Chapter 30

Scene 3: Carraway’s suite.

Carraway’s dining room is much smaller and more private than the grand entertainment dining room, or even the one by the kitchens that the staff and the boys use; a private room off his suite with a balcony overlooking one of the large fountain courtyards of the compound.

Carraway is, thankfully, alone. He’s sitting at a table on the balcony—which, Rafael notes with a total lack of surprise, is only set for two.

Rich pauses at the sight, and looks hopefully at Carraway. “Sir, can I get another chair for Rafael?”

Carraway laughs. “Aren’t you a gentleman! I’m sure your little shadow can fit in your lap, sweetheart, if you don’t feel like havin’ him by your feet.’”

Rich glances down at Rafael in dismay, then back at the chair.

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles, and reluctantly sits down, then gives Rafael a miserable look, questioning. One of Rafael’s hands is out of Carraway’s line of sight, and he indicates the floor by Rich’s chair. In truth, he’d prefer to blend into the wall and be forgotten, but that isn’t one of the options granted. From here at least he can keep an eye on things, and attempt to lend aid as he may.

Rich’s lips firm and he settles himself more squarely in his seat, nodding to the floor with a passable seeming of authority. Rafael steps over and sinks gracefully down, grateful at least to be mostly out of Carraway’s view.

“Dinner should be here shortly,” says Carraway, and sets his glass down, picking up a bottle from the table. “Drink, treasure?”

“Yes, please, sir,” Rich says, with naked eagerness. Rafael’s fingers twitch with the urge to caution him, but—there’s no point, is there? Even if Rich could pretend unconcern, Carraway would be well-aware of the pretense. He’s clearly seen the exact length of this leash, and would be more than willing to call such a transparent bluff.

Fortunately, he doesn’t seem inclined to either deny Rich or let him drink himself to the point of destruction; he gives Rich a single generous glass of whiskey, then settles back and looks out over the lawn thoughtfully.

“A lot of good words came to me about the party last night, sugar,” he says, after a long, quiet moment. “My new secretary seems to have turned plenty of heads.”

“Oh,” Rich says, uncertain. “I’m… glad, sir? I mean, I didn’t mean to be talking myself up any, it was just really great to actually talk to everyone, instead of—I’m glad they said good things? I had a good time, too, talking to everyone. Getting the actual gulls-eye-view on what we’re doing with their accounts, and all.”

“Mmhm.” Carraway sips his drink, swirls it meditatively. “Eli was missing your little babydoll friend, though. Asked after him a few times after you went off to bed.”

Rich’s lips press into a flat line and his nostrils flare. “I’m… sorry somebody wanted him around, sir, but I think the singing and dancing and poetry and stuff were a lot nicer. Classier. You know he doesn’t do so good at parties.”

Carraway glances over at him, and Rafael, quiet and unnoticed, studies Carraway as the man studies Rich, and sees… consideration, calculation, a shrewd and cruel thoughtfulness.

Carraway says testingly, “You do better without him around to worry about, don’t you?”

Rich tenses all over, square jaw setting. “I did better at the party, sir. ‘Cuz he’s miserable, at the parties, I can’t do anything about it. To help him. If he was somewhere I couldn’t do anything for him, like with Eli, I don’t think I could function at all.”

“Hmm. Awfully quiet in that room of his, without a party or two to go to.”

Rich says tightly: “There’s a lot of parties back in the Fleet, sir. If you wanted to send him home. I’m sure I could do really good work for you if I never had to worry about him at all.”

Rafael goes cold with horror, but Carraway only laughs again, that deep rich complacent chuckle. “Nice try, sugar,” he says, and tops up Rich’s glass himself. “But I think both you lovely young things will have to keep me company for a while longer. However poor his manners are, yours are always such a treat. Why, I know you don’t mean to insult my hospitality, do you?”

“No, sir,” Rich says woodenly. “Thanks for having me. Sir.”

