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“I’m looking for someone,” Enea says, teeth chattering. His grasp on the language isn't bad, can't be bad after so many years of living under its thumb, but it falls out of his mouth in too-sharp syllables, clumsy with cold. “He’s—he is—”

And what is Pedro, exactly? A sellsword. A mercenary. 

Enea doesn’t even know his last name. 

The woman, who until now has been eyeing him warily, softens. “Why don’t you come in,” she says, slowly, like he’s a bit dumb. “Get warm. Come on now.”

He goes easily into the inn. It is warm inside, so warm, and dry, and it smells like roasting meat. Enea ran out of food two days out of Llynford.

“By the fire, off with you,” says the woman. She bustles him over to it, stripping off the soaked tatters of his cloak and then sitting him down in a chair. “Just stay there.”

/

He hears it from a distance, half-asleep as he is. My lord. Yes ser, he’s right over there. Enea, were he not so exhausted, heavy to the bone with the desperation to sleep, might be afraid. He thinks the thoughts—ah, Flavio has found me—and then lets them go, submits to them. Maybe Flavio will take pity on him. Put him back to work, in a less reputable brothel to be sure but at least it will be somewhere Enea can get warm. And maybe—maybe Pedro—

He sucks in a breath that rattles. He’s prone to this, this sickness of the lungs. Maybe, he thinks, just maybe he’ll die before Flavio can kill him.

“Ah,” says a new voice. “Enea. It is you.”

When Enea opens his eyes it’s—Lord Marquez, stood in front of the fire, all broad shoulders and trim waist and generous smile. Marc Marquez is and always has been very beautiful. One of Enea’s favourite clients. 

Is Enea hallucinating?

“You are so far South,” he says distantly, because that seems to be the only thing to say. Marc laughs. 

“On my way back from the city.” He kneels in front of Enea, settling the blanket more smoothly over his lap, and peers up at him. “Now, you…”

Enea grins, exhausted, but satisfied. “I ran away,” he croaks. “I know your country has these laws, for your slaves.” He coughs now, shuddering as he realizes what he’s saying. “Flavio will have me killed the second he sees me.”

Marc’s smile falters, but only for a second. Most people wouldn’t have caught it but then most people have likely not fucked Ser Marquez.

“No,” he says slowly. “Not if I have anything to say about it.” 

And Enea keeps smiling. He wants to believe this—that Marc might protect him out of some misplaced loyalty, that Marc might feel like it’s something Enea is owed. Enea has never turned down a gift before. But the idea that he could be protected from someone like Flavio is so outrageous that he wants to laugh. 

“I came back,” Enea says abruptly, wheezing a little. He really does feel quite awful. “I could have—I went home. And I could have stayed.”

Marc watches him, features blurry and firelit. “It wasn’t home anymore,” he says.

Dizzily, Enea nods. Marc understands. He always seems to understand. “So I have come back,” he says again, “to find Pedro.” The edges of his vision are going spotty. Darkening, tunneling. He’s so tired.

/

“It would be better to stay,” Nadia gripes. “The weather is bad. Look at him, he’s barely awake.”

Enea makes a muffled noise of protest. He’s plenty awake. He’s following the conversation just fine, even holding his spoon on his own. 

“Really,” Nadia says, ignoring him. “Marc. Really.”

“He can’t stay in this part of the country,” Marc says easily. Finally. Anyone else might not have picked up on the hesitance, the resistance against offering up any information that he doesn’t explicitly have to share. 

“I’m a whore,” Enea offers helpfully. Marc and Nadia shoot him sharp looks, equally pointed in different shades. 

“He’s one of Flavio’s,” Marc says. The reluctance is more naked this time. 

Nadia’s face pinches. She looks nervous for a beat before she scowls, starts to mutter to herself. It takes Enea a moment to realize she isn’t speaking Marc’s language; she’s speaking his. “That blood traitor,” she says under her breath, going back to her dough, kneading furiously. “That scum.”

/

“Enea,” Marc says, soft, chin hooked over Enea’s shoulder. “I need you to stay awake a while longer.”

Enea grunts back at him. Why? He is so tired. The snow hasn’t started to fall but it smells like it will, soon; if only they were headed south. East. Anywhere but the north where Enea will be cold, cold, cold. 

“We will stop soon,” Marc tells him. “And we’ll have a fire, and you can rest. For now, tell me about Pedro.”

He’s quiet for so long it must seem as though he’s fallen asleep. Marc moves to jostle him, but Enea sinks into his hold. 

---

"They're changing the rules next year," Bez tells him, because for some reason Bez knows these things before Pecco does. "Every race winner will get a go, I guess."

Pecco picks at his sleeve. He has been trying very pointedly not to think about the Honeymoon clause included in a potential championship win; he's been busy trying to actually win the championship. "They didn't have it at all last year," he says. He doesn't sound or feel all that bad about it. Winning his first championship had been reward enough. Picking someone to spend a week with afterward would have been too much, he thinks. 

Bez nods sagely. Sat comfortably in third place in the championship, he doesn't have to think about these things. Pecco almost envies him.

"Weird to bring it back at all," Bez agrees. "Who're you going to pick?"

"What?"

"When you win, who are you going to choose?"

Pecco stares off over Bez's shoulder. He hates it when people say it like when instead of if. Feels like bad luck. He's not all that superstitious, but sometimes he thinks he should be. "I don't know," he says. "I haven't thought about it." It's the mostly-honest answer. Bez still snorts, shoves him with his shoulder. 

"Sure," he says. "Well, if you can't figure it out, you can always pick me. We can get drunk for a week on the beach." As if Bez wouldn't want to fuck about it.

/

“They’re calling it the Winner’s Room,” Pecco mutters, scrolling through the email. It’s a little bit horrifying, laid out like this. At least with what he has now there’s some semblance of choice; next year, the winner will be able to choose any rider they want. Next year, they’ll be penalized for saying no. 

Pecco jerks his head up. 

“Did they make you say yes?”

Enea stops messing with the TV. When he looks at Pecco he’s wide-eyed, quizzical. 

“Make me?”

“Like—was there a fine, if you said no,” Pecco asks, heart pounding. He’s working himself up. “Or—or a grid drop—” Because that’s what next year’s rules include. “Or—”

It’s legitimately shocking when Enea climbs up on the bed, directly into Pecco’s lap. He takes Pecco’s phone and tosses it aside. 

“No,” he says. “They said they would ask you to choose someone else, if I said no.”

Pecco’s head spins. Enea tilts his head; his hair is still a little damp, curling pretty over his ears. 

“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to,” he says. And it’s not soft or sentimental, nothing like that. It’s honest, the way Pecco is used to from Enea. 

Pecco reaches for him, sliding a hand into the back of his wet hair. Pulling him down to kiss him, open-mouthed, more confident and sure of himself than he’s been this whole time. Enea’s body is warm, tight all over. Pecco wants—he wants this. He wants him. 

“Your morning breath is awful,” Enea says against his lips. If this was a film or something, if Pecco was charming, if Pecco was someone like Bez, he might roll Enea into his back. He might breathe in his face to make him laugh, or something. But—Pecco isn’t really any of that. 

---

When Oscar thinks about it for even a second, it’s one of those things that should be extremely easily solvable. Like—Mark could just not wander the house with his dick out for the world to see. Oscar’s mum isn’t unaware of it. She could say something, but she thinks it’s hilarious. Still in the honeymoon phase of her new marriage, still delighted with all of the beige flags that are slowly going to go red.

And even if Mark does nothing about it, it’s not like Oscar couldn’t go stay with a friend. Most of his actual friends are back in the UK, sure, but he’s got one or two buddies he grew up with that he could call in a pinch. His oldest sister might even let him sleep on her couch.  

He’s thankful and wary in turns that none of his sisters are around. It’s the nightmare scenario; would Mark still do this if there were girls in the house? Would he go full indecent exposure in front of his new wife’s daughters? Or is it just Oscar that he really wants to flop his cock at for no apparent reason?

He tries not to think about it all that hard. He’s still trying to give Mark a chance, after all, if for nothing else but his mother’s sake.

/

Mark laughs. “Grab a beer, come on now, don’t be shy.”

He’s drunk (read: stupid) enough that it makes sense to strip out of his clothes and climb into the hot tub in his underwear. They’re proper boxers, not his go-to briefs, which would be extremely embarrassing. More embarrassing, anyway. The beer is cold. The water’s hot. Oscar’s more dizzy than anything else.

”Good night?” Mark asks. Jovial. Always jovial.

“Sure,” Oscar says around the lip of his beer. “Lots of… people.”

Mark laughs again. It might be charming on anyone else. “Ah, you’re all red. Meet some girls, did you?”

It’s an insane leap to make. Like Mark’s trying to speedrun the dad-talk even though Oscar’s twenty-one years old and has had an actual dad for as long. He doesn’t need a second one. If his mum’s happy, sure, but—

Mark scoots closer. Puts a fatherly hand on his shoulder. Oscar’s not sure what makes him look down, nor is he sure why the bubbles choose that exact moment to clear, but it becomes extremely obvious that Mark is, again, extremely naked.

The beer bottle slips out of Oscar’s hand. It hits the surface of the water with a solid slap.

”Steady on, son,” Mark says stoutly, scooping the bottle up before the pressure can equalize and they’re left with a beer-tainted hot tub. “Bit of a lightweight, are we?”

He’s laughing as he sets the bottle safely on the table next to the tub. His other hand is still on Oscar’s shoulder. Oscar looks up at Mark’s face, because otherwise he’s going to be looking down at his absolute schlong being knocked about by the jets. 

“Now, listen,” Mark says. He’s schooled his face into some approximation of stern that would be easier to take seriously if he weren’t so red in the face. Drunk, too? Or just been in the tub too long? “I know this is a hard thing to adjust to, me and your mother—” 

Oscar groans without thinking about it. Cups his face with both hands and then lets his arms fall to drift in the water. “You really don’t have to do this,” he says weakly. “I’m, like, I have a dad, and—” 

“Of course you do,” Mark says. He’s all soft now, in the voice and the face, all sympathy that he can’t possibly feel. “I just want you to know that if you need anything, anything at all…” He trails off, takes Oscar’s hand. He’s holding his damn hand. Which really isn’t all that fatherly.

“Yeah, mate,” Oscar says. “Yeah, thanks, ‘preciate it—” 

He’s not expecting Mark to drag him back as he tries to go. Expecting it even less when Mark pulls his arm under the water, rests Oscar’s open palm on—