared at him, and then shrugged. “Fine, have it your way.” Struggling with the blankets, he got out of bed. With a labored shuffle, he drew his wings close to his back until it appeared as though he were wearing an unkempt but expensive swan feather mantle. Anteira tried steadfastly not to notice that the angel had nothing else by way of clothing.

Nathaniel clasped his hands together in front of him, then lifted them above his head, murmuring to himself. When both of his arms were extended fully, outspread as if leading a prayer, he shouted a word that Anteira couldn’t parse and slapped his palms together with a resounding crack. As it had before, the air rippled, and when Anteira blinked he saw that the angel had changed. Now dressed in a heavy velvet robe that made the angel seem taller, Nathaniel seemed fit to travel. His face no longer bore a pallor and his wings had shrunk to fit tightly against his back. His hair, still the color of afternoon sun, was elaborately woven about his head and ended in a thick braid to his lower back. His eyes were piercing.

“Very impressive,” said Anteira. “Come with me, now. I’ll call a streetcar on the main road.” He turned.

“Very well,” said Nathaniel imperiously. He took two steps after Anteira toward the door and fell like a sack of potatoes.

Anteira rushed back to him, heart racing from the sound of a body dropping. “Nathaniel?” He touched the angel’s head, then cradled it and turned the angel onto his side. Though the bulk of Nathaniel’s wings was invisible, Anteira could still somehow feel the feathers there, preventing him from laying the angel on his back. Like before, it was as if somehow he could feel the glamour touching his mind when usually such magic was seamless. It prickled like the crawl of sparks over a wizard’s staff.

“Can you hear me?” he asked, dropping his ear to Nathaniel’s chest. The velvet robe felt gauzy and indistinct and he could feel heat radiating from the angel’s skin beneath. “Light and Hearth, this is not what I signed up for…” He was just trying to figure out how to avoid injuring Nathaniel by picking him up when the angel came to groggily.

“Didn’t work so well,” he said, slurring a little. It was disconcerting to hear the rasp of his breathing under the melodious tones of his glamoured voice. “Okay.” He shivered and barked a cough before turning his face against Anteira’s leather-clad knee and sneezing powerfully. “Hresstch! Hkh… Hreisshiu!” The sound belied his current elfin appearance. Anteira grimaced minutely.

“You’ve convinced me,” he said. “I’ll tell the Queen you can’t make it.”

“At least there’s that.” Nathaniel shivered and sniffed weakly. “I don’t want to see another war, anyway. The last one… it was…” He trailed off and Anteira wasn’t sure if it was because of the memories or because the angel was going to sneeze again. Either way, he patted Nathaniel’s shoulder awkwardly.

“I’ll get you back to your bed,” he said. “But then I’ll have to be on my way. Can you manage?” It was rather alarming how warm the angel was.

“As always,” Nathaniel replied, accepting help to sit up. “The glamour… hh I’m going to get rid of it. Brace yourself.” He let it go and the air in the room swam dizzily. Stray magic spun away from him like shreds from a tattered cloak. Anteira felt a shallow laceration open on his arm. The books, walls, and papers nearby gained scores like the ones in the kitchen. “Bit harder than just the face and voice,” Nathaniel croaked.

With Anteira’s help, Nathaniel was able to get back into his bed-nest. He looked wan in the late light. The sun had just passed beyond the edge of the skylights now and the shadows in the room were growing. Anteira looked around the walls but saw no candles or gas lamps. When the sun sank, the angel would be left in gloom. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked. Again, it felt odd to question the angel, who had been around for centuries before Anteira was born and would be for centuries afterward. But the expression in Nathaniel’s alien golden eyes softened slightly.

“Yes, child, I will be fine.” He raised a ghostly white hand in farewell.

Anteira scowled. “I’m 28,” he said.

“Shut up,” said Nathaniel, turning his back to the door. “You’re all children to me. That’s what happens when you live forever.”

“You’re being pretentious,” said Anteira, heading for the door. “I hope you catch pneumonia.”

Nathaniel’s voice followed him down the hall. “That’s something a child would say! I win. Hh, hh- Hretchsshiu!”

Anteira rolled his eyes, adjusted his sword at his hip, and left Nathaniel’s apartment. Thank the Light and Hearth that angels walk among us and so bless our lovely Queen and her dwelling place, went the Common Prayer. Personally, Anteira just thought they were obnoxious.

Only three more to visit today. Sigh.

---

Clouds passed hypnotically overhead, streaming in the autumn winds like sheep driven over a dusky moor. Nathaniel watched them through the skylights in his room and tried not to slip back into sleep. He’d been having nightmares ever since the messenger had come, dark dreams of the last war. It had been almost forty years ago. The Queen had been but a small child, the sparkle of a new soul, and she would not remember what he had seen. None of the humans remembered anything worth a damn.

He took a breath, listening to it rattle in his chest, and turned to his side. This body was suffering. It was only flesh and blood, weak to the world around it, permeable to invisible threats and sickness. It had been a long time since he’d been ethereal, able to do what he wanted whenever he wanted. So long ago had the first angel, Lamiel i Avis Selptis Primum, descended to the earth and made the deal that bound the others here. Vulnerable.

Nathaniel shivered.

The meeting would be over by now. He wondered how long it would take for word to reach him of its conclusions. Would the angels once again be massing behind a royal hand to bring deliverance or death? Or would he be safe to pursue his whimsies and put murder from his mind? He lifted his hand and willed open a window, just enough to let in a pigeon with news. The glass pane shattered. Well, that would do, too.

He sighed, and there came a familiar prickling across his face, an irritation inside. A quick breath caught painfully in his throat and he braced himself, letting his eyes fall shut. His nostrils flared, his lip lifted in a reluctant snarl, and then he sneezed, heavily, into his blankets. “Hresshuh! Hh… Eschiuu!” The effort momentarily made his head spin and he closed his eyes until the world settled.