Carraway gives a toothy chuckle and returns to his drink, heedless of the grim silence. Rich sits very still, staring down at the depths of his drink; when someone knocks on the door a few moments later, he jumps hard and swallows a panicky rumble, and then looks abashed as a member of the kitchen staff appears at the door, pushing a cart laden with covered serving dishes.

The table that Rich and Carraway are sitting at is quite large, but the amount of food required to sate the appetite of two massive soldier mods fills it to groaning. Rafael rises without being told, knowing that Rich would never expect it of him and that Carraway would expect it without instruction, and begins silently serving food and refilling drinks. He doesn’t think that Carraway would chastise him if he refilled Rich’s whiskey, but he doesn’t want to, strangely and bitterly. He pours a glass of sparkling rosewater instead, and doesn’t look over to meet Rich’s eyes.

Carraway makes more conversation over the food—about the conversations Rich had, about the things his guests said and whether Rich thought they seemed trustworthy. About the alliances and allegiances amongst them.

Rafael knows the answers to the questions he asks, in far greater detail than Rich’s uncertain attempts. But Rafael is not asked, and he makes no attempt to answer, gives no indication he might have been listening. Carraway has no concept of the skills Rafael has beyond party tricks and pretty words, and Rafael has no intention of enlightening him.

Carraway seems pleased, at least, with Rich’s analysis of the facts and figures he was given. He waves away Rich’s attempt to share his file full of notes, but he seems satisfied by Rich’s enthusiasm, amused and indulgent.

“We do make a loss on my… party favors,” he says eventually, and pushes his chair back, laying down his knife and fork with a satisfied sigh. Rafael notes the word we with an unsettled twist in the pit of his stomach and lets no sign of it show on his face. Just reaches for Carraway’s plate, and removes it at the man’s absent nod. “But good food and good drinks loosen a lot of things up, sugar. You’ll do well in life to remember that.”

Rafael glances at the glasses of fine whiskey and decadent food laid out on the table, and Carraway’s indolent self-satisfaction, and bites his tongue on the bitter little laugh that wants to rise from him. The hubris of the man, so assured that he’s better and more intelligent than any other monster out there. That he’s so far above all the other cruel, grasping men he works with.

“I’m down a boy now, as well,” Carraway muses, and Rafael comes back to himself with a jolt like a slap of cold water.

“Sir?” Rich says, as pale and wide-eyed as Rafael is blank. “Did something… happen, after I left?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to bring your little friend out, when I hadn’t had time to get him decent,” Carraway says, as though Rich should understand what he’s saying, as though it makes perfect sense. “Besides, I know how you’d be if I handed him over to one of the other gentlemen. But I’ve been promising Eli some pretty little thing for a while now, and a dancer is just what he’s been wanting. He likes his boys fit, you know. He’d have gone for our ferocious little firebrand if he thought he could talk me around, the fool. Don’t think he could recognize real dueling scars with a diagram.” He refills his own drink, takes a deep draught and sighs in satisfaction. “But he’s promised to make some calls down the Mississippi River, he knows some men who ship down to the south and they’re looking for protection details… very promising. More than fair, I thought, for an offer like that…”

“So, Domingo is… gone?” Rich says, staring at Carraway. Rafael hides a wince, hoping the open dismay amuses Carraway rather than provoking him. Rich has only been here two months, after all, this is probably the first departure he’s seen, the first loss.

“Just business, doll,” says Carraway, with a careless wave of one hand. “Don’t look so upset now, Eli’s much softer with his boys than Louis. He’ll take good care of him.”

Rich nods. “Yes, sir,” he says quietly, and picks up his whiskey to toss back the last of it.

“I told him he wouldn’t want a savage yankee scrapper tearin’ around his place anyway,” Carraway says, and gives his own low, dissatisfied huff of a growl, wolfish and irritable. “No follow-through for troublemakers, Eli. Practically a slave to his own boys. It’s a matter of patience and discipline to break even the wildest horse to bridle, but you’ve got to have the constitution for it. God knows a soft vain fool like Eli might just cut that ferocious little piece of hellfire loose completely, the way he snaps and bucks. And then he’d be out and around making trouble for everyone instead of pent up nice and safe. But Eli always did overestimate himself. Kept on whining like a kid at a candy shop.” He scowls into his glass, looking increasingly thunderous at the memory.

