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Chapter Text

As the snow fell delicately on the ground, the echos of the street clattered and cried, disturbing the peace that nature had so kindly provided.

The color and beauty that Moscow regularly possessed in other seasons was nowhere to be seen. The city was restless in winter especially, as people rushed and bustled to escape the harsh, cold winds that bended the trees to their unknown will. The buildings towered, and the snow atop the roofs made them appear even taller. The sight of them almost intimidated the doe-eyed Count Rostov.

"Dear cousin, are you alright?"

A hand graced the count's fur cloak, and he turned his head to see his closest friend, and sole companion on the trip to Moscow that he had decided to take. Virgil Alexandrov-Rostov was nothing but the sweetest, most good cousin the count has ever known. Despite having no titles of prestige, Virgil had been adopted into the family to serve as the young count's confidante and guardian, despite being only two years older than he.

"Yes, Virgil, I'm alright," the count responded with a gracious smile, "I'm ashamed to admit that I am not used to the size of these structures."

"Are you implying that you are not used to being dwarfed?" Virgil asked, a light sprinkle of amusement hidden in his tone, "I find that difficult to believe."

Count Roman Rostov was a young boy of ninteen years with a small, delicate frame. He was occasionally assumed to be sickly because of it, but Roman had always had glowing health, and a complexion to match. His skin was a rich sepia tone with a gentle, ever-present rosy glow. Many often mistook him for a homely girl due to his femininity, but the count certainly didn't mind. He envied the grace and endless elegance that women were prone to exhibiting naturally.

"You're only slightly taller than me," Roman grumbled, crossing his arms and looking down to conceal the small smile that was forming upon his face. "You are dwarfed just as much as I am."

Virgil was taller than Roman, and much paler. He had a plainness to him, but not to a terrible degree. Anyone might look plain standing next to the extravagance that Roman endlessly surrounded himself with. And Virgil didn't mind being the cousin that stood in the shadows. It was where he felt more comfortable, after all. Social gatherings were unenjoyable to Virgil, and he only really went to ensure Roman's safety.

That was why he was here today in Moscow. While Roman's godfather was very trustworthy, and established in society, the count's parents thought it appropiate for Virgil to accompany him anyway. It wasn't proper to consider one's guardianship a veil of protection as well. And one with so much power and reputation as the count could never be too careful.

"It's so cold, Virgil," Roman complained, "I wish Emile were here. He would know exactly how to keep me warm."

Virgil sighed softly, feeling pity towards his younger cousin. Emile, Roman's fiance, had been away for weeks now.

"He'll be back soon, my dear," Virgil reassured, taking off his own cloak and placing it onto Roman's slender shoulders, "War is an honorable place to be. He's fighting for our country."

"I don't care about our country," Roman decided defiantly, "I want him here with me. I love him, Virgil, I love him more than anyone."

"Anyone?" Virgil challenged softly.

Roman tilted his head, but softened upon seeing Virgil's slightly hurt expression. He shook his head.

"Besides you, of course," he reassured, resting his head on his cousin's shoulder as they walked together. "Are we almost there?"

"How am I to know? This is my first time here, just as it is yours."

"I don't know," Roman admitted, "You just seem to know everything."

Virgil smiled softly at that. "Everything, huh?" he asked, "I like the sound of that. In that case, we'll be there anytime now."

By some stroke of luck, Virgil happened to be correct. As they neared the address on the letter that Roman's godfather had sent only a few days before, a door near the two boys was thrown open dramatically, causing Virgil to jump and nearly fall into the snow.

"Roman! Dear Romanov, come in and out of the cold!"

Remy Dimitryev was a bright man with an ample build, and a demanding expectation from the world. He could easily afford the finest furs and silks, but being the frugal man he was, he wore things just barely expensive enough to be considered appropriate for his standing in society. He wore glasses with dark lenses that hid his eyes, after being diagnosed with degenerative eyesight loss by the local doctor. It was a strange thing for somebody just over 40 to have, but Remy had somehow beaten the odds.

But he didn't let anybody pity him for his condition. Remy was independent and capable, regularly finding his own way of accomplishing things that are difficult without complete eyesight.

