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He wakes up slowly, in the comfortable bed and, for a moment, he doesn't know where he is. It isn't his childhood bed, for certain. It's too soft, the covers too comfortable and, more than that, someone's in it with him. At first, he thinks it must be John or Kit but, when he lifts his head, he sees tumbled dark curls and pale skin, the face turned away from him. He sits up suddenly, his hair slipping into his eyes, heart thumping in his chest.

"What the fuck is happening?" he asks, his voice trembling.
It is the strangest, most real dream.

George has decided that he likes this time of year best of all. It's cold, but he dresses in warm layers, and there are decorations everywhere, bright lights and singing. In the time that he comes from, Christmas had been a more solemn affair -- good food, yes, but hours of church, too. This is more like Twelfth Night but for weeks and weeks. He's bought a few little gifts for Lee -- books and clothes and things that he thinks will make him smile -- though the biggest gift he has for him has not required any wrapping. They've bought a tree into the apartment, decorated with little shiny things and lights. He likes the lights best.

Today, he thinks, Lee looks tired, and he's been thinking about a promise that he made weeks ago. When Lee comes to sit next to him on the sofa, George lets him curl close and then he holds out the razorblade he's been loosely holding in his cupped fingers, presented without comment to see if Lee takes his meaning without being told.

George has had, not to put too fine a point on it, a fucking shitty day. He'd been at the stables in the morning and some entitled fucker had brought his daughter in for riding lessons, insisting that he knew more about horses than George did, that his brat was a gifted rider, and on and on. It had rankled, even more so when George had found her to be scared of even the most docile mount he'd found her. After they'd gone, Bramble had managed to nip his thigh -- not hard enough to bruise but it had still stung. He'd had a recording job in the afternoon and, after going home to grab his cello, had had to go to the trouble of restringing.

He desperately, desperately needs to get out of his head. Normally, before, he would have trusted Lee to pick up on that and act accordingly but, since everything, Lee's barely even tried to fuck him, let alone suggested anything rougher.

When he gets home, he finds Lee sitting on the couch, reading. Without really speaking, he stalks into the bedroom, rummaging through the bag in their closet until he finds what he's looking for. He walks back into the lounge and setting the collar down on the coffee table. He looks at Lee expectantly.

It is, without doubt, the worst handful of days of his life. On the first day, all he really does is cry until he's sick and then cry again. He curls up in bedsheets that still smell of Lee and he replays everything over and over in his head and he tries to make sense of it. How he feels about it. How he feels about Lee.

How much he loves him, despite everything.

He goes back and forth on the subject, sits in the chair that Lee likes best and stares out at the city, scraping the nail of one thumb against the base of the other until he draws blood. He stares at it for a long time. One thing that Lee said to him keeps coming back -- George couldn't be a monster, because he was just trying to survive the world. So why should Lee be any different? That's what he keeps coming back to. That's the thought that he can't let go.

On the third day, he tries to call, but there's no answer. For twenty four hours, he tries and tries again and, somewhere in there, doubt creeps in. What if Lee isn't just ignoring him? What if Lee broke that final promise? What if Lee went back?

He can't bear the thought of it, so he grabs the jacket that Lee found in a thrift shop for him a d pulls it on, heading out into the chill night. He's only been to Lee's apartment a few times but the key in his pocket works in the door.

"Lee?"

He finds him on the couch, frozen in time. It's like he fell asleep, like exhaustion overwhelmed him. He doesn't wake when George shakes his shoulder.

Unsure of what else to do, George curls up in the armchair to keep watch.

He's only trying to help. He's still not able to cook more than eggs and toast successfully on his own without supervision, but he likes trying to help when Lee is cooking. He's chopping the ingredients for a salad when he slips, the knife biting into the side of his finger. He drops it, helping, immediately bringing his hand up to his mouth. It's not a big wound, but it's deep and the blood wells up scarlet.

"Fuck."

Lee cooks so George washes dishes. The first time, he'd had no idea, really, what he was doing but he's done it enough times that he finds it almost therapeutic -- the hot water and the soap suds and soft music playing in the other room. When he goes out, he wears nicely tailored, well cut things but, when they're at home, he cares less. He's pretty sure that the t-shirt he's wearing is actually Lee's; it fits more snuggly across his shoulders, but it's soft, and he likes the way it smells.

He sets a plate in the draining rack and reaches for another.

His day, not to put too fine a point on it, has gone to shit. He'd slipped out of the apartment nearly to go and ride and had been thrown. Thankfully, he'd been on sand, so the bruising is minimal, but the stiffness in his shoulder has lingered all day. He'd gone to do some session work -- cello, not viola de Gamba, which means the instrument, whole familiar, feels less like a part of him. The fingering of the part has been complicated, and he'd managed to break his bow and had to use a spare.