The rise of his temper can only bode ill, and Rich is plainly distressed and unlikely to step in. Rafael doesn’t want to draw Carraway’s attention, but neither does he want his anger turned on Rich, or to see Rich’s reaction if Carraway turns that frustration on any of their friends.

“I’m surprised that he hasn’t yet learned to listen to you, sir,” Rafael says, pitching his voice low and sweet, making every effort not to startle or aggravate. Carraway glances back at him sharply, brows drawn down and bluntly pointed ears twitched back.

Rafael smiles at him, careful to show a hint of uncertainty, a flash of hopeful shyness. “Your judgment and intelligence are self-evident, after all.” He nods out to the broad courtyard, the glittering fountain in the light of the sunset. “We weren’t attending dinner at his mansion, and you had no need to approach him for what you wanted, sir. He should know better than to question when you grant him a word of advice.”

It works as he hoped and expected it would; Carraway softens and gives a booming bark of a laugh. “Little flatterer,” he says, but not as though he’s angry to be so flattered. Rafeal gives him a rueful Well, you caught me smile and a self-deprecating laugh of his own, and busies himself with the dishes.

Carraway is just turning his gaze back to his drink and the courtyard below, when Rafael moves too sharply to clear a plate and a sharp, demanding jolt of soreness from the overworked muscles of his back makes his breath catch and the elegance of his movements hitch. Carraway’s attention turns back to him at the ungraceful clatter of silverware on china, and Rafael tries to smooth the movement over, but far too late.

“A little noisier than usual tonight, shadow?” Carraway says. Rafael manages not to wince as he straightens, but Carraway’s eyes narrow anyway. “What’s got you so out of sorts?”

A long morning of swordplay and several hours of desperate writhing on Rich’s fingers, but Rafael has no interest in mentioning sword practice to the master of the house, and especially not after hearing Carraway’s opinion on the care and management of yankee scrappers. He gives an abashed smile instead, thinking fast, and glances shyly at Rich as though he can’t help himself.

“I’m a little sore, sir. Rich was eager to begin… preparing me, once you were kind enough to permit it.” He hesitates, a thought springing to his mind, tingling at the tip of his tongue. It’s well past daring; a gamble, perhaps worth taking for both their sakes. Rafael lets himself turn wistful, downcast.

“I’m afraid it’s going to take longer than he thought, though.”

“Why’s that, sugar? You’re a narrow little thing, but you’re not that delicate.”

A hand to his lips, a shy hesitation. “No, sir, it’s—he likes it. He played with—I mean, he worked on me for so long, and he was so, mm. Thorough. But when he finished with me he found he had enjoyed me more than he had expected, and he couldn’t allow me to see to him, sir. He was… in a terrible way. Sir. If you understand me.” He throws a look in Rich’s direction: a sad, guilty glance with just a hint of fearful apology behind it, as if Rich had been displeased, as if Rafael could ever fear him.

Rich looks upset by the mere pretense, but Carraway chuckles pityingly, utterly taken in. “Well, young man like him, with a pretty little thing like you to play with, no wonder,” he says, with self-satisfied benevolence. “Hmm.”

I’m several years his senior, Rafael thinks, with a stab of indignation he allows nowhere near his face. He keeps his eyes cast down in showy shyness, biting his lip, glancing occasionally back to Rich. Letting Carraway put the pieces together himself. He’s already given his blessing to see Rich work on Rafael—and Rich is the newest, the favorite, the treasure. Rafael has already seen him granted mercies, granted privileges…

“Well, treasure, if it’ll help you get your pet project here ready for that great big tool of yours, maybe we can bend the rules just a little,” Carraway says finally, eyes still sharp on Rafael’s mask of himself, the shell he’s so carefully presenting. “I don’t think you’d take liberties, would you?” he adds, glancing at Rich. “You know better than that.”