“Goodness,” came a voice from the dark mouth of the hallway.

Though there wasn’t much that could hurt him, Nathaniel startled and rose from the bed. Lightning skittered across the ceiling overhead as a Word of Power welled behind his lips. It was incredibly ill-advised in his current state, but he couldn’t take chances if he’d been found by a fell being or a practitioner of Henthalik blood magic. Evil images of the battlefield still lay behind his eyelids.

“Whoa! Whoa, Nathaniel, stop. It’s me, Jaxal Anteira.” The intruder lifted a lamp hurriedly to illuminate himself. He’d spoken true. In the gas light Nathaniel could make out the olive skin, wiry black beard, and dark brown eyes. The messenger was out of uniform now. Instead of his smart black and blues he was dressed in a thick, undyed wool sweater and calfskin trousers.

The angel let the Word die on his tongue and the magic dispersed in a cacophonous wave of temporal static. A sheaf of paper by the door caught on fire. Anteira rushed to stamp it out while Nathaniel fell back into his blankets. Curse Lamiel Primum for binding them to skin and bones! Everything ached.

“That was dramatic!” said Anteira, shaking out his lightly-smoking boot. “What were you expecting, a lich?!” The lamp is his hand was trembling.

“I’ve no idea what to expect,” Nathaniel said, hating the roughness of his voice. “Who would be so bold as to just walk into my house unannounced? Oh, right. Should have known it would be a mik Malafease. You’ve already done it once.” He snorted and then wished he hadn’t. “Hh… Hrrischkh!” Fuck, that hurt.

Anteira approached the bed, as he had that afternoon, and put the lamp on the bedside table, shoving aside a globe and ceramic cup. “In my defense, you still haven’t locked your door.” He took a deep breath to steady himself and then reached out to touch Nathaniel’s face. The angel was too surprised to stop him. “But then, I figured you might not have been well enough to move very far.” He frowned. “You are burning up.”

Nathaniel blinked. “…I suppose so,” he said. “There isn’t anything to be done for it. I’m not going to die.”

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take some medicine,” said Anteira brusquely. He pulled away and busied himself with a leather bag at his hip, producing several glass bottles filled with viscous contents, a small terrycloth towel, and a polished stone the color of the sea. He tried to clear off the bedside table further to make room for it all.

Nathaniel watched him in mild confusion. Bizarre enough that one of the Royal Messengers was off-duty in his dwelling, even more so that the man seemed intent to care for him. The Malafease family was known to him, though he’d only met Jaxal Anteira two or three times during the past few years. He recalled the man’s ancestors to be pirates and ne’er-do-wells that often caused trouble at the quays. But of course, that was long ago now, before the city had made something of itself. Now the humans sped around in mechmagical contraptions and used parchment for tender. Still, Anteira looked just like his great-something grandfather who had been hanged off the bowsprit of His Majesty’s ship Wavebreaker. The angel wondered if he’d ever been told that.

“Here,” said Anteira. “Are you paying attention?” In his extended hand he held the ceramic cup from the table, filled now with a dark red paste that had been diluted in white wine. “Drink this. It will bring down your fever.”

“Disgusting.” But Nathaniel lifted the cup and drank. The paste was bitter, the wine sour. He choked it down. It burned his throat.

“Yes, that’s the consensus.” Anteira took the cup back and passed him the towel, which he had wetted from another bottle. “Put this on your forehead.”

Nathaniel did so, trusting Anteira to know what he was doing. The coolness of the cloth was soothing. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, as Anteira tucked the blue stone under Nathaniel’s pillow. A ward to draw out pain. “You have no obligation to me.” Even less so because of how uncooperative he’d been earlier in the day.

Anteira shrugged. “I wasn’t going to do anything, at first. But then I remembered how terrible it had been for me when I lived alone as a student. My quarter of the city happened to see a particularly bad outbreak of influenza the year I went for my certification. For six days I laid in bed and wondered if I was going to die before I could present my capstone project.” He laughed a little. “And whether it would matter, considering I had very little hope of graduating anyway.

“Of course, unlike a human you’re not exactly fragile, but I didn’t figure anyone else would be coming by to see you.” He looked around for a chair in the room, but finding none settled for the floor beside the bed. “I decided to come back with a few things. It’s not much. So don’t get attached.”

“When you’re as old as I am, you find it very hard to get attached to anything,” replied Nathaniel, looking up through the skylights again. It had clouded over completely. “But thank you.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Perhaps Anteira thought the angel had meant to be profound, but Nathaniel was simply trying to hold back another sneeze. His chest rose and fell fitfully beneath the blanket, and though he pressed his tongue behind his teeth it barely relieved the lightest of the itching. His face felt hot, his nose sore. In the end, he could only turn to the side as the sneeze forced its way out of him, followed by several insistent fellows.

“Ihreshhuh! Hh… ih- Hresshuh! Heshhiu!” He gasped and buried his face in the sheets, fingers curled tightly in the coverlet. “Hkkschiuu!” The effort left him panting.

After a moment, he felt Anteira fixing the towel on his head. “Bless you,” he said. “I should leave you to your rest… Is there anyone who will look in on you? Stay with you, even?” His eyes were kind and concerned. Out of uniform he seemed a very different person.

Nathaniel shook his head. His lover had disappeared during the war. Though he hoped one day for a reunion, the possibility grew slighter day by day. He had no one else. But that was unimportant. His body would sink but not decay and soon he would be ready again to do whatever was bid of him by the human Queen. “Before you go, what news from the council?”

Anteira picked up his lamp. “Nothing has been decided yet.” His tone was carefully blank, but his expression was briefly frustrated. 

