His free hand fell to a narrow hip and the large key ring that hung there. Without looking, he could pick out the striated key of this room. He tugged at it and the key came free, anchored only with a silvery cord. Confidently, he twisted it in the small lock and pushed the door inward.

"Master Cerulean," he all but bellowed, "your wine is delivered!"

There was no reply. A frown gracing his strong features, Noire padded into the main room. There he paused, worry and confusion replacing his irritation. Where is the Master's luggage? he wondered. Where, only that morning, there had been a suitcase and a black leather satchel, there was only empty carpet. He wasn't scheduled to leave for another two days.

Noire continued into the room. "Lark?" he called tentatively. The silence was beginning to unnerve him. Even if Master Cerulean had left, the Rainbow Key should still be in the room. He set the wine bottle on the white marble dining table and continued toward the bedroom. "Lar-- Oh, gods, Lark!"

He dropped his learned grace and scrambled to the far wall. There, about four feet from the large bed, slumped Lark, naked and hanging from his wrists. Somehow, the Rainbow Key's master had jimmied some rings or hooks into the wall and cuffed the young Key to them. Noire didn't pause to examine the bonds. He gingerly pressed up against Lark's limp body and wrapped an arm around the Key's torso, trying to get some of the weight off of the boy's wrists. With Lark's head on his shoulder, Noire was reassured by the Key's quiet breathing.

Now he could see that the cuffs were a cheap, simple model - more for frivolous play than serious bondage. He could also see the ravaged flesh beneath the bonds, and the ugly blue colour that Lark's fingers were turning.

"What happened here?" he growled under his breath. Lark's head lolled against his own, and Noire sent up a brief thanks for the breeding that granted him height and breadth. Few others would be able to support a fully-grown Key's weight and consider doing what Noire had in mind.

Noire held Lark firmly against his own body, and then reached into his uniform front with his free hand. There, in a flat, unadorned sheath tucked against his ribs, was the short utility dagger that he carried for moments such as this. Careful of Lark's soft skin, Noire drew it out, reached up, and stabbed it through the link closest to the ring and nto the wall.

He pried at the link, gritting his teeth, and for a moment nothing happened.

With a quiet 'click,' the link snapped.

Thank the gods for poor workmanship, Noire thought as he repositioned Lark so that the Key was half-draped over his shoulders. If he'd used the Palace's cuffs, I'd have to wait for the locksmith to get him down. Quickly, Noire performed the same violence on the other cuff, leaving his dagger in the wall as he caught Lark's full weight.

The Key let off a quiet moan. "No'?" he said faintly, voice like a breath.

"Yeah, Lark, it's just me." With the Key in such a state, Noire allowed himself to adopt a familiarity that breached the line between Key and page. "It's okay, baby," he said, "You're okay." He inched them toward the bed. Lark's body was a dead weight - he didn't seem aware enough to move of his own accord. "I'm going to lie you down, Lark. Just relax, okay? Everything is all right." There was no response. Noire took that as assent and did his best to gently lower Lark onto the dun and white patterned bedcover. Then he paused to look the Key over.

Lark's naked body was spotted with many long welts, mostly over his torso with some spots on his thighs. From the length and width, Noire decided that they were from a crop. He glanced around the room and spotted the flexible instrument in one of the far corners, like it had been tossed away. It was one of the Palace's. His eyes narrowed, but he forced himself to turn back to Lark. To continue his inspection, he gingerly pressed his palms over Lark's ribs and found nothing broken.

Not beaten, then. And his face is untouched. Noire tilted Lark's head to either side. Lark remained completely unresponsive, though there were no bumps on his skull beneath the silky curls.

"What happened to you, baby? Did you faint?" Noire spoke very softly, not expecting a reply. He shook his head. "An amateur sadist, maybe. Why didn't you tell him that you can't handle S&M?" He sighed. Ran a gentle finger over one locked cuff. "We'll get the locksmith up here. And a healer." He stared down at the Rainbow Key, his dearest charge, and felt a mingling of irritation and despair.

Then he pulled himself away and strode swiftly to the old-fashioned telephone set in the wall by the main door. Somebody had allowed this to happen, and he wanted to know whom.

Lark woke to a rising argument. He kept his eyes closed and his body perfectly still, desperate not to draw attention to himself.