“No, sir!” Rich says. “I do, I promise. I don’t cheat!” He looks uncertain, with almost as much of an edge of alarm as hope. He knows as well as Rafael just how untrustworthy Carraway’s benevolence can be. Rafael can only hope he has the beast in hand today, that Carraway has no sudden and crushing changes of heart.

“Alright, then.” Carraway nods firmly. “I’m sure you’ve been a good boy. You can let off a little pressure, say, once a session. Only when you’re putting in the work, mind you, not just any old time you like. How’s that sound?”

“That sounds very generous, sir,” Rich says, wide-eyed. “Thank you very much!”

“Call it a reward for a job well done,” Carraway says grandly, with a magnanimous wave of his hand. “In fact…” he hums, low and suddenly thoughtful, and Rafael tenses internally. He knows that noise, hungry and interested.

“You were good, doll? Never even asked your sweet thing here to give you a helping hand? Tell me the truth, now.”

“No, sir!” Rich shakes his head apprehensively. “I wouldn’t, I didn’t. I wouldn’t want to get him in trouble.”

“No, you wouldn’t, would you?” says Carraway, sounding amused. “Or yourself, either. Push your chair back, sweetheart.”

Rich does, glancing nervously from Carraway to Rafael.

“Sounds like he took good care of you today,” Carraway tells Rafael, low and rough, and a hand finds his ass to grope at it. “Why don’t you go repay the favor, darlin’? Put that clever tongue of yours to better use.”

“Yes, sir,” Rafael gasps, and waits for that hand to pull away before moving to kneel between Rich’s legs. Rich’s expression is a treatise on the mixture of discomfort with relief, and Rafael can’t help but agree; he would rather take Rich back to their room, give him some relief and comfort in privacy. But if this is his only means to return the pleasure he was given so freely a few hours ago, then he’ll take whatever avenue is open to him.

“Sir?” Rich asks, his shy diffidence as sincere as Rafael’s has been false, and reaches hesitantly down to the folds of his wrap, as neatly-tied as ever. Carraway must nod, because Rich takes a deep breath, already beginning to flush a deep pink, and pulls the folds open, fine fabric pooling over the tense muscle of his monumental thighs. Rafael glances up and sees Rich watching him with apologetic concern in his eyes. He smiles and strokes one heavy swell of muscle, comforting as best he can, then bends to his task with a will.

After a few minutes, Carraway begins talking. Rafael focuses as best he can, feeling Rich shudder and quake to his touch, a huge hand resting with painstaking lightness on the back of his neck. Still he can hear that deep, amused voice, murmuring You liked having him all laid out for you, doll, you like seein’ those pretty little things squirm on your fingers and make noise for you… and he can feel Rich’s hips shudder like they want to jerk forward into his mouth, like Rich is only just holding back.

“Hands to yourself, treasure,” Carraway says eventually, very clearly, and Rafael makes a small, bereft noise as the comfort of that delicate touch on his neck pulls away—seizing instead on the arm of the chair, if the faint creak of stressed wood is to be believed. Carraway chuckles, and Rafael closes his eyes and breathes, minds his teeth, works with as much gentle skill as he’s able.

“You’re awful quiet tonight,” Carraway says, and a sharp pang of self-consciousness goes through Rafael before he realizes that the man still isn’t speaking to him. “We’re three stories up, sweetheart, nobody down there is gonna hear a thing. No call to be bashful, now.”

“Oh,” Rich gasps, “I, yessir.” He’s still not as noisy as Rafael’s gotten him when they’re alone, but he gasps and moans audibly enough for Rafael to hope Carraway is satisfied, especially as he draws closer to coming, the taste of salt strong on Rafael’s tongue.

“Sir?” Rich manages, cracking now, faint waves of tremors running through him. “Can I, please, can he make me…?”

“No,” says Carraway quietly, soft and intent. “He can’t, sugar.”