Nathaniel frowned. “I see. Send a pigeon if the word changes, will you?” He coughed and pressed the towel over his eyes.

“Well,” said Anteira. “I might. But I’ll be in the area tomorrow evening. I’ll just bring you the news myself. …Take more of the red concoction when you wake up in the morning.” He cleared his throat. “If you want to, that is.” He walked to the hallway door. “Good night, Nathaniel.”

Ingvar rubbed his own aching elbow. "Well, we'll just have to make do. Come over and let's eat." He produced some wolf jerky from his pouch and shared it out when Aravel came to sit beside him. "How are you feeling?" It wasn't just the landslide that prompted the question. For the last few hours, he'd noticed Aravel slowing down, stumbling occasionally, even sneezing once or twice. Really, it was just their luck. The elf shrugged. "I'm falling ill," he replied wearily. "We should have made camp in Boarstead." He rubbed his slim hands together and held them over the sad excuse for a fire. "We didn't know it was going to be so difficult to cross the pass," Ingvar pointed out. "And you didn't know you would take sick. Did you?" "No," Aravel was quick to say. "No, I would have told you." Hiding such things on the road could lead to mistakes, sometimes fatal ones. "Then it was all inevitable," said Ingvar. He started to rub Aravel's back. "We can share the bedroll. I don't want you to get any worse." "I think hih- that's inevitable as well," Aravel mumbled, leaning into the touch. He tucked his face into his elbow. "Hpptsch! Hh- hh- hh- hh-- haptschiu!" Ingvar chuckled. "Didn't think you'd get that one out, there." "Be silent," said Aravel, primly, before sneezing again. It wasn't quite dark yet when they turned in, but night fell extremely quickly in the forest and it was best to be tucked in and completely settled before losing the light. They washed up as best they could with a few handfuls of water, packed the remaining bag tightly and hung it from a tree, and tried to stoke the fire as much as possible. Ingvar pissed in a circle around their camp to keep away curious animals, a practice he was not able to get Aravel to join in on. Then they entered the tent. The bedroll was narrow but also a necessity. "You first," said Aravel. "You're bigger. I can fit in afterward." So Ingvar climbed inside. He was tall but leanly muscled. He didn't think this whole endeavor would work if he was packing slabs like the warriors they often passed in town, huge beefy fellows who hired themselves out to defend homesteads or hunt bandits. They all seemed to have the same hairstyle, too, a tail at the neck. Seemed to Ingvar like a good place for an opponent to grab you and slit your throat. He wore his own black hair short when he was on the road. Just more practical. 

“Maybe you should go home and rest,” said Lady Amalthea, at Eliseo’s right.  She was looking at Padgett with sympathy, maybe because he looked quite similar to one of her sons.  “Which of the villas is your family staying in?”

Padgett cleared his throat and tried for a polite smile even though his nose was red and his eyes tearful.  “Oh, uh, I’m here as a guest,” he said.  “Of the Jorvalds.  Lord Eliseo’s guest.”  He nodded across the table and sniffled again, nostrils flaring.  He felt pride at being able to say so.  He was wearing his best suit.

Eliseo wished he’d told Padgett that this dinner wasn’t a big deal.  That they could have skipped it.  But Padgett wanted to be seen with him in public, and as much as Eliseo disliked society gatherings, he did have obligations.  He shifted in his seat.  “My Lady, this is Padgett Foxborough, a companion of mine from my days at St. Richter’s Academy.”  Let her think they’d been classmates.  In reality, Eliseo had been dainty and slim and utterly useless at riding horses, about to fail his required physical examinations until Padgett, one of the groundskeeper’s boys, had stepped in to assist him.  He’d gotten Eliseo’s ass into the saddle, Eliseo’s perfect blond hair into a helmet, and his own hands into Eliseo’s pants.  And here they were, together again.

“Is that so?  How lovely,” chirped the Lady.

Padgett nodded and muffled another sneeze into his napkin.  “Uhkkshtt!”  He came away from the fabric only slowly, flushed.  Probably making sure his nose wasn’t running.

“My handkerchief,” Eliseo managed to get out, pulling it from his vest.  He passed it across the table.  Padgett had already soaked his own in the carriage over.  As seemed always to be the case, his sneezes had come on quite productively.  Eliseo wished, as Padgett accepted the cloth, that he could just whisk his lover away to their rooms, but it only just now that the cooks were bringing out the second course.

He dropped a hand into his lap to squeeze himself discreetly beneath the tablecloth.  It hadn’t always been the case, but ever since his eldest sister’s wedding, he’d… found himself quite attracted to Padgett’s sneezing, as odd as that was.  He would have excused himself from the table by now if it wouldn’t be completely obvious exactly why.  Sometimes he wished he could wear skirts.  Thankfully, no one was paying him much attention between the band and the conversation and poor Padgett’s nose.

A series of waitstaff were circulating now with trays laden with food.  It was cranberry-glazed duck with a pear and feta salad tonight.  The food interested Eliseo less than Padgett’s flush and the gleam of moisture at his septum. He wanted to lean across the table and kiss him, draw him down, touch his face, make it better.  He suppressed a groan and rubbed himself again.  He wasn’t in a good position.

Lady Amalthea was asking Padgett about his prospects now, and the young women nearby were trying to suss out his earnings, his potential worth as a husband.  Padgett was deflecting admirably.  Eliseo let himself tune out and- and he undid his buttons, pressed on the head of his cock through his undergarments.  The cloth there was as wet as Padgett’s handkerchief.  He could feel the heat of his own skin radiating through.  The drag of the cloth on his sensitive skin was maddening.  He ran his thumb over himself and tried to suppress a shiver.  It felt ridiculous and shameful.  