"You should have told me," murmured a voice that Lark easily recognized as Noire's, the head of the pages charged with the Keys' well being. Even in anger, Noire spoke elegantly, revealing a level of education uncommon in most servants.

"And why's that?" replied the other. "I don't tell ya 'bout any other requests." It took a moment, but Lark eventually recognized Verte, the head Page of administration. This man was second only to the Chatelaine and the Scribe when it came to managing customer satisfaction, public relations, and other workings of the Palace that are not directly involved with the Keys. "What's another crop sent up to a room?"

Lark winced internally at the mention of that particular article of play. Master Cerulean had seemed to gain some pleasure from hitting Lark with the leather crop, and that was all that should matter. It was Lark's fault that he hadn't enjoyed the beating.

"I have made it very clear in the past that the Rainbow Key has not been trained for sado-masochistic activities. I should have been infor--"

"A bit of a whippin' ain't sada- sodam- S&M! Shit, any self-respectin' Key can handle himself around a Master who wants a bit o' pain with his pleasure." Lark could hear the sneer in Verte's voice, and he had to fight not to curl tighter and pull the covers over his head.

He's right, he's right, he thought miserably. I should have been able to handle it. I'm a terrible Key!

"Not all Keys are trained for all Masters," Noire replied tensely. "The Rainbow Key was trained for Masters who desire gentility and willingness."

His words did little to comfort Lark. Those Masters are few and far between. I'm nearly useless.

Verte seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "They should be trained for whatever Master is willing to pay the price. Your Rainbow here ain't worth the sheets he spreads his legs on."

"Callous ass!" Noire suddenly hissed. Lark was startled out of his misery. Noire never swore. "You are speaking of one of your own."

"He was bloody useless as a page, too--"

A polite "ahem" interrupted Verte's well-deserved insult and Lark jumped; the noise had come from his bedside.

"Must this… discussion… take place over the boy's bed?" asked an aged, female voice.

"I… I want to be here when he wakes," Noire said after a moment, much quieter and, almost, guiltily.

"Well, you've certainly gotten your wish, with all that yelling." Her words were stiff with scorn.

Lark, with embarrassment adding to his misery, blinked his eyes open. The folds of a pristine white robe met his gaze. A healer, then. He followed the garment upward until he found a lined, round face and dark grey hair. She turned to him and offered a slight nod.

"You're all right," she told him. "I've wrapped your wrists, but the rest will fade quickly. So long as you rest." She gestured to a small bedside table that hadn't been there before; a small jar rested on its glossy surface. "Put this ointment on any open wounds - it should prevent any scarring." Before he could reply, she turned her attention back to the two Head Pages. "A two week break for the boy. I'll send a full report to the Scribe."

The two men nodded, though Verte seemed less than happy. His green eyes flashed and his round face screwed into an unattractive frown. The healer didn't appear to notice. She rose and brushed by them without a word.

"Useless," Verte spat. He turned on his heel and stormed out.

"I hate that man," Noire said softly once the main door had slammed shut. "He cares for nothing but money." When he looked at Lark, his dark eyes were bright. Unlike Verte, he did not show his anger. He strode to the healer's vacated chair and perched on it. When he leaned over, his straight black bangs nearly fell over his eyes. "I didn't want you to hear that, but when Verte came in and told me what happened, I just had to know why it was allowed." He sighed and touched a long finger to the spot between his brows.

Lark couldn't think of anything to say, so he shrugged. Verte had only spoken the truth. It was nothing that Lark didn't already know.

"I should have known," Noire continued. "This was Cerulean's first time. And all first times want to try some bondage." He passed a hand across his face. "I could have prevented this. I'm sorry, Lark."

"Was he angry?" Lark asked. His voice cracked midway through, so he swallowed and tried again. "I… I didn't see him leave."

Then Noire smiled - the little, wry smile he wore when nothing was funny. "We think that you spooked him when you fainted. He packed his things and left with barely a word to the page at the front desk." Now the unfunny snicker that Lark has never understood. "Like any aristocrat, he was unwilling to take responsibility for his actions. But he had the decency not to ask for a refund."

Noire seemed to be expecting a reply, his dark gaze tracing over Lark's face with a scrutiny that would have been uncomfortable from anyone else. "Mm," Lark said. They sat for a moment in silence. Noire stared at him with his unamused smile and Lark tried to come up with something to say. All he could think of was begging for forgiveness, perhaps with another empty promise to do better, but he knew from experience that Noire would refuse him. The older page would not believe that Lark was at fault, despite the wealth of evidence laid out before him.