Rafael squeezes his eyes shut, draws back enough to breathe and slows his attentions further as Rich gives a soft, unhappy moan. Carraway is generally lenient with Rich, but if he wants to make Rich noisy and wanton, pleading to the open evening air, Rafael is utterly unsurprised that his means of choice is endless denial. When it comes to some things, the man is nothing if not predictable.

Rich gets a little louder, but he’s still holding back, unhappy and unsure. There’s little that Rafael can do to help but catch his eye and hold onto him, one hand stroking his thigh as the other works below Rafael’s mouth.

Carraway has him bring Rich close and back off once more, reducing Rich to a sweaty, shuddering mess in his chair, whimpering and teary-eyed, the arms of the chair creaking under his desperate grip.

“Please,” he gasps finally, “please sir please let me, I’m so, please!”

“Better,” says Carraway, pleased, and stands to walk around the table. Rafael glances up as best he can and sees Carraway’s fingers hook the collar around Rich’s throat, pulling it tight, drawing his face upward.

“Look at me, treasure. You can come in your little toy, but it’s not him who’s makin’ you. Is it? You know just exactly who it’s for.”

Rich swallows, eyes wide and stricken on Carraway. “You, sir,” he says hoarsely, and when he blinks two tears streak down his cheeks. “I’m yours. Sir.”

“Good boy,” Carraway says, and runs a rough padded thumb across Rich’s tears.

Rafael tightens his grip on Rich’s thigh and works him steady and firm, and Rich comes shuddering, gasping against the hold of the collar. He sags back in his chair after, breathing hard, and Rafael gives his thigh a meaningful double-squeeze.

“Thank you, sir,” Rich mumbles, eyes closed. Tears glitter in his short red eyelashes, trembling at the edge of his jaw.

“You’re welcome,” says Carraway in satisfaction, and lets go of the collar, padding silently back to his chair and settling back with his drink to look out over the darkening courtyard.

“Go on and get some sleep, sugar. Lots to do in the morning. And…” he glances over, considers Rich for a moment and then smiles a brief, strange smile. “Why don’t you go spend the night with your babydoll friend. Since you didn’t see him at dinner.”

Rich lurches upright in his chair, face lighting up. “Oh, thank you, sir! Awesome, I will, thank you!” He hastily knots his wrap closed and nods at Rafael, who rises to his feet as smoothly as he can manage and follows Rich off the balcony after a final, grateful good night.

Rich does an admirable job of not hurrying until they’re out of Carraway’s rooms, but then his stride stretches until Rafael is jogging to keep up, struggling badly to surmount the aches and pains of the day. They’re halfway there when Rich abruptly stops and turns to Rafael, frowning.

“Shit, you didn’t get any dinner. You know where Liam’s room is now, how about you go get something to eat from the galley and bring it up, okay? And some fresh fruit for Liam, if you can.”

Between the twisting discomfort of being forced to torment Rich for so long and the rising nerves at the thought of entering that dim little prison cell again, Rafael isn’t particularly hungry. But he doesn’t want to say that to Rich, because Rich will just frown and worry and gently reassure him and Rafael doesn’t want to cause him that kind of concern right now. There’s no need for it, he’s fine.

“Of course,” he says instead. “I’ll be there shortly.”

It’s not entirely the truth—he lingers on the way back from the kitchens, dragging his feet, thinking. He doesn’t know what to expect of Liam; a numb, catatonic wreck, or a wild, raging beast like the last time, or some perfect dream of a man, someone Rich could care for so deeply. He doesn’t know that he likes any of the options.

The palm-pad on the door beeps when he tentatively presses a hand to it, and then gives an aggressive red flash and goes dark again. Rafael may not be gifted in the realm of technology, but he’s fairly certain that means his entrance has been denied, and he’s lingering uncertainly when there’s another beep with no intervention from him, and some external force lights it with soft and welcoming green.

“Hey, there you are,” says Rich, and reaches out to take the tray Rafael is balancing with some effort, to fit it easily under one arm. “C’mon. It’s okay. It’s—he’s okay.”

“Rich?” says a light, sweet voice, and Rich glances back over his shoulder and then back at Rafael with the most heartbreaking expression on his face: joy and sorrow and excitement. “Issat him?”

