Garrupe and Rodrigues, returning.
"You have hairier feet than a satyr."
"Don't be an idiot, Achilles, they've got hooves."
"Hairier than a satyr's ass, then. And they stink."
On the road, after the walls come down. Tris looks for answers; Peter looks for an ending.
They were old stones, the stones that buried Leporino, the boundary markers of a rustic edifice or a low wall. They might have tumbled down the ravine under the weight of last winter’s snow, or at an unlucky push.
(Written for cygnes and the prompt: the secret history au where it's a jacobean revenge tragedy.)
The two of them are marked by water.
"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."
When Ed Lee realizes he's in love, and when Ed Lee realizes he's fucked.
There's rules that go with being Adam's errand boy -- sort of workplace regulations. Be there whenever he needs you, don't mess with his stuff, don't ask annoying questions.
Or, sailor boys in bondage.