One of those things being squeezing his favorite godson to death.

"Remy!" Roman squeaked, "It's so good to see you!"

"My darling boy, you've grown even lovelier since the last time I saw you! Such beautiful eyes, and you've gotten plumper too! Are those parents of yours finally feeding you?"

"Yes, sir, they always have," Roman recited gracefully, causing Remy to smile even more.

"My dear child, always so polite! Come in, come put down your things, you too, Virgil, come in!"

Remy rushed the boys inside, thankfully, and brought them to the fire. As he chattered incessantly about the latest gossip of the city, he had servants pour hot tea for the two Rostovs. As Roman sipped his, he realized a burning sensation as the liquid went down his throat, and he coughed as gently and politely as he could.

"Oh, dear me, I forgot to mention!" Remy said, "The tea has rum in it, it will warm you up, child."

"I've never had rum before," Roman speculated, looking at the glass with fascination.

"Well, c'est la vie!" Remy said with a laugh as he drank from his own cup of coffee.

A comfortable moment of silence washed over the three members of high society as the blizzardous winds continued to blow outside. The sun had completely set only a few minutes ago, and Roman looked out the window towards the moon that was slowly rising up into the sky.

Whenever Roman saw the moon, he thought of Emile. Tough, but kind, with a soft spot for the young count. He smiled so easily, and it always reached his eyes, without fail. Roman could have swooned just thinking about being held in Emile's strong arms, feeling his chest rise and fall just as his did. They were one of the finest matches in Russia, not just because of their breeding, but because of their undeniable love for each other. When they were together, they were the only ones in the room. Adorable young lovers, they were to bystanders.

Virgil, surprisingly, was the one to break the silence.

"Tomorrow afternoon, we plan to visit the Bolkonsky manor for tea," he said, "We are here due to an invitation from a Prince Logan Bolkonsky who describes himself as Emile's brother, to meet himself and his father. I didn't know that Emile had a brother."

"I did," Roman said with a dreamy sigh, "He speaks nothing but the world of his brother. If they weren't related, I would be jealous. It only makes sense that Emile's family would want to see me before the wedding. Emile has never told me about his father before, and I am very curious. I can imagine they are just as kind and noble as Emile himself! Where else would he get such excellent manner?"

"One can only hope," Remy said with a sigh, as if he knew something that Roman did not, "Alright, off to bed with you both! You have had quite a long journey, and you must get rest if you're going to a social tomorrow. There are some new clothes waiting on your beds, please tell me if they fit."

Roman grinned excitedly and stood up immediately to hug Remy.

"Thank you!" he said before rushing upstairs to see what he had recieved.

Virgil offered a quiet nod in thanks before following his cousin up the stairs with the bags they had both packed. He tended to play the role of the servant occasionally, though Roman never noticed.

"Virgil, look!" Roman cried out, "Look at this dress, isn't it beautiful?"

It was rather mature for Virgil's taste. A bright red color with lace trimmings, and hardly any sleeves. Roman's neck and shoulders were clearly visible, as were his arms. Many aristocrats in society were used to showing such mundane things such as their neck or shoulders when they blossomed into adults, but the arms were simply unheard of in most cases. Only the most mature and desirable of people could wear them without being labeled as promiscuous.

But one so innocent as dear Roman wouldn't have that issue, Virgil hoped. Even at nineteen, his little cousin was so childlike and sweet. Virgil couldn't imagine promiscuity ever being a problem for him.

"Lovely," Virgil responded as he looked at his own attire.

Modest items of black, gray, and occasionally dark purple. His face flushed with surprised gratitude. Purple was so expensive, it was a wonder that Remy was even able to secure it. And all for Virgil. He almost felt undeserving of the fine silks. Folding them carefully and placing them into his bag, he vowed to take the utmost care of them, in order to show his graciousness.

Both boys had gotten into bed rather quickly. Remy was right; the journey had been very tiring. But it was over now, and there was a tea party to look forward to, as well as a pretty new dress. Roman didn't think things could get any better than this, and a content smile formed on his face as he closed his eyes and allowed sleep to wash over him in a blanket of warmth.