“Yeah,” says Rich, and smiles at Rafael hopefully, stepping back into the room, leading the way. “Liam, this is Rafael. Rafael, Liam.”

The figure on the bed is almost as Rafael remembers, but there’s no screaming this time, no wild thoughtless violence. Rich’s friend sits on the rumpled sheets of a far-too-large bed, wrapped in a familiar, expertly-folded sarong that must surely be a repurposed bedsheet, smiling a sweet and pretty dimpled smile that can only somewhat soften the tired shadows below his eyes. His dark brown hair doesn’t help, still shaved close to his skull. His eyes are piercingly silver against his golden-brown skin—but bloodshot, heavily shadowed. There’s a healing split in his lip. He’s lovely, but in much the same way that Andy is, with a fragile, delicate, sickly sort of beauty.

“Rich says we got off’n the wrong foot first time we met,” he says, and slides carefully off the bed to limp over, holding out a hand with raw, bruised knuckles. There’s a thick, heavy leather cuff around his bony wrist, overlapping the flat, featureless band of polymer; it’s locked shut, and the light brown skin around it is painted with layer upon layer of mottled bruises. “I don’ rem’ber any of it so I suppose that just goes t’show. Liam Beaker, atcher service.”

“Rafael Caro,” says Rafael, and allows his hand to be very firmly shaken. Liam sounds much as he did in the video of him, his accent almost unintelligibly thicker than Rich’s but in a far higher, more musical tenor. Rafael realizes distractedly that Rich must have had voice training, that he apparently takes daily pains to enunciate past his native dialect.

“It’s a pleasure,” Rafael adds, and bows down to drop a reflexive, courtly kiss to Liam’s knuckles. His small hand is surprisingly callused, with strong joints and a generous scattering of little pocks and scratches all over. A masculine workman’s hand, rendered in miniature…

“Your pleasure or mine, pretty boy?” asks Liam with a spark of wicked humor. “Oh, let’s say s’mutual. Our Rich’s always had such good taste in friends. Case’n point, yours truly–” He gives a grand wave and then wobbles alarmingly, and Rich takes a hurried step forward to take his arm. Liam slumps into the support, resting for a moment. His smile has faltered, a tight crease of pain between his brows.

“You okay, man?” Rich says softly. “Anything I can do to help?”

“I think I need back t’bed,” says Liam, and drops his head against Rich’s elbow for a moment. “Mm. Yeah. Bed please, hon.”

“No problem,” Rich says, and scoops him up as gently as if he was made of spun glass, carrying him over to the bed to nestle him into the pillows there. One big hand strokes Liam’s hair. “Need any water or anything?”

“No, no—I’m fine, hon, you siddown. I promise I’m not gonna keel over dead,” says Liam, and Rich does sit, looking chastened but resolutely watchful. Liam sighs and then looks back at Rafael; his smile returns, as bright as if the interlude never happened.

“Rich told me ‘bout you a little, last time,” he says. “After I…” he waves a hand, and to Rafael’s surprise he recognizes the gesture; reset, restart. “—Got better. You oughta be careful throwin’ poetry around, hon, young men’re so susceptible to that kinda thing. You’ll put ‘em inna swoon.” He grins at Rich, who chuffs at him, faintly flushing. “I was an actor myself, y’know.”

“You were not,” says Rich, looking exaggeratedly outraged. “You were a botanical engineer, you can’t tell me you had to show off for the plants or some shit. I’m a couple decks short of a dinghy but that doesn’t mean you can tip me over.”

“Ah, no gettin’ past you,” Liam says fondly, and pats Rich’s knee. “No, hon, I am a botanical engineer. I was a very small’n effervescent Romeo who hadta carry a stepladder ‘round the stage because I wasn’t tall enough to kiss my Julien. It was very romantic. I think I gotta recordin’, still…” He taps a palm, a familiar gesture—and then, much as Rich does, he falters wincingly and reaches up to rub at one temple. “—Or I would, if his majesty hadn’t hobbled me dumb’n blind. Damn.”