Noire finally cleared his throat. "Well, I have to go back to the office and go over today's reports," Noire said slowly. "I should get them in by dusk, so the Scribe can look them over in the morning. And the Red Iron Key is having some trouble adjusting to his room, so I'm going to talk with him, too." He reached out suddenly and touched the back of Lark's hand where it rested on the soft dun coverlet. "I'll be back later… if you want."

The prospect of being alone did not appeal, so Lark nodded. Abruptly, he was violently reminded of a similar situation when he was still a page. Noire hadn't been the Head Page, then, though he had considerable authority through his obvious intelligence, his compassion, and, though few would say this to his face, his appearance. Noire was broad-shouldered, narrow waisted, and tall. He was well muscled, but not overly. His face was chiselled and noble, without the narrowness that commonly passed for beauty. When Lark had first arrived at the Palace, frightened but hopeful, Noire had been the one to watch out for the new page and help him adjust.

And, when Lark had fallen for Him, Noire had patiently listened to the young boy's hopes. And when He left, Noire had offered comfort.

"Please," Lark said at last.

Noire nodded shortly and brushed some of the black hair from his brow. Then he was gone, striding with leonine grace from the room.

Lark lay still for several long minutes. He didn't want to, but his mind went over and over his few, brief days with Master Cerulean. He had been a pleasant enough man, young and eager to take his pleasure from Lark's body. It was his first time with a Key, he had said, and he wanted to try everything. Everything.

He didn't want to hurt me. Not really. That didn't change what the pain did to him. He couldn't be hit or whipped without remembering his past - the beatings, the torture, the rape. It was… less than arousing. But other Keys have gone through so much more, and you don't hear about any of them fainting. When he was a page, he once had a conversation with the Black Cat Key. The boy, though he seemed normal, was a masochist. From a life of terrible abuse, he had grown into a slave who, when inflicted with pain, would beg for sex, plead for penetration, and balance on the edge of orgasm. Master Cerulean would have liked that, instead of me.

Sleep would not come, so Lark pushed himself up. He sat, legs and arms heavy and listless, and stared down at his bandaged wrists. They were numb. He couldn't even remember if they were badly injured or not, though he could recall the sensation of his skin being torn.

He shook his head. I need… I need to paint, he thought, and stood. He was reassuringly steady on his feet, though he paused to be sure of his stability before wandering to his massive closet. He plucked down a pair of his oldest, loosest shorts, completely ignoring the expensive satins, chains, and sarongs that otherwise littered his wardrobe. With a wince and a hiss, he slid the shorts on over the welts spotting his thighs.

Entering his workroom had an immediate calming effect on him. The oily scent of the paints and the bright splashes of colour all over the wall silenced the self-recriminations and let him be, for a time, Lark, and not the Rainbow Key.

I would have thought that a room such as this would only bring to mind my status, but instead it allows me freedom. He slowly walked around the room, gazing at the murals that covered the walls. Here and there a spot would stand out - a half-face, a partial demon, a flower - and he would trace the air over it. At the end of the room, over his heavy, cluttered desk, was one of the few completed images. A man's narrow, pointed face, surrounded by dark red hair.

I don't belong here, he thought sadly. He leaned across his desk to press his forehead against the painting. Why didn't you take me with you?

Master Incarnadine; beautiful Incarnadine; sweet, sweet Incarnadine who promised to take Lark away from the Palace and slavery forever.

Then he left. Just like everyone leaves.

"Why didn't you take me with you?" Lark said aloud, voice catching. "Master…" He slammed his hands down on his paint-splattered desk, making the many jars rattle. "Why didn't you take me?!" He pounded at the wall. Then, thrown into a sudden rage, he grabbed up a random jar and opened it with a deft twist.

The paint was cool and slick on his fingers - an odd counterpoint to the seething anger rising in his throat. Without thought, without care, he lashed out and slashed thick lines of black across the visage of his first and only true lover.

"You left me here!" he wailed. He crawled onto the desk, scattering canvasses and brushes and jars everywhere, ignoring the smashing of glass as some of the paints fell to the floor. He pressed up against the walls, sobbing and smearing black paint over himself and the portrait. "You left me! You left me!"