At least he'd been paid.

By the time he lets himself into his apartment, he's in a foul mood but, when he opens the door, he instantly knows that someone else is home.

"Lee?"

When they'd talked that day in the park -- her birthday, he remembers -- they'd ended up talking about clothes, about how George missed the kind of clothes he'd had when he was a part of the court. Since then, she's made him a handful of things, all beautiful enough that he's kept coming back for more. Whenever he goes to her apartment for a fitting, he makes a point of bringing her something -- sweets, or cakes, or flowers. It is, he thinks, only good manners.

He knocks, a wrapped package under his arm.

George's life at court had been a hectic one, filled with duty -- dinners and masques and, always, the whims and wishes of the King. Life in Darrow is slower, quieter, and he finds himself grateful for that, particularly for evenings that find him sprawled on his couch, end to end with Lee, one hand wrapped around a sock clad foot as he idly scrolls through his phone. He's thought about reading more but, honestly, it interests him no morme than it ever did at home. He does like television, though. Movies are diverting.

"So I've been thinking," he says, finally, rubbing the arch of Lee's foot with his thumb. "About the other night."

He discovers it by accident, tucked down a side street, hidden behind dark windows. When he steps inside, he's taken aback by the sheer variety and, almost immediately, his head is full of possibilities. He texts Lee, suggesting that they meet for drinks later in the evening, giving him a place to meet and a time.

Later finds George leaning against a wall, waiting for Lee, scrolling through his phone. He's dressed in a button down shirts, sleeves rolled up, and he uses the camera on his phone to preen a little, undoing another button before he snaps a photo and sends it to Lee.

"Definitely not," Lee says with a soft huff of laughter, letting himself fall quiet as George touches him. Despite them being pressed together naked in the tub, with George's cock snug against the small of his back, there isn't anything inherently sexual about the situation. It's unfamiliar to him and the intimacy of it nearly makes him squirm, but instead he relaxes into it.

He even dozes a little, which is surprising. It's so hard for him to fall asleep around another person, and the last time he'd done so, he woke up to a broken heart. This time he wakes up with a bit of a start, going tense and then relaxing again just as quickly. He chuckles a little, reaching up to drag his wet fingers through his hair.

"You're spoilin' me," he murmurs, shifting his hips a little to press his ass back more firmly against George's crotch.

The movement of Lee's hips is a distraction. They're not often like this -- usually it's Lee driving things forward, George content to follow in his wake. George feels his cock start to stir, bends his head to press a kiss against Lee's damp skin.

"Don't know that I am..." He murmurs.

Sometimes he marvels at it, this life that he's made. He still hasn't found gainful employment -- he has no marketable skills to speak of, at least none that he's sunk so low as to charge for -- but the allowance from the city is enough to live on, his rooms comfortable, and he makes do.

He more than makes do.

Tonight, for example, finds him sprawled on a couch reading, Elora mirroring him. Absently, he reaches out with his free hand and runs his palm the length of the long muscle of her thigh, squeezing lightly.

This is so often how it starts.

Festivities descend upon Darrow well before George would have expected them and, while they're different from the traditions he would have expected at home, there's enough familiarity that it's hard not to get caught up in it. To enjoy it, at least. He goes about his days, sees the people he knows, exchanges messages with Elora, with Lee. Strange as the world is, now, there's still comfort in bodies, and George takes comfort where he finds it.

Which is how he finds himself making his way through a crowded bar, sweating bodies pressing in on both sides. He's dressed for it, snug jeans and a t-shirt fitted across his shoulders -- so little clothes that he might as well be naked by the standards of the world that birthed him.

When he gets to the bar, he leans both elbows on the polished wood and waits to catch the barkeep's eye.

He's been thinking about it since the first moment he'd spotted her, dancing in the crowd. In all honesty, he's been thinking about it longer; his first day in Darrow had been a confusion, but he'd still had eyes in his head to see her, hadn't he? Still, he's more aware of it now as they walk side by side towards her building, close enough that his arm brushes against hers. He's taller than her, considerably, but that doesn't pose a problem, at least not in his experience.

The way they dress, these women of Darrow, is maddening, too. He knows that Elora doesn't belong here anymore than he does but, like him, she's made an effort to modernise her dress, and he can't help but be aware of the shape of her under her clothes. He can't but wonder what she might look like under it.

"Is this it, then?" he says, looking up at the building as they arrive, as her steps slow. He can't keep (or doesn't try to keep) the note of disappointment out of his voice. Let her hear it.

His rooms are, if not to his taste, then at least palatable. He's spent money on them -- soft draping and cushions, things to make it more comfortable, with less sharp edges. Setting his keys down on the counter, he turns to Bella, stepping forward until he's crowding into her space, just a little.

"Wine?" he asks. "Or, something else to your taste?"