"What's wrong? Where -- what are you doing?" Tarragon's eyes were filled with pain. ::Rejection. Again. I should have known, I really should have. But.. I thought.. I thought this would be different. He _is_ different. He's MINE.:: He put his hands on Genrou's shoulders and shook him roughly. "Damn you, what do you think you're doing!"

"Let me go!" Genrou wouldn't look him in the face, his eyes fixed down on the clear water. "Leave me alone."

"Not until we clear this up. You wanted me as much as I wanted you. Damn it Genrou, stop playing games with me! You might be my Master -"

"You bastard!" Genrou seethed, his head flying up to stare with burning, tear filled eyes into Tarragons narrowed green ones. "Playing with you? Playing with *you*?? God what a joke!" He laughed bitterly, glad of the water on his face that would hide the tears that spilled from his eyes. Tarragon was still, shocked by the acid laughter that spilled from those lips -- lips that a mere minute ago, an age ago, he had almost kissed. The harsh barking laughter stilled, and silence lay thickly over them.

"Let me go." Genrou said quietly, his hands moving up to push Tarragon away.

"No. Not until you explain what's going on." Tarragon tightened his grip, slowly pulling Genrou closer.

"I said let me go!" Genrou yelled, then fought like an enraged cat. Twisting and turning in Tarragon's suddenly constricting hold, all Genrou could think about was to get away get away and hide. Now. But Tarragon's hold was unbreakable, and Genrou finally stilled in his embrace.

"Are you ready to talk now?" Tarragon's voice was calm, low, betraying nothing of the hurting-squeezing feeling in his chest. His face was equally composed, looking down on the wet purple hair that hung over Genrou's face. Tarragon wanted to brush that curtain away just so he could look into Genrou's face, but that meant he would have to let go. So he peered through the thick hair, trying to read the others face.

"There's nothing to talk about, leave me alone!" Betrayal lay heavy in Genrou's chest, his mind a whirling vortex of inchoate, unconnected thoughts. ::Gods, he was playing me for a fool. He's so beautiful and look at me... He's a man, he's a *man*. And I'm...so... I'm nothing next to him. I can't --::

" I'm not a pervert like my grandfather! Do you think I'd do *this* with you?" With a convulsive jerk, he scrambled away from Tarragon's grip and somehow got out of the pool; never looking back, not allowing himself to look back, he ran into the dark jungle. Away. Just away.

Tarragon stood in the pool, fingers clenching shut against the need to reach out. Instead, he watched Genrou run away from him as though from a plague. He shut his eyes, hearing those last words over and over again, "Do you think I'd do this with *you*?" And how could Tarragon blame him when the memories of those nights with the other master still left him shivering?

He walked dejectedly towards the waterfall, as if hoping that the water would cleanse him of everything, and wash the tears away.

***

Breath sobbing in his chest, Genrou ran through the forest, occasionally tripping over exposed roots or hanging vines. But even he couldn't outrun his own thoughts. Finally, out of breath and spots dancing in front of his eyes, he broke into the clearing where the treehouse was. He looked behind him for signs of pursuit, and with a sigh -- denying the little twinge of hurt that Tarragon hadn't followed -- wearily began to climb the ladder. He only wanted to grab his stuff, then he was outta here.

Tossing his clothes helter-skelter into his duffel bag, he packed furiously, ignoring the fact that his boots squelched with water at every step and that he was feeling slightly chilled despite the very warm temperatures of the room. The run hadn't helped any either, he was still slightly out of breath.

With an exasperated sigh, he decided that he was too tired to haul the suitcase around. Slinging the duffel bag out of the door and onto the ground,-- ::I don't know how the hell I was able to climb that damn rope ladder while carrying that stupid suitcase!:: -- he took one last look around the tree house, desperately trying not to look out into the dark woods for a sign of Tarragon, then descended the ladder. ::I can't stay here. I can't... I'm sorry, Tarragon. I just can't handle this.::

***

Tarragon waited an hour, two hours after Genrou's panicked departure before following the path home. He figured that two hours would be enough to let Genrou calm down so they can talk. He heaved a breath, dreading the confrontation as he walked slowly towards home.

***

"He's gone". Tarragon looked around the room, noting that the clothing Genrou had tossed onto the bed was gone, the other bag was missing, and Genrou was definitely not in the treehouse. He walked towards the bed, touching the still-damp fur, damp from Genrou's pool-soaked clothing. Tarragon walked toward the furs, then noticed that Genrou missed one tunic in his haste, He picked it up, clutching the soft purple silk in his hands, a color that reminded him of Genrou's hair. He collapsed onto the bed, and told himself it didn't matter. ::It doesn't matter, it doesn't it doesn't,:: even as he held the shirt to his face and cried.

***

Genrou waited by the door, on the lookout for either Shiira or Dhocal. He felt a little guilty for dragging them out of their beds, but he couldn't spend another minute in the room. He needed to think, and the tree-house wasn't the place to do it. He rubbed his eyes, shivering a little from the cool night breeze that ran over his still damn pants. Genrou had taken off his boots --::Damn, my favorite pair! Ruined.. Shit, this isn't my day at all...:: -- but wanted to wait until he had a hot bath before changing into dry clothing.