As quickly as it had flared, the rage left him.

He brought trembling, blackened hands to his face.

"What have I done?" he whispered brokenly. Paint dripped from his knuckles onto his bare thighs. The bandages about his wrists were nearly soaked through. "Incarnadine…?" His gaze crawled from where his knees touched the cool wall and up. "No…"

Incarnadine's face was gone.

It was nearly sunset when Noire hurried up to the Rainbow Key's door. Quickly, he unlocked it and slipped inside.

It was like stepping inside a rainbow. The main room was alive with colours as the dying sunlight shone through the prism chandelier. Wonderingly, as he'd only had the opportunity to see this twice before, Noire held out a hand and watched his skin go from blue to red to green as he moved it. He was not commonly artistic, or appreciative of such simple beauty, but one would have to be made of stone to not feel a sense of awe at the natural phenomena.

Too beautiful to be alone. "Lark?" he called. He remembered being with Lark when the boy first saw this rainbow, had winced at how tightly Lark had gripped his hand. It seemed to make up for the miserable slump that Lark had been in for months - that one moment of uncomplicated happiness. Now, he wished for nothing more than to share that again with the Key.

Noire stepped slowly toward the bedroom, wondering if Lark was still abed, perhaps asleep. Then he heard a noise from his left, in the small room where Lark kept his paints. As Noire approached the partially open door, the rainbow faded and the dim, automatic lights around the room came on.

"Lark?" It took a moment, but Noire eventually spotted the Key. When he did, he was caught between laughing and consternation. Lark was completely covered in different coloured paint. "What are you doing?" The Key was crouched on the desk at the end of the room, furiously moving his hands over the wall.

"I can't--" Lark muttered without turning. "I can't, I can't…"

"What?" Noire frowned. He recalled that there had been a face clearly painted on the wall, but it was gone now.

"I can't remember what he looked like!" The boy shouted it at his knees. He fell over in a slump, revealing the wall.

Who is that? Noire remembered now. The face had been Incarnadine. But now the face was replaced by another. The chin was too square, the eyes too dark, the hair too dark. There was barely any red at all. What Noire remembered of Incarnadine, buried beneath uncommon, simmering anger, was the red of the man - his red hair and red eyes.

"Lark…" Noire moved toward the boy and, for the first time in a long time, didn't know what to say. Forget about him, he pleaded silently. I want you to see what is before you. But, if he were to say that, then the Line would be crossed. Noire could lose his job, his status, even his freedom, if the Palace chose to press charges against him. Or, even worse, Lark could turn around with empty eyes and not know what Noire spoke of.

Lark didn't seem to notice Noire's difficulty. "No'," he said, the nickname falling easily, painfully easily, from his lips. "Why can't I remember him? I want to, but I can't." "That was over two years ago-"

"But I loved him!" A sob shook him and Noire could barely restrain himself from moving closer, perhaps to foolishly take the Key in his arms. "I loved him, and he loved me! He did. I know he did. He said he did!" He ran a shaking hand back through his hair, smearing more black paint into his blonde curls. "But, why did he leave?" he asked, more to himself than to Noire. "Why did he leave if he loves me? Why does everyone leave me?!"

Noire could stand it no longer. "Not everyone has left you," he said, a bit too harshly.

Lark didn't seem to hear him. "Everyone leaves, everyone. I'm alone. Alone and useless--"

"Are you listening to me?" Only Lark could make Noire forget himself, and the bonds he put on himself after witnessing what anger and emotion does to people. "I said that not everyone has left you!" He reached out and grabbed Lark's arm.

I can't do this.

But I have to.

Before Lark could complain, Noire mashed their faces together.

In terms of kisses, it was pathetic. Noire mostly missed Lark's mouth, and it tasted of paint. But the noise that Lark made, the startled "Oomph!", made the discomfort worthwhile.

Noire pulled away before he became too involved. Lark would give in to him, he knew, because Lark was sweet and yielding and perfect… But Noire didn't want the Rainbow Key. Noire wanted Lark.

Lark's eyes were closed. He rested back on his haunches, kneeling on the desk, perfectly still.

If he waits, he does not want me. If he waits, he is a Key. Keys wait for their Master's advance. Keys wait. Keys accept. Keys do not… desire.