Then Padgett’s breath caught again.

“Hhktsciuh! Ngktsch!”  Padgett raised the handkerchief in time to fully catch the second sneeze, but not before Eliseo had caught sight of his slick upper lip.  He felt his neck heating and he squeezed himself.  He wanted Padgett to sneeze against his skin. He thought back to before the wedding, their fateful reunion, and the days that followed.  His eyes slipped shut.

A sharp pain caught him in the ankle and Eliseo gasped, horrifically guilty, sitting back and reflexively putting his hands on his thighs.  His cock throbbed.  So did his ankle.  It took him a moment to realize that Padgett had kicked him.

“And you’ll bring me there, right, my Lord?” Padgett was saying.  His green eyes were sparkling but he was giving Eliseo a bit of a pointed look.  The ladies looked to him, too, and Eliseo did up his buttons one-handed with a dexterity he didn’t know he possessed.

“Of course,” he said, smoothly, and rose from the table.  His arousal strained again against the prison of his trousers and he would have whined aloud if not for the present company.  Entirely sure everyone could see it, he extended a hand.  “After you, my good sir.”

“Why, th- thank you,” said Padgett, and he stepped around the table to take the lead, walking away from the patio toward the main house.  Eliseo followed behind, trying to walk like a normal human being.  He was probably imaging the soft titters behind them. He hoped he was... 

When he and Padgett were out of view of the dinner party, he grabbed his lover’s shoulder. “Where are we going?” he asked, and cleared his throat.  “I wasn’t listening.”

“I know,” said Padgett, rolling his eyes.  “I could tell.  Your, you know, the face you make when you’re turned on.  It’s really obvious.”  He put his hands on Eliseo’s shoulders and pressed him up against a wall, behind a shrub shaped to look like a swan.

“Good God,” Eliseo said, rubbing his face.

“It’s my fault, though,” Padgett continued, kissing the back of Eliseo’s hand.  “I should have known my hh- my cold would distract you.  Sih- hh- sorry.”  He started to undo Eliseo’s trousers.  “Oh, very distracted.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Eliseo moaned, and then Padgett’s pulled his cock free to the autumn air and wrapped his fingers around it.  He leaned back against the brick, knees weak.

Padgett leaned in close, kissed him on the lips this time.  There was that damn smug smile on his face despite his fever.  “Tell me what you want, Eli.”  He stroked his hand down the length of Eliseo’s cock. “Want to get off here, in the courtyard?”  Eliseo groaned.  “Want me to tease you?”  Padgett nuzzled Eliseo’s neck, leaving a wet trail.

“Are you going to make me say it?” Eliseo groaned, already moving his hips to try and bring them closer.  “Devil.”

“Your devil.”  Padgett rubbed his nose, breath catching again.  “Nh- now, whih- ihh what do you want, love?”

“I want you to sneeze,” Eliseo moaned, taking Padgett by the hips.  “On me. Aa, please.”

Padgett nuzzled him again and kissed his jaw.  “Good, Eli.”  He started to stroke Eliseo’s cock rhythmically.  “Already so eager.  I’ll forgive you for touching at the table.”

“I am in Hell,” Eliseo growled, and then Padgett leaned close again and sneezed against his neck, pulling back Eliseo’s collar to expose the almond skin below.  

“Hh-hrkschtt! Hgtsnchx!  Haah…”  Padgett groaned softly, although he didn’t stop his attentions below.  His nose was hot where it met Eliseo’s neck and so was the slight pool of mess that had settled under it.

Eliseo keened and then coughed, trying to keep his voice down.  He wasn’t going to last long like this.  A good thing, too, as the tinkling of glasses and murmur of conversation was still quite audible beyond their little nook.  “Bless you, hon.”  He moved one hand to Padgett’s nape.  “Are you going to, nn, sneeze again?”

Padgett sniffled thickly and Eliseo could feel his nostrils twitching.  “Y-yes,” he said, breath stuttering. “Are you going to hh- hh– come for me?”

Eliseo nipped Padgett’s ear.  “Barely holding it together,” he said, thighs trembling.  

Padgett laughed lightly.  “Here, then.”  He slipped the handkerchief between them to catch the impending release.  “Love it when you get like thih- hh-”  His fingers tightened on Eliseo’s cock before he made an effort to return to a smooth pace. “Hh- hah- oh, hngtsxchht! Haktschiu!”

Eliseo held Padgett close as he sneezed again, spray and more mess pooling now, a wet heat.  Each of the sneezes sounded desperate, a bid to free Padgett from the torturous urge, from his illness itself.  They left him breathless, leaning on Eliseo for support.  Eliseo came into the handkerchief with a strangled cry.

Coming down, he rubbed Padgett’s back and murmured sweet nothings to him as he tried to catch his breath.  Padgett’s face was wet with mess and tears from his efforts.  His eyelids looked tender and pink.  Eliseo kissed his forehead under his unruly bangs. 

“Back to the rooms?” he asked, when they had both calmed enough to move without drawing suspicion.

“Yes,” replied Padgett.  When he shifted, Eliseo could feel the length of Padgett’s arousal press against his thigh.  “You’re not the only one.  And I want a bath.”

“I’ll have one drawn for you.”  Eliseo fixed his trousers, wadding the handkerchief into his pocket.

Eliseo sighed with an edge of frustration.  “Maybe.  Marcello is having his prospective wife around at the beginning of the season.  He’s asked for me to get the place into shape for entertaining her family.  He’s far too busy to do it himself, of course.  Playing with his new cutter down on the Niamh.  I think he means to race it.”  He leaned his cheek on his palm.  “The sketch he sent me made it look like a potato with sails, but I expect it’s prettier in person.”