"Genrou-sama." The low voice jerked Genrou out of his daze and he spun around. Shiira stood in the shadows, wearing a long white tunic and his hair bound at the nape. Genrou could see the moonlight gleam against the blue-blackness of Shiira's hair, and was reminded of the way the lamp light had shimmered red against Tarragon's hair... He looked quickly away, trying to calm his suddenly pounding heart.

"Shiira, I'm sorry to wake you..." Genrou glanced up to meet the other's solemn face.

"We are here to serve, Genrou-sama. It doesn't matter. It's our pleasure." Shiira walked closer and bent to pick up his duffel bag. "I'll conduct you to a spare bedroom."

"Thank you." Genrou followed the silent figure in front of him.

They arrived at a doorway of a large, hut-like building connected to other buildings by a bamboo and wooden pathway. Shiira opened the door and motioned for Genrou to enter first. He did, dully taking in the comfortably furnished room.

Shiira laid the bag next to the wide bed which was draped with white mosquito netting and smelled of freshly laundered linen. "The bath is through that door," he motioned to the left of the bed. "Should I run it for you?" Shiira saw Genrou nod in agreement. " There are robes in the closet, just leave your clothing in the hamper next to it, Genrou-sama." He walked into the bathroom and left Genrou alone.

Genrou slithered out of his damp clothes and slid gratefully into the warm comfort of the terry bathrobe. It was a little large on him, the sleeves hanging over his fingertips and was so long it nearly touched his heels. He sat on the bed, curling up on the head to wait for Shiira to come back out. What he needed was to talk, needed it more than a bath.

Genrou heard him shut the flood of water off and Shiira reentered the bedroom . He saw Genrou curled up on the bed, looking forlornly at the wall. He sat down on one of the chairs next to the window, close enough to the bed that Genrou could reach out to touch him, but far enough that he didn't feel cornered.

::The bath will have to wait,:: Shiira thought to himself. "Genrou-sama, would you like to talk about it?" Shiira relaxed into the embrace of the armchair and tilted his head towards the despondent figure on the bed.

"I don't understand, Shiira. I don't know what I'm doing here." Genrou's voice was low, exhausted from the emotional rollercoaster he had just ridden. "I mean, this is all too much for me," he waved his hand vaguely, the gesture all inclusive. "I mean, it's not like I'm upset over my Grandfather's death. We were never close. I never liked him..." He stopped, confused as to how to go on.

"Yes?" Shiira waited patiently, knowing there was more to the story.

"Dammit, I don't know what to do with Tarragon! "

"Ah," ::The root of the matter.:: Shiira straightened a bit and tried to catch Genrou-sama's eyes. "Genrou-sama --"

"Call me Genrou. I'd rather if you did," Genrou shot him a look of weary amusement. "I get enough of the Genrou-sama deal with Yoshino."

"Alright, Genrou. You were saying that you don't know how to deal with your slave?"

"That's the problem. He's my slave. He's a *guy*. He came onto me." ::...And I liked it...:: Genrou silenced that little voice.

"I assume that the last part is what bothers you the most," Shiira stated calmly, ignoring the embarrassed/defensive denial that sprang from Genrou's lips.

"Well what am I supposed to do? Let him have sex with me?" Genrou pounded on the bed in frustration. ::I was *not* attracted to him, not _that_ way!::

"No Genrou, not have sex. Make love. You find him attractive, he finds you attractive. What is the harm in that? And don't bother denying your fascination with Tarragon. Why else would you be so bothered?"

"The fact that he's male and so am I! That's what!" Genrou flamed, then cooled at the sight of Shiira's wry shake of the head.

"Are you so innocent, Genrou, that such a thought never crossed your mind?" Shiira smiled at him, "Genrou, you are master here. You can do whatever you want. Leave the island if you wish, sell the Key back to the Palace. There are a great many solutions to your problem. But I will be honest with you," Shiira's voice grew hard, "Tarragon has had a terrible past, and the Palace was his escape from certain death. When Masao-sama bought the Purple Key, Tarragon was placed here as the slave -- it was his choice of environment and he knew very well that the new Master might not be as pleasant. The Palace is good at keeping tabs on key owners to make sure the slaves are not hurt physically, unless the slave wants to be, and only superficial hurts are allowed. But psychological hurts are not as easily monitored. Masao-sama was not a good Master. He came to *use* Tarragon in his infrequent visits. Tarragon was a body, nothing more. Now, you are here. We have done extensive research on you to make sure that we understand what would make your stay most pleasant." Shiira took a breath and continued, "Genrou, your sexual activities have, so far, been only with women. Purely heterosexual encounters. We understand and respect that. But..."

"But what?" The words squeezed their way out of his throat. Genrou twisted the ends of his robe together, fraying the fine cotton.