Noire didn't move. When his chest began to hurt, he realized that he was holding his breath. He let it out.

After several more breaths, he realized that he had been wrong. Lark was waiting. Like a Key.

There was another pain in his chest, but it wasn't from improper breathing. "Good night," he whispered. I am an idiot. He turned and walked away.

He was at the door when Lark shouted, "Hey!" Noire paused. "Hey," Lark said again. "I… I thought you weren't going to leave me."

Noire's heart seemed to forget to beat for a moment. When he looked back, Lark was unfolding and sliding off the table. The boy teetered for a moment, as though one or both of his legs had gone numb, then hurried forward.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"I…" Again, he was speechless. "I… Lark, I-I don't know how to say this, but…"

Lark leaned forward, gripped Noire on the sides of his head, and planted a firm, much less pathetic, kiss on Noire's mouth.

"Then don't say anything," Lark murmured against Noire's lips.

Noire signalled his assent with a sigh as their mouths meshed together. He slid his arms around Lark's torso, ignoring the paint, coming to rest at the boy's hips. Lark's body was tense, almost hard, pressing against Noire. He arched and moved and grumbled some meaningless noise that Noire answered with wandering fingertips.

They were both breathing hard when they broke apart.

"Thank you," Lark whispered, butting his head under Noire's chin.

"What?" Noire was nearly delirious. He clutched at Lark and tried to calm his frantic heart.

"I'm covered in paint," the boy said more loudly. "And now, so are you."

"That's all right." He nuzzled at Lark's hair and was pleased when some of the paint smeared over his nose. "Though, a bath may be in order." He moved away just far enough to look into Lark's blue eyes. "I would prefer to hold you, Lark. Not a rainbow."

A wide smile split the black and red paint obscuring Lark's face. He chuckled, and there seemed as much relief in the laugh as happiness. He stretched up and leaned his face against Noire's. "I think I know why I couldn't remember what he looked like," he said softly.

"Why's that?" Noire played his thumbs under the waistband of Lark's shorts.

"Because all I could see was you."

Lark grinned up at Noire. He could not speak, could barely breathe, as delight and relief mingled into an unfamiliar ecstasy. To display his appreciation, he reached up, hooked his arms around Noire's neck, and pulled the page down for a deep, wet kiss.

Noire was delightfully clumsy with his lips - something that Lark would not have thought possible. How could a Palace page, particularly one as striking as Noire, be as inexperienced as this? It both pleased and intrigued Lark, and he could easily imagine long hours spent teaching Noire how to keep his lips firm or slack, and the fine art of nibbling.

Noire's hands also contributed to his inexperienced image. His grip was firm on Lark's hips and lower back - spine-tinglingly firm - but he seemed to have no inclination of moving them lower.

He is so different, he thought wonderingly as he broke away. Noire stared down at him with undisguised desire, but there was none of the predatory hunger that Lark had become so familiar with in his Masters. But he isn't a Master, is he. He is my lover. The thought warmed him.

A smile, a real smile, curved Noire's lips. "How about that bath?" he murmured.

The warmth of affection quickly changed into the fierce heat of arousal at that quiet urging. Lark had never had the opportunity to see Noire naked and, judging by the feel of the page's body beneath his uniform, he was missing out. He nodded into Noire's shoulder, trying to hide his eager flush.

Noire pulled away then and strode toward the bathroom. Lark, suddenly chilled, blinked his surprise, and then hurried to follow. He would have to work on Noire's romantic inclinations, or lack thereof.

"You prefer the lemon-vanilla scent, right?" Noire said from the far side of the room, where a white cabinet held Lark's oils, salts, and bubbles.

"Uh." Lark, caught off guard, just nodded. "Yes. How did you know?"

Noire smiled again, and Lark decided that he preferred this expression to any other. "We only have to refill your stock of it every other week," he said warmly.

Lark flushed, instantly reminded that this man knew everything about him. He hurried to Noire's side before the thought could disturb him more than it already did.

"How about this one?" he asked, pointing to another bottle. This one contained a heady mixture of sandalwood, cinnamon, and jasmine. It was another favourite, and he often used it for recalcitrant Masters.

Noire canted a long glace at him from the corner of his dark eye. "You wouldn't rather just relax?" he asked softly.