Chapter Text

Old Prince Patton Bolkonsky was an old man who absolutely nobody liked.

He wore an old, matted, powdered wig, that was just as brown and gray as it was white. One could imagine that it used to be a spectacle of grace, but now, it was nothing but an artifact. A relic of the past century.

His eyes were beady, and endlessly glinted with challenge. He was never satisfied with what was in front of him, but he was not physically able to get for himself what he desired. A very unfortunate situation, both for himself, and for his gentle son.

Prince Logan Bolkonsky was a plain boy who hadn't seen the light of day in weeks.

His skin was ghostly pale, and his hands tremored and shook every day, just as a body beyond his years would. He was fearful, and though he was similar in figure to his robust brother, he made himself small in his posture. One hardly noticed him enter or exit a room.

And Logan was the unfortunate soul who subjected himself to the torture that was taking care of the old prince.

He had known this would happen. Emile was older than him, and therefore would have an easier opportunity to escape than he. Emile was also much more desireable. While Emile was bright and socially competent, Logan was awkward and serious, often misunderstanding jokes and ruining the fun. But Logan was gentle and sweet, and he had endless patience with his rude, demanding father. He followed Patton's every command.

"Logan!" Patton shouted, for what was likely the twentieth time that morning, "Come here when I call for you!"

"I apologize, Father," Logan said, clamboring into the room quickly, his head bowed, "I was preparing our breakfast."

"What is that horrible smell?" Patton demanded in a great shout that caused Logan to cower and take a careful step away from his father.

"It's my incense, Father," Logan stammered, "I thought it might be beneficial to your health."

Though he was a wallflower, Logan was intelligent. He read every book he could get his hands on as a child, and would occasionally sneak to the public library while getting groceries for his father. Though Patton saw no purpose in books, Logan thought they were lovely. His curiosity was voracious and unable to be satisfied.

"You stupid child, put it out before I make you regret it!" Patton exclaimed, as Logan once again bowed his head.

"Yes, Father," Logan said quietly, darting out quickly.

"And bring me my slippers while you're at it! And a glass of wine!"

"Yes, Father!" Logan called out over his shoulder to ensure that Patton would hear.

When Logan knew he was out of earshot, he let out an exhausted sigh. No matter what he did, Patton was never satisfied. Patton hated his children, both of them. But Patton didn't like anybody anymore. Now that he was old and rotting, and the world was continuing to spin without him, he grew crazy and bitter. He missed being the life of the party; the one who people enjoyed.

Logan had never had that opportunity. He had no friends, even as an adult. As a child, his father didn't let him go anywhere. He was foolish to think that would change in adulthood. If Logan was gone, who would take care of Patton? There was nobody left. Logan had tried hiring caretakers in the past, but Patton was so cruel to them that they didn't stay for longer than a day or two. Logan certainly couldn't blame them.

The only thing that comforted Logan and kept him going today was that somebody was coming over for tea. Count Roman Rostov, to be specific. Emile's fiance. Logan was very happy that his dear brother had found the love of his life, even as he felt a sharp pang of jealousy whenever the thought came to mind. Emile was a wonderful man, it was the least he deserved.

As Logan threw out the incense and retrieved Patton's things, he realized that he didn't know anything about the young count besides, well, his youth. Four years younger than Logan, with his entire life ahead of him. Logan wondered if he was joyful or serious, frugal or spoiled. With a societal position so ambiguous as count, one could only guess.

"Logan!" Patton shouted once again, with that grating, migraine-inducing voice.

Logan grimaced and ran as quickly as he could to Patton's room.

"Yes, Father?" he asked quietly.

The rage in Patton's eyes was a sight that Logan knew too well, and feared more than most anything else. He stiffened, as his eyes darted from Patton's face to his hands. Face. Hands. Maybe if he predicted it, it wouldn't hurt as badly.

What a foolish thought.

"You gave me white wine!" Patton shouted, grabbing Logan's wrist, "When have I ever said I liked white wine?"

"I- it was the only wine we had left, Father," Logan said, staying completely still. Things went by quicker that way. