Daniel Nedderman inspected his reflection in the mirror. He looked like he had been in a boxing match and he'd been used to wipe the floor. But then again, that wasn't so far from the truth. Even boxers didn't get beaten the way he had been today. But the multicolored bruises and trails of blood were not what disturbed him. It was the grief in his eyes - grief that kept intensifying mercilessly even though he had long since stopped wishing that Rowan would come back.

No, the one he wanted back was his son, who had been taken from him the moment he had stepped away from Rowan's grave at his funeral. Before he could even let out a startled cry, he'd been shoved to the ground, his infant still in his arms. The baby was ripped from his hold and he was beaten to a pulp, all barely ten feet from his husband's resting place.

The culprit, as he had found out after waking up in a room in a familiar mansion, had been his in-laws. If it weren't for him, said they, Rowan would never have become gay, never have married him and never have had to go out on the day that dreadful shooting happened. At the time Daniel had tried to reason that Rowan's parents and sister were mad with grief and needed someone to pin the blame on, so he had let them rail against him. Rowan's father had beaten him, and he had let him. And that his mistake.

As he limped towards the mansion's door that day, he had asked for his son Cole, but the family refused to hand Cole over. Already stricken with grief and angry at the way he had been treated, he had gone over the edge and flown at his father-in-law.

And right in front of him, Rowan's own sister snapped baby Cole's radius in two.

Daniel still remembered the manic fury that had come over him. But after another ferocious fight that had nearly broken his own bones, the whole situation had been laid before him. He was to stay in the mansion, never to step out again, never to even speak Rowan's name. Of course, he was more than welcome to leave - after all, they had Cole to take his place.

And here he was now, sequestered within the mansion so he couldn't report the Neddermans, tolerating day after day of abuse as payment to the family for raising Cole. His mother-in-law usually stayed away, but every time her husband or daughter got drunk, they'd barge into his room to make use of their favorite punching bag. For almost two years, they had done this day after day without fail.

But the Neddermans were forgetting that Cole would grow up one day and leave, and that they always left the door to Daniel's room unlocked.

*

"The stuff you gave me last time was out of this world. What was it?"

Orion hoped he hadn't sounded too chipper when he said that. He wasn't a jolly person by nature, after all, and Tony knew that. Tony - a man who liked to sit in front of a painfully bright light so his face wasn't visible to his customers - twitched slightly in response, and Orion instantly knew that his words weren't what Tony had been expecting.

"It was coke as usual," Tony replied. "You're out already?"

"Yes. I'd like some more. The usual amount."

"Where are you getting the money from? This shit isn't cheap, but you've never owed me a dime."

Orion squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to push his humiliating deeds out of his mind. He'd harried the sweet old couple he'd sublet his old apartment to until they'd paid him this month's rent in advance and decided that he could manage with microwave dinners for a month instead of paying the gas bill. "I'm lucky, I guess," he responded vaguely. Fat lot of good this lucky money would be if the drugs it bought him ended up killing him.

"Whatever." Tony motioned for one of his men to come closer and whispered into his ear. The man looked confused and a little alarmed, but left to follow his instructions without argument. Upon returning, he handed Orion the usual baggies without meeting the latter's eye.

"By the way," said Tony as he took the money Orion held out to him, "the cops have been on my ass lately, so you'd better try to make that stock last a month or so. There's too much heat for me to hang around here too much."

Tony was watching him. Orion could feel his gaze, even if he couldn't see it. "Can't we just meet elsewhere?" he asked, trying not to think about how he was most probably the cause of Tony's problem.

"No. The cops know too much - someone has talked. You wouldn't happen to know who it could be, would you?"

Act natural. Too afraid and you'll give yourself away, too calm and he'll get suspicious. "No," he replied, trying to look just the right amount of worried. "I don't know any other clients, obviously, and I haven't recommended you to anyone either."

"Mmm. Makes sense, after all, you are one of my best-behaved customers."

"Um. Thank you?"

Tony burst out laughing at Orion's expression. "Gosh, you don't need to be so uncomfortable if you haven't done anything," he said. "Don't worry, I'm not going out of business just yet. If the cops were that good at their jobs, the drug industry wouldn't be the size it is today."

"Right."

"I will hunt the bloody traitor down," Tony promised. "I haven't been in this business for twenty years for nothing. And when I find him - well, he's going to wish he didn't have a tongue to flap."

Orion let Tony blow off as much steam as he wanted, too afraid of looking sketchy if he booked it like he wanted to. For a week he lay low, convinced that he was being followed. All he did was work and get high, using the leftover speedball from his previous purchase. The new batch he was too afraid to touch. Finally, unable to bear the sight of his squalid apartment, he walked all the way to the grand theater in downtown Emmer, bought himself coffee and sat down in an obscure spot to people-watch and wallow in self-pity.

"You look terrible."

Orion nearly leapt off the low wall he was seated on. The lid of his coffee cup popped off as he squeezed the cup, making hot coffee slosh onto his knees. "Holy shit," he gasped. "You again! What are you, some kind of infestation?"

Culver Ermine grinned cheekily at him from under a shaggy brown-haired wig. "Yep," he said. "It's easier to deal with roaches than it is do deal with me."

"I'd say!"

Amusement danced in Culver's eyes, their enchanting color concealed by colored lenses. "I was here for the New York Philharmonic," he explained. "They had a concert here today. Today's not one of my attempts to hound you."

"So did old Dover finally fulfill his dream of performing here?"

"How the heck did you know that Mr. Dover was the conductor?!"

"He's stayed at the Memoria before. We became good friends during that time - I'm the one who brought him here the first time."

"What the - then come meet him! He's still here, I'm driving him to the Memoria myself. He'd love to meet you!"

Looking at Culver now, it was hard to believe he'd almost died a week ago. That cheeriness suited him, and Orion found himself wishing that the flush in those cheeks and the light dancing in those eyes and most of all, that huge, beautiful smile - would never go away.

Orion gave a small, wistful smile of his own. "I can't," he said. "Not in this condition. I've disappointed enough people already."

Culver deflated. For a while, the two men sat silently side-by-side, watching well-dressed people come in and out of the building. Presently, Culver broke the grim silence. "Turn around," he said.

"Mmm?" Orion looked up and blinked away his train of thought. "Why are you still here?"

Culver promptly slapped him. "What was that for!" Orion exclaimed, his hands clamped over his stinging nose.

"I'm missing the second half of a New York Philharmonic concert for you, yet you can't be nice."

"Who asked you to?!"

"I cannot leave you alone when you look like that, you dense fool!" Culver roughly turned Orion's back to him, ignoring the latter's yelp as more coffee spilled into his lap. "And don't you dare ask me why, because I don't know."

"What are you do - hey! Why'd you take my cap off?!"

Orion's noisy protests cut off with a squeak as Culver plunged his fingers into his long, tangled hair. "What a mess," the prince muttered softly, combing his fingers through the strands. "But still so lovely."

The bitter cold was not enough to stop Orion's ears from heating up like a furnace as Culver began to braid his hair. The tender touch of Culver's hands felt too good to resist. Without thinking - for who could think when subjected to such intimate, cosseting contact? - Orion leaned his head back to make Culver's work easier. "You really do treat me like a pity case," he complained half-heartedly.

"I don't. I...I lost someone two years ago. He'd come to me for help and I didn't do anything. If I had, he wouldn't have died." Culver's voice suddenly became very thick. "And before you get mad at me for using you as a substitute, let me tell you - you're nothing like him."

"What does that have to do with me, then?"

"Ever since he died, I've become unable to ignore a problem if I can do something about it. I know I come across as intrusive and arrogant because of it, but I can't sleep if I don't do anything to help."

Orion turned to find Culver focusing a little too hard on the lower end of his braid. His chest rose and fell in the jerky, heaving motion of someone trying not to cry. "You're not responsible for the whole world's problems, Culver," he said. "And certainly not for mine. I've brought this upon myself, and if it becomes the end of me, it will be my fault and my fault alone."

Culver chuckled humorlessly in response. "You're the most introspective junkie I've ever met," he said, without looking up from Orion's hair.

"Is it odd that I'm actually pleased about that?"

"You just ignored the 'junkie' part." Culver's hands tightened around the light brown locks in his grip. "Um. Since I'm already here, I should tell you - I'm sorry about everything. I'm sorry for being so nosy and bossy, and for reaching out to you with insincere feelings. But it's different now. I want to help you because I genuinely care."

"Apology accepted. If I was really as introspective as you think I am, I'd have grabbed the opportunity to seek help regardless of your intentions. Also, my harshness was unwarranted. I'm sorry too."

"It's okay." Culver finally looked up, and a slow, shy smile spread across his face. "You know," said he, "I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let's try to get along from now on, okay?"

"I don't see that happening unless I can handcuff you every time we meet." Orion reached out and grabbed both of Culver's wrists in one hand of his own. "They're out of control."

"You don't know what my hands can do when they're out of control." Culver leaned forward and nipped Orion's nose. "You'll never know what hit you."

Orion tugged on Culver's arms, causing him to fall forward onto his chest with a squawk of alarm. His brain, muddled by withdrawal, exhaustion, depression and coffee, couldn't tell how much of his current interaction with Culver was a joke, but he was too tired to care. "Was that a challenge?" he breathed, right into Culver's ear, eliciting an involuntary shudder.

"It was fair warning." In one smooth movement, Culver stretched himself upwards using his restrained hands as support and licked Orion's Adam's apple. Orion twitched violently, involuntarily leaning his head back and baring more of his neck. "Good boy," Culver crooned.

Neither Orion nor Culver realized how far back they were leaning. Culver traced a line of kisses along the edge of Orion's sweater, stopping to nip him again at the sinew traveling up the side of his neck, trying to elicit a moan. Orion clenched his jaw, refusing to be the first to give in. 

"GWAH!"

The quasi-romantic moment vanished in a puff of coats, scarves and semi-cold coffee. The two tumbled backwards over the low wall they'd been seated on. Orion landed on the icy ground with Culver on top of him, getting the wind knocked out of his lungs.

"Do you eat lead for breakfast?" Orion groaned. "How can a guy this tiny weigh so much?"

"Shut up." Culver rolled off him and stood up slowly, taking the time to gather his scattered thoughts and conceal his flaming face in his scarf.

Orion got to his feet too. Picking up his cap, he planted it firmly on his throbbing head and examined the damage to his clothes. "Aw, fiddlesticks," he groaned. "My coat."

The fall seemed to have knocked some sense into Culver. With his face still turned away, he nudged Orion with his elbow. "By the way," he said, suddenly very awkward, "I forgot to tell you another thing."

"Um. Okay." Orion turned away too, clearing his throat in equal awkwardness. "Let's hear it, then."

For some reason, Culver's face that had finally started returning to normal flushed a glowing, fire-hydrant red. "Um. It's nothing big, just a little soiree - you'd know, I believe. It's totally not a compulsion - it was dad who wants you to come, but I promise I tried to explain that it might be awkward -"

"Culver!"

"Balls!"

"What?!"

"MydadwantsyoutocomewiddustotheChristmasBallattheMemoria!"