"We had hoped that you and Tarragon could be friends. And more than friends. Please, do not take offense, Genrou. Tarragon has been so lonely. Dhocal and I tried to keep him as happy as we could, but he needs someone. And we believe that someone is you."

"Why me? Why *me*? Shit, Shiira, is this something you guys set up? Fuck, if you have so much on me, you should know I hate games." His mind flashed images of past lovers, women who wanted him for his money or his connections. "Dammit, I like Tarragon, but not as a lover," he ignored the voice that screamed _liar_ in his mind. "I'm a guy!" he said desperately.

"Does that matter so much? Is that the real problem here?" Shiira stared at him, his eyes boring into Genrou's skull.

"Yes!" He stared back for one infinite moment. Then the truth hit him between the eyes, and he couldn't lie any longer. Not on something this important. He dropped his eyes in shame. "...No."

Shiira kept silent. He understood that the crux of the problem was soon to be revealed.

"Shiira.... He's beautiful." Genrou sounded like he was about to cry.

Shiira was flabbergasted at the declaration. He had expected other excuses, but not this flat, defeated statement. "I-I don't understand."

"God, don't you see? He's beautiful. He's the most beautiful person I've ever met in my life and I never wanted anything in the world more than I wanted him when I saw him there at the waterfall. I liked him. We were friends the moment we met," he smiled through his tears, remembering his first horrifying impression. "Well, not that first moment, but close enough. I really should have realized that as a slave, Tarragon would be beautiful. I should have known. But..." He laughed, slightly hysterical, "All that mud really threw me for a loop. And I never thought he would be the sun. He's so bright, golden." Genrou rubbed his face. "God, look at me, blubbering all over the place. I _own_ him so it doesn't really matter how I look in the bargain. I can have him in my bed and he wont be able to say no. Just like my Grandfather did to him..."

Shiira's mind crawled back into motion. "What do you mean, "How I look,"?"

Genrou shot him an unreadable glance under his tangled purple hair. "You have eyes, Shiira. Use them."

"I..I don't understand," Shiira repeated as he floundered helplessly, his eyes searching for any sign of deformities. He found none; only flawlessly pale skin, that oval face, dark eyes, lush red lips. He ran his eyes further down Genrou's body, admiring his lean grace, apparent even while sitting curled up on a bed.

"Don't you start. Tarragon was exactly like that." Genrou's voice was dangerous, a combination of shame and anger bubbling in his chest.

"Genrou, let me get this straight," Shiira put a hand to his forehead, trying to massage away the headache that was forming. "You... You think you're ugly. You think that because Tarragon is your slave, he will have no choice but to accept your... deformities. And you don't want that, am I correct?"

Genrou said nothing, only looked away towards the far wall. His silence said it all.

"Fuck," the rough expletive burst from Shiira's mouth. "Who in god's name told you that you were ugly? How long has this been going on? I'm going to kill that person, whoever it is." Shiira snarled, hands clenched.

"He's dead, so you can't kill him." Genrou looked back and bared his teeth in a bitter rictus, "He's told me since I've been a little kid how repulsive I looked, a slug, a white worm. A freak of nature." He laughed, an acid laugh that recalled years of abuse. "It didn't help that I was alone in the world. It didn't help that what he said was true. But I've gotten over the fact that I'm ugly. Women find my money attractive. I guess its better than nothing."

Shiira sat quietly, watching Genrou rock back and forth. ::I had hoped that Genrou would be able to help Tarragon's loneliness. But I see that this works both ways...:: Shiira sighed, then smiled a wry grin of understanding. "Genrou, I think you should bathe and rest. You've been through hell, and its only been your first day here on the Island. Tomorrow will be better, I promise." He stood and held out a hand to the sitting figure on the bed. "Come on, I'll help you to the bathroom."

Pliant as a little child, Genrou took the hand and followed silently into the bathroom. Shiira gave his hand a little squeeze, a motherly gesture of comfort, and left the room. When he finished his bath, Shiira was gone, but the bed covers had been turned back and cotton pajamas had been laid out. Pulling on the shirt -- which was long enough to cover him to his knees -- he tossed the pants aside and crawled into bed. It didn't take long for him to topple into deep sleep.

***

Shiira found Tarragon, curled up on the furs with a purple tunic clutched to his chest. ::He looks so young,:: he thought with a little contraction of the heart. Tarragon might be the same age as Dhocal and Shiira, but Shiira always thought of him as a younger brother that needed protecting. It was Shiira who would comfort him after the infrequent visits of Masao-sama. It was to Shiira that Tarragon revealed his past. And when Tarragon awoke to find Shiira in his treehouse, it was Shiira that Tarragon turned to for comfort after Genrou's rejection.

Cradling the boy in his arms, Shiira let him shiver out his hurt, rocking the other in his arms just like those other nights. He stroked his hands over Tarragon's hair, smoothing the silky curls and ever present tangles. Finally, when Tarragon quietened, Shiira whispered, "Listen to me. It's not what you think."

And Tarragon listened. First in unwilling denial, then disbelief, and finally, with a slyly mischievous smile that echoed the grin on Shiira's face.