The question startled Lark. "Relax?" he repeated. He was relaxed, happy, even excited. Here he was with one of the most gorgeous men in the Palace, contemplating one of his favourite activities, a romp in the bath. Then he remembered; only a few hours ago Noire had had to pry him off of the wall, after a rather interesting day of sex mingled with beatings. He suddenly felt very dirty. He deflated. "You're right," he said as lightly as he could. "We should relax."

"It's been a long day," Noire continued. He leaned toward Lark and paused with his face a mere inch away from the Key's. His breath warmed Lark's cheek. "I would rather you rested. There's no need to hurry." Then he turned away, toward the spouts the hung over the side of the tub, leaving Lark with a distressing amount of inner turmoil.

What does he think of me? For a moment, standing in the studio, Lark had seen uncertainty and adoration scrawled over Noire's features, but now that was gone. Now Noire was only pleasantness and efficiency, handling the faucet with practiced ease. Why isn't he-he groping me or holding me or something? Why isn't he naked and ready for me? It was frustrating. Lark glared at the cool tiles beneath his feet and tugged angrily at his shorts. If all Noire wanted was a relaxing bath with the Key, well, that's what he would get.

He managed to pull his shorts down without hurting his welts overly much. When he was naked, he padded to the edge of the tub and watched Noire on the other side, kneeling as he poured in the bubbles. Already, froth was building in the water that covered the marble bottom. When Noire had finished he looked up and met Lark's gaze, looking incongruous with a smear of black paint on his cheek and nose.

Why aren't you looking at my body? Lark thought fiercely. Don't you want me?

Noire got to his feet and returned to the cabinet. Lark climbed down into the tub to hide his annoyance and settled into one of the chilly moulded seats. He glared at his knees and shivered.

"We should take these bandages off." Lark started and twisted about. Noire was suddenly behind him, crouched down and nodding at Lark's wrist. With the page so close, Lark had difficulty remembering why he was annoyed. Some black hair fell over Noire's eye and Lark's hand itched to push it way.

He nodded helplessly and held out his arms.

Noire worked quickly, all gentleness and care. Lark was mesmerized by his long, strong hands. Touch me, he wanted to say. Hold me and touch me. Beneath the wrappings, Lark's wrists looked red and abused, but not permanently damaged. He took back his arms and held them gingerly on his lap. The water had risen nearly to his knees and he was not looking forward to when the heated water covered his wounds.

Noire moved around again, pulled some towels from the lower portion of the cabinet, and then set them by the edge of the tub. It seemed he knew where things were stored as well as Lark did. Then he began to unbutton his uniform jacket.

Lark watched avidly. He had never seen Noire anything less than fully dressed. The idea was terribly titillating and renewed the flagging heat of Lark's desire. Self-consciously, he curved his arms over his lap and hoped that the tub would fill more quickly.

The jacket came off fairly quickly, revealing a sleeveless, lighter blue shirt beneath. This garment was laced at the front, from the page's navel to his collarbone. All of the hems and seams were done in an even lighter colour, giving the shirt something of an archaic air. Lark let his eyes wander shamelessly over Noire's body as he moved. The page's arms were very muscular, surprisingly muscular, but not at all bulky. And he was pale. Noire pulled his shirt up out of his dark pants, flashing a bit of creamy abdomen, before he unlaced it. Hungrily, Lark watched him pull the shirt off over his head; the muscles of his stomach flexed and rippled and did things that Lark had never seen stomach muscles do.

There were tattoos. It surprised Lark, though he thought that it shouldn't. One tattoo was scrawled on Noire's chest, over his heart. Another curved over his hipbone. Both were formless and black, and vaguely in the shape of daggers. They seemed, to Lark, vaguely menacing. He shivered a bit and tried to look away from them.

Abruptly, Lark's attention was hauled away from the stripping page as water reached the welts on the tops of his thighs. He hissed and swallowed a yelp, closed his eyes and waited for the sting to fade.

A small splash made his eyes fly open. Noire had settled across from him. Disappointment welled in Lark's stomach. He had missed the rest of the show.

"Are you okay?" Noire asked, voice just barely carrying over the sound of the water. Lark nodded.