Padgett sniffed.  “Not very responsible of him.”  His voice was a bit thick with congestion, but his tone was good-natured.  Eliseo tried not to stare at Padgett’s red nose, but he wasn’t sure whether he was successful.  

“Not particularly.  But that’s Marcello for you.”

Padgett sat up and laid his jacket on the seat beside him.  “What happens if you can’t make those preparations?”  He paused for a moment, then pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.  “Anythih- hh– anything bad?  Hahktsch!”

“Huh?”  Eliseo licked his lips.  “Ah, he’d probably have to come down a few days earlier…”

Padgett sneezed again, a wet sound not well muffled by the cloth.  “Haptschiu!”  Without blowing his nose, he said, “You couldn’t work if you were sick. I wouldn’t let you.”

A thrill went through Eliseo from his heart to his groin, but he started to shake his head.  “Padgett.”

“Come here, Eli.”  Padgett held out a hand, putting the handkerchief to the side. “You’re hardly ever sick.  You might not even catch it.”  He smiled slyly.  “And you’ve been so good to me the past few days.  You must have been struggling.”

“For the love of God.”  Eliseo could feel himself blushing scarlet… and his trousers felt awfully tight all of a sudden.  “You are a scoundrel and a menace.”  He lowered his voice.  “What exactly do you mean to do in a carriage, Padgett?”  

“Whatever you’ll let me,” Padgett replied, matching his volume to Eliseo’s.  It came out sultry, heightened by the roughness of his voice.  Still, seeing that Eliseo was making no move to get up, Padgett braced a hand on the gently swaying carriage wall and inserted himself onto the bench seat beside his lover.  Eliseo made a token protest, but that was all.  When Padgett took his hands and laced their fingers, Eliseo found himself mute, gaze fixed on the wetness gathered at Padgett’s nostrils.

“We have to be quiet,” he said, finally, just to say something.

Indulgent, Padgett nodded.  “Of course, my Lord; quiet as church mice.  Now, will you kiss me?”

Their mouths met in a bloom of heat.  Padgett pressed their tongues together, treasured Eliseo’s lips, nipped until Eliseo deepened the kiss.  Between breaths, he chased Padgett’s mouth with his own, caught up, until he was practically in Padgett’s lap.  Padgett ran his hands down Eliseo’s back, reassuring, encouraging, until he could slip them up under the edge of Eliseo’s waistcoat and worry his shirttails from his waistband like an excited dog with an errant pillow.

Eliseo laid a hand alongside Padgett’s jaw, slipped his fingers into the unruly curls at Padgett’s nape, and kissed his nose.  He wasn’t shy; he drew his tongue over Padgett’s septum, tasted salt, pressed his lips to gently crush a nostril closed.  He shut his eyes in pleasure.  When Padgett’s breath hitched moments later, Eliseo drew back, flushed and loose, resting his thumb at the corner of Padgett’s lips.  “I want you to sneeze on me,” he said, almost inaudible over the carriage wheels but straightforward and plainly desirous.

Padgett smiled.  Eliseo was ever beautiful to him, but no more so than when he was free with himself.  “Hh- hh- I will, Eli.  Your neck?”  He could feel his nostrils flaring and knew his nose was running by the slick feeling on his lip and Eliseo’s soft moan both.  

“No,” Eliseo said.  He tilted his face and kissed Padgett again.  He didn’t move far after.

Padgett let his eyes slip closed and gave over to the itch in his nose.  It was deep-seated, caught in his sinuses, radiating outward in scratchy hints of irritation.  He had been at its mercy all of the previous day, so much so that Eliseo had postponed their trip, although probably equally for his own peace of mind as Padgett’s health.  He had no reservations now, waiting for Padgett to give in, face upturned.

“Hh- hah- hahktschiu!”  Padgett ducked forward, overcome in a rush.  Mess ran down over his chin; its evacuation filled him with a momentary ease, a relief from the thick prison of congestion.  Eliseo moaned and pressed closer.  His face was lightly dusted with droplets and now his mouth was on Padgett’s again.  Sighing into the kiss, skin heated, Eliseo had given up any pretense of reluctance.  He rocked his hips, rubbed his clothed erection against Padgett’s thigh.  His tongue darted out again and he started to lave Padgett’s lip and streaming nose.

Padgett groaned and moved to undo Eliseo’s fly before his smallclothes became a casualty.  He remembered the first time they did this and how shy Eliseo had been then, although he’d had even less control over his body’s actions.  “I love you so much,” Padgett said, trading kisses, letting Eliseo have him.  “You’ll make me hih- make me sn- nnh– sneeze again, love.”

“Ah, please,” Eliseo moaned, and he pressed his cock into Padgett’s palm, overeager.  “You ruinous-  you ruin me.”

“Hh-hold still, easy,” Padgett murmured, nuzzling against Eliseo’s chin, then his cheek.  The itch had come back and he trembled with it, chest working fitfully.  “Hh- hah- hhih-”  He drew back again, felt Eliseo tense in his lap.  “Hakschtcht!  Huh- huhktschiuh!”  Again, the relief, a hot tension through his abdomen. He felt Eliseo’s thighs close around his own, felt Eliseo’s cock throb in his palm.  He closed his fingers around it, started to stroke.  He was almost overwhelmed with an urge to take down Eliseo’s trousers and bury himself between those thighs but- but the carriage bumped over a rut in the road and he was shaken unfortunately back to the reality of where they were.

It didn’t seem to bother Eliseo anymore.  He rocked into the circle of Padgett’s fingers, his own precome serving to slick the way, raining kisses over Padgett’s face. “When we get to the hotel,” he said, half-gasping, “ I want you to sneeze on my cock.”  He moaned.  “Fuck, fuck-”

“God, Eli, I will,” Padgett groaned.  He increased his pace.  “Come for me, baby, come on.”  

