They have established a relationship expedited by cheap abundant crank and long poorly-defined winter nights.

Caleb lives. Nathan lives. Not for very long, though.

"Don't," he says, thin and strangled — no, not strangled, really. Smothered. The word hardly left his throat at all, and if John hadn't been so close, just about on top of him in an enclosed space, he might never have heard.

(For the Tumblr prompt "things you said while you were driving".)

"Whatever you want," Nathan finds himself saying when his shirt comes off over his head and his glasses hit the nightstand — like he's talking to himself, which he might as well be. "Don't think about it like should, or shouldn't. Don't think. Don't fucking try and figure it out. Come on. You can keep your shirt on."

Titus is remarkably unsympathetic to his brother's plight.

Ian likes to be helpful. Adam needs a whole lot of help.

When he is Lord of the Dreadfort he'll have ruby rings on his fingers.

Bad people doing bad things to one another.

He's proud, he's chaste as an icicle, he balks.

"Step into my fucking office."