The water continued to rise and Lark relaxed around the pain. The scent of the lemon-vanilla drew him into something of a stupor. He leaned back and rested his head against the side of the tub and decided that he maybe was as tired as Noire thought he should be. Bubbles crawled up his chest and tickled at his chin, nearly a foot above the water. When the water automatically stopped pouring, Lark thought that he could hide in these bubbles and never be found again.

"I think I put in too much," Noire commented quietly from somewhere to Lark's left. Lark giggled without lifting his head. "I don't think I can find you," the page continued.

"Say something and I'll feel my way over."

"Something," Lark said obediently.

There was splashing, and a shadow suddenly loomed out of the bubbles. Without warning, long arms emerged from nowhere and hauled Lark away from his seat. He had no time to protest before he was completely submerged and thrashing.

When Noire allowed him to come to the surface, it was to come face to face with the page, whose grin had turned playful. He glared and Noire shrugged innocently, eyes wide beneath his wilted hair. Water trickled down the Key's nose and dripped off, black with paint.

"We really must clean off this paint," Noire explained blithely.

"We must," Lark growled. He pounced.

They went down in a tangle of soapy limbs. Noire was stronger, but Lark could squeal louder and shimmy out of any grip that Noire tried to get him in. Lark was certain that he managed to swallow most of the tub water, and Noire struck his shoulder against one of the seats, though he didn't complain. They wrestled, dunked each other, and finally came to a truce when Lark started coughing and couldn't stop.

Lark knelt on one of the seats, bowed over the edge of the tub, hacking out some water that he had tried to breathe. As he began to regain his composure and some kind of rhythm to his breaths, he became aware of Noire's presence right behind his right shoulder. He felt the page's hand, rubbing in small circles on a welt-free part of his back, and Noire's hipbone pressed against the edge of Lark's rear.

And suddenly, all Lark could think of was what it would feel like if Noire's body pressed against him from behind. What would that stomach and chest feel like against his back and ass? What would his arousal feel like? Would he be a fierce lover, forcing Lark against the hard tub? Or would he be gentle, holding Lark and keeping him from any harm? Desire burned deep in his stomach and his back and buttocks tingled, eagerly awaiting some kind of caress.

Do you want me? he wondered. He turned his head slightly, tried to peer unobtrusively into the water, but there were still too many bubbles to see more than a white blur. Considered what Noire would do if he made a grab for what was between the page's legs.

"All right?" Noire asked.

Lark pulled himself out of his thoughts and nodded slowly. When he turned around and sat back, Noire did the same, sitting close to the Key but not touching. The page was looking straight ahead, at nothing. Lark watched him.

I want to kiss him, he decided, and touch him. He considered Noire's profile. Then, with something of a mental shrug, he leaned forward and kissed the corner of Noire's mouth. Noire reacted immediately, swivelling and meeting Lark's next move with eager lips and a muffled moan.

Lark buried his hands into Noire's hair and pushed himself into the kiss, doing his best to say, "I want you," without actually saying it. Noire seemed amicable to the idea as he clutched at Lark's waist and back and whatever parts he could touch under and over the water. Lark ached to just clamber onto Noire's lap and increase the closeness between them, but some part of him decided that kissing and hugging was just fine, for now.

Noire pulled away, though his arms remained wound comfortably around the Key. He touched his nose to Lark's. "I'm not anyone else," he said, little more than a whisper.

Lark nodded and swallowed. "Of course," he husked.

"I don't want to be like anyone else," he insisted. "So, I'm going to leave. Because I'm not like them."

"I want you to stay," Lark murmured, and pressed forward to nuzzle at the edge of Noire's jaw.

"Thank you," Noire said. He pushed Lark's shoulders. "I will be back, tomorrow." He lifted his long hand and cupped it around Lark's cheek. Closed the scant distance between them to place a soft, chaste kiss on Lark's mouth. "I will always come back," he said seriously.

Lark had to nod, because it was true. Noire was the only constant in his life, the only man he trusted.

"All right."

There was a tremendous splash and Noire had clambered out of the tub. He whisked a towel around his waist before Lark got a good look at him, leaving the Key with the impression of shadows before the sight was obscured.

"I want you to sleep well tonight," Noire said firmly.

"All right." Lark would do his best.

Noire was too quick to get his pants and undershirt on. Too soon he crouched at the edge of the tub for a last kiss. "Good night," he said softly.

"Good night," Lark returned.

Then Noire was gone, leaving Lark to his cooling water and heated desires.