It didn’t take long.  Never a special fan of sport, Eliseo was nonetheless more than fit for his lover.  He keened with his release, tucking his face into Padgett’s shoulder to muffle his voice.  Whether from temporary deafness or inviolable decorum, the coachman kept on without an inquiry.  Padgett enfolded Eliseo into a tight embrace and rocked him gently through his orgasm, his own erection trapped in his breeches still. He had no trouble encouraging Eliseo to see to it when the latter had calmed.

Eliseo looked up from his papers, a pair of spectacles perched on his nose.  He was quick to hide them when he saw who it was.  “You’re back,” he said, and though his tone was warm, his voice was rough with disuse, or maybe coughing.  He got up from the desk to greet Padgett with open arms.  Padgett noticed as they embraced that Eliseo was wearing a jacket despite the fire blazing in the grate.  He sighed.

“I’m back.”  He pressed a kiss to Eliseo’s forehead.  “You have a fever.  The letter I received in Brighton said you weren’t well, so why is it that you’re not in bed?”

“Who else was writing to you in Brighton?” Eliseo asked, irritated.  “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Your sister Brielle.”  Padgett let Eliseo go, but followed him back to the desk. “She was worried for you.  She said you hadn’t made it your parents’ for the winter ball.”  He looked down at Eliseo’s papers and found that he’d been doing more of the accounting.  Pages of sums crowded the writing surface along with furniture catalogs and real estate listings.  The Jorvalds were selling a property in Camden and were auctioning most of the interior contents, it seemed.  Of course Eliseo didn’t trust the numbers to his siblings, but Padgett didn’t understand why he couldn’t hire a consulting accountant to help with the workload.

Eliseo scoffed as he rummaged for a pen.  “My parents, good-intentioned as they are, are still waiting for me to fall for a society girl and propose at such and such a ball.  It would have been an endless parade of dances with sharks in satin and heels.  You weren’t even going to be there, so what would have been the point?”  He drew his ledger closer.

Padgett put a hand over the pages.  “Fine, no ball.  But she wasn’t wrong; you’re ill, and it’s easy to tell.  Won’t you put this up for now and lay down?”

“You’ve caught me in the middle of something.”  Eliseo pushed Padgett’s hand away.  “I just need to… Need to.”  He paused, blinking, then his mouth fell open softly and he ducked into his hands.  “Ecktsch!  Hehktscht!”

“Need to sneeze?” Padgett asked, tugging a slightly crumpled handkerchief from his pocket.  He passed it over.  “Bless you, Eli.  You sound rough.”

Eliseo wiped his palms off, blushing, and settled the handkerchief around his nose to catch another sneeze, this one sounding wetter.  “Hhktschnght!”  He coughed.  “I’m fine.”

“Well,” said Padgett, rising.  “I’ve been travelling all day, so I think I’m going to turn in.  Is there a room upstairs free?”  He gathered his bag.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Eliseo said.  “I’m not going to house you with the servants.  You’ll get a proper guest room.  The- hh- hngktsch! green room is free.”  He blew his nose, leaning on the desk.  

“The green room?  Oh.” Padgett cleared his throat.  “...I would have liked to stay in your room.  But I could see how that might be misconstrued.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Eliseo said, standing again as well.  His blue eyes were shadowed, but he looked flustered.  “It’s just that the green room has been freshly turned over and mine is… somewhat chaotic.”

Padgett went to the door.  “That hasn’t mattered before now.  You know, it’s been a long month away for me, but I do understand if it’s been somewhat out-of-sight, out-of-mind for y-”

“No!”  Eliseo had moved quickly across the room and now caught Padgett’s sleeve.  “No, you fool, I just don’t want you to get sick!”  He was panting slightly, eyes bright.  When he met Padgett’s gaze, though, he scowled.  “You’re an ass.”

Padgett couldn’t hide his smile, and he took Eliseo into his arms again.  “You’ve admitted it, now.  Won’t you feel better tucked up with me?  I’ll bring you soup and medicine, I’ll rub your shoulders…”  He nuzzled Eliseo’s cheek.  “I don’t mind catching your cold.  I’d probably catch it anyway, even from the green room.”

Eliseo blushed.  “I would hope to avoid that.”

“I remember giving you a cold once upon a time,” Padgett said softly, nuzzling him.  “You were all for that.”

“That was different!”

Padgett laughed.  “I’m sorry, you’re getting all red.  I shouldn’t tease you when you have a fever.”  He kissed Eliseo’s cheek.  “Let’s go to bed.”

Eliseo let Padgett lead him through into his bedroom, undress him from his working clothes, and put him in a nightshirt instead.  He let Padgett bring him soup and tea and brush his hair.  And he let Padgett curl up beside him in his four-poster when he was starting to fall asleep.

“You know I did miss you,” he mumbled, face to face with Padgett under the down comforter.  “Of course I did.  It felt as though I’d misplaced my own heart.”

Padgett pressed their lips together, running his hand comfortingly over Eliseo’s hip.  “I know.  I read your letters every day while I waited for a new one.  I’m very glad to be home.”  He swept Eliseo’s bangs from his face.  “Now, let’s just focus on getting you better so we can have a proper reunion.”

“Deal.” Gascoigne slipped the bottle back into an inner pocket and got up from where he’d been leaning against the wall.  He held out a hand for the money and didn’t make a secret of counting it before secreting that away as well.  “Pleasure doing business with you,” he said.  “While I have your attention, may I just say that my doors are always open if you’d like to seek out other opportunities as well.”

“I’m married,” snapped Murashiki, automatically running his thumb over the place where his wedding band used to be.

“Ah, young love,” Gascoigne said, mocking.  “You know, she’s a decade gone to Monaco, or Dubai, or wherever it is these days where they pay for high-class whor-”

“Get out.”