“Yeah,” says Rich, with a sympathetic grimace. “I still try my implants about a thousand times a day, it’s… not great.”

“And he’s been havin’ you make do with rings?” Liam says, and reaches out to take hold of Rich’s much larger hand, examining the white ceramic rings with professional distaste. “I dunno how you’re gettin’ anythin’ done. Might as well be bangin’ rocks together.”

“I mean, it’s what I’ve got,” Rich says, but he looks deeply unhappy as he studies the rings around his own fingers. “It’s not like I gotta be piloting, or picking around in any complex code. This compound’s place-mind was an inch above the waterline with bullshit bloatware before I cleaned her up. Her cap’n basically uses me for spreadsheets. Spreadsheets! Rafael can do spreadsheets!”

Rafael had until this very moment been proud of this.

“Aw fuck, sorry, Raf,” Rich sighs, and rubs his back. “I just. I know you’re working hard at a job that doesn’t suit you, and you’re doing damn good at it, too. You could learn, so he sure as hell could too. But instead he’s using me for data collation.”

Liam clicks his tongue with haughty disgust. “Wasteful,” he pronounces, like it’s a filthy insult. “And lazy, no less. It isn’ as though he doesn’t have enough free time, obviously.” He huffs, scowling. “Freeloadin’ antisocial—” He makes the force quit gesture, fine mouth twisting into a sneer. “I hope I’m here the day he dies so I can piss on his fuckin’ corpse.”

It shivers Rafael to hear the words proclaimed so clear and clean. All of the boys grumble and whisper about their hatred for the man, but even when he was newly-captured Rafael only rarely remembers daring to curse Carraway’s name aloud with that kind of vitriol.

Rich’s big, warm hand cups the back of Rafael’s head, squeezing a delicate reassurance, and Rafael’s startled to realize that he’s being observed as closely as ever. Whatever flicker or twitch of discomfort showed on his face, Rich took note of it, and is looking at him with wry understanding.

But he doesn’t press, just says to Liam: “Well, you’re gonna hafta show us the recordings some other time, then. Raf could probably play the whole thing with you, and he wouldn’t even need his big book or anything. Y’know he knows all the parts in pretty much all the plays? Memorized right to meat.”

“Really?” says Liam, looking gratifyingly impressed, and gives Rafael a keen once-over. “And you don’ even look modified, unless you’re showin’ a marker I dunno about. That’s really somethin’! I think I could still do a line or two…”

“Then is it the lovely Romeo I see before me?” Rafael says, cautious and inviting—heart in his throat, for no reason he can put a name to. “What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?”

“Oh!” says Liam, and screws up his beautiful face in concentration. “Ah… Not havin’… hm. Damn.”

“Here,” says Rich, and produces a screen, like a magician miraculously flipping exactly the right card, with a script on it. “They got e-reader classics, it’s like twenty books but—”

“Line!” Liam proclaims laughingly, and snuggles up to Rich’s spare arm to scan the screen, brightening in recognition. “Ah! Not havin’ that, which havin’ makes me short!” He squints theatrically at the script, and then corrects himself, “Makes them short,” and shoots Rafael a bright, playful grin.

It’s been so long since someone could play at verse with him—even this man he’s newly met, who knows the verses only well enough to read them off a script in that slurring, under-enunciated accent. The sun rises hot and sweet in Rafael’s chest, a delight he hadn’t realized had been away from him for so long.

“Oh, short?” he says. “Thou findest thyself short now also in love?”

“Out!”

“Of love?”

“Outta his favor where I am in love.” Liam pauses a perfect beat, and then adds, “…Although still shorter’n I’d like.” And makes a gesture that leaves very little to the imagination, casting his eyes ruefully down his diminutive frame.

Even Rich snorts at that one; when Rafael glances up at him he finds the man still watching him with a small, thoughtful smile on his face, heart-stoppingly pleased with him. When Rafael gives him a questioning look, Rich just smiles wider, shakes his head a little and gestures play, go on.