Gascoigne spread his hands, conciliatory.  “On my way.”  He turned on his heel and left the office, letting the glass-fronted door swing shut behind him.  Murashiki glared at his retreating back until it was gone, then glared at the door itself.  White frosted writing identified his sins.

Aritomo Murashiki, Ph.D.  Senior Project Lead, LiveBetter Development Group

He’d shredded all of his files already, but he checked the desk once more to be sure.  Everything he wanted to keep he’d put into a slim silver suitcase.  He wouldn’t be coming back here, God willing. The pill sat on top of his desk.  He swallowed it with a mouthful of whiskey from the decanter underneath.  With luck, he could make his excuses the next morning to the relevant people and be on his way out of the country by evening.

---

Murashiki reached his room at the Holiday Inn just past midnight.  He put his suitcase by the door and stripped to his shirtsleeves and boxer-briefs before going into the bathroom to splash some water on his face.  He’d always been one to keep up appearances for the investors, but after all the late nights and alcohol he was starting to look wan.  He rubbed his eyes, pushing up his glasses.  He hadn’t expected that, at 37, his life would be self-destructing in such a public manner.  As soon as the environmental compliance reports were brought up in front of the EU, the company would throw him under the bus and that would be that.

Not that he didn’t deserve it.  He drew away from the mirror and back into the darkened bedroom.  He’d been present for almost every step of the process.  His initial warnings had fallen on deaf ears, and then... well, the money had been too good.

“Lead me not into temptation,” he mumbled, laying down on the bed closest to the exit.  Maybe he should have stuck with the whole religion thing after Satine had left, but he hadn’t been too fond of faith in the months after.  He touched his ring finger again.  He knew he was a fool.  Gascoigne was right, if insufferable.  He closed his eyes.  Unbidden, the man’s face came to him.  Always looking sly and fit, he’d cut a dashing figure in college, too.  They’d made out once, twice... Murashiki had already been married then, but a little bit of beer and bisexual guilt had motivated a slip here and there.  He’d never felt like he was “settling” for Satine - in fact, he’d loved her quite dearly - but he’d always been afraid of missing out.

He set an alarm for 5 AM.  That would give him enough time to contact the VP.  Hopefully by then the pill would have kicked in so it didn’t seem like he was shirking.  Of course, everyone would know why he wasn’t there soon enough, but he’d have a head start.  He felt fine at the moment, if stressed.  It had been four hours.

For the price he’d paid, Gascoigne had better not have ripped him off.

------

Five o’clock came too quickly.  Murasaki groped for his phone on the bedside table, slapping at it uncoordinatedly to turn off the alarm.  The room was still pitch black.  He groaned.

The doctor hadn’t been playing him; he felt awful.  His head was heavy and his limbs ached dully - perhaps he was already running a fever?  His mouth was dry, and when he tried to moisten it he realized why: he couldn’t breathe through his nose at all.  Rubbing it produced no relief, just an irritating shift of congestion in his sinus that led to sharp gasp and a rushed sneeze.

“Hahkyusht!”  He caught it against his wrist, and the next two in his palms.  “Hhkyuschtt!  Hgkktschkt!”  Head throbbing, he wiped saliva and snot on the sheets and got out of bed.  He’d seen a tissue box on the toilet tank last night and was in great need of it.

The fluorescent overhead light set him cursing when he flicked it on.  It felt like high beams stabbing him in the face after a particularly intemperate night of drinking.  He shielded his eyes with one arm and grabbed a handful of tissues to crush against his nose.  He was going to sneeze again.  He could feel an itch clawing deep inside his left nostril.  He squinted against it, trying to take shallow breaths, but it didn’t help.  “Hahgktsciutsz!”

The tissues were a mess already, but he tried to blow his nose.  That lead to coughing, too, and he found himself leaning over the sink, trying to get his bearings.  “The fuck did you put in that pill?” he growled to himself.  Surely not a live virus?  The consequences would be staggering.  And not just because he felt himself a little dizzy and unsteady on his feet.  It would be easy to transport pills across borders, easy to disguise them as something harmless - they already looked it.  Influenza was already one of the most deadly of epidemics.  What if Gascoigne could take TB, rabies, ebola and weaponize it marketed as aspirin or loperamide??

In the mirror, his gray eyes were wide and Murasaki could see even without his glasses that he was sweating.  He shivered.  Right.  Things were getting out of hand.  He was just feverish and letting his tension take over.

He took the tissues back into the room with him and returned to the bed.  He just had to make a few calls and then get out.  Everything would be fine.  He could make flight arrangements in the taxi and then be on his way back to Japan faster than you could say “non-extradition country.”  

It was 5:12.  The VP picked up on the third ring.  “Dr. Murasaki?” she asked, sounding like she hadn’t had her coffee yet.  “What is it?”

“Good morning, ma’am.”  He didn’t have to force the coughing that followed.  “I realize it’s terrible timing...”

“You sound awful.”  

He coughed again in agreement.  “I feel awful.  I’m nih- not sure I’ll make it to the convention center.”  He pinched his nose, at least until he could feel the sneeze cresting.  Then he let it out, not too far from his phone’s microphone.   “Hahkgtschgt!”  Mess painted his lips and he struggled to breathe past it for a moment.

“Santé!” She was too polite to sound appalled, but she was quick to dismiss him.  “We’ll miss you at the luncheon and awards ceremony.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind,” he said, through more tissues.  “The team is just as deserving of recognition for this as I am.”

“Yes, of course.  I will pass on news of your absence to the event coordinators.”  In the end, it didn’t really matter to her whether the scientists behind the company’s products were there or not, just that the presentation was made on time and the right people (her) made the right headlines.  Someone would make sure the info made it to the European stage.  And that someone would not be Murasaki.  He didn’t envy whoever was left with the data.  He didn’t even know if anyone else who was going knew exactly what they meant.  But the audience would.

He was free, though, for now.  He thanked her and hung up, then let the phone fall from his hand to the pillows.  “Hah... haah-”  If he could leave off sneezing for twenty minutes, he would be golden.  His nostrils flared, and he fumbled for more tissues as the right started running, worsening the irritation to an unbearable degree.  “Hakgschtgnx!  Nktscgshx!”  His ears rang and he dropped to lay back on the bed.  He hadn’t felt this bad since back in college, junior finals week, when he’d stayed up for four days and then been bedridden for just as long.  His nose felt raw already.  Even his eye sockets hurt.  He lay his arm back over his face, enjoying how cool it felt on his forehead.

He would just close his eyes for a minute.  For one minute, he would try to will away the pain and heat.

------

“HEY!”

Murasaki startled awake to the sound of fists raining down against the door.  He tried to kick out at an assailant, caught the sheet, and struggled until he found himself on the floor.  Threadbare carpeting pressed into his cheek and he tried desperately to remember where he was.  Not the office.  Not his apartment in Montmartre.  He forced himself to sit up and had to lean against the bed to stay upright.

He was in a hotel, he finally remembered. He was staying here before he left the city.  Just a few phone calls to make- no, he’d called the VP.  The room was awash in the orange light of fading afternoon.  His stomach twisted.  That wasn’t right.

The pounding hadn’t stopped, but by the time Murasaki thought he might be able to address it, whoever was outside had forced their way in.  He expected a horde of angry journalists, armed with cameras and microphones like on TV, but it was only one man.  Gascoigne, he thought.  It took him a moment to place the man without his glasses, but that hair...

“What are you doing?!” Gascoigne practically shouted.  He shoved the door closed again and used Murasaki’s suitcase to keep it from swinging.  “You’re still in Paris?  There’s an uproar!  They were showing parts of the Summit live, you know.”  He grabbed Murasaki’s elbow and yanked him to his feet.  “I wasn’t sure whether Le Monde or Greenpeace would get you first, but it’s much worse than that.”  No lab coat today, Murasaki noted distractedly.  Jeans and a bomber jacket.  Did black-market doctors get weekends?

He tried to free his arm and failed.

“I can’t believe you’re still here,” Gascoigne was saying still.  He shook the smaller man.  “Idiot.  Did you hear what I said?  The Russian mafia put out a hit on you!  Hey!”  He grabbed Murasaki by the nape.  “They found out LiveBetter is behind the collapse of their fishing interests in the Black Sea.  This is all over the deep web.  Hey.”  He shook Murasaki again.  “What’s wrong with you??”

Murasaki pressed his hand against Gascoigne’s chest, tried to push away from him.  “You,” he said.  “You poisoned me, or s- somethih- Hahktsch! Haktschngx!”

“Christ.”  Gascoigne let him go.  

Murasaki lifted his hands.  “Hgkttschzx!  You... what is this?  I’m burning up.” He was shivering, too.  He felt sick and dizzy.  “I must have passed out.”

“Yeah, you look like shit,” said Gascoigne.  He shrugged at Murasaki’s glare.  “What?  Sometimes it hits harder for people if they haven’t taken it before.  S’not exactly FDA approved.”

Murasaki collected more tissues and blew his nose.  “How did you find me?”  This was not good.  He’d be stopped at the airport, probably.  The mafia had connections all over Europe.

“Your phone.”  Gascoigne had picked it up off the pillow.  “You have... sixty missed calls and messages.  Wow.”  He dropped the device unceremoniously behind the bed.  “We’re leaving that here.  Get dressed.”

“‘We’?” Murasaki tossed the tissues to the carpet and started trying to button his shirt.  His pants were where he’d left them, and he picked them up, leaning against the wall dizzily as he tried to get them on one leg and then the other.

Gascoigne moved the blinds aside and took stock of the street outside.  “Yes, ‘we.’  I didn’t come after you for my own health.  Get going.  Where are your shoes?”

The two of them, led by Gascoigne, left out the back stairwell.  Gascoigne had parked an unassuming tan Renault at the sidewalk and he pushed Murasaki into the passenger seat before taking the wheel and driving out of the courtyard.  After only minutes, the car blended seamlessly in with the local traffic.  “We’ll head to Germany for now.  I’m sure the mafia has people at Charles de Gaulle.   When we get a chance, maybe Brazil?”  He was driving admirably despite the pressure he’d put himself under.  Not drawing the attention of anyone.

It didn’t occur to Murasaki, with how terrible he was feeling, to ask why Gascoigne had actually come for him until they were close to the border.  “I mean, you didn’t have to get involved,” he said.  “No one would have connected our names.”  He was looking up at Gascoigne’s face from under his bangs.  The car window was nicely cold against his temple.

Gascoigne glanced over to him and rolled his eyes.  “You’re an idiot.”

There was a silence.  Murasaki coughed.  “Is that it??”

Gascoigne didn’t meet his gaze, focusing on the highway ahead.  “You didn’t think I was just hitting on you to piss you off, did you?”

Murasaki frowned, then looked away.  “Oh.”

“You don’t have to answer me,” Gascoigne said, voice carefully neutral.  “I’m doing this because I want to.”  He reached down and turned on the radio.  The point was clear: no discussion was to be had at this time.

Murasaki stared out at the passing countryside and tried to get a handle on the mix of emotions churning inside him.  Fear, gratitude, helplessness, lust... he couldn’t think through the fever and eventually gave in to a numbing haze.  With luck, he would live long enough to figure out what he wanted a day, a week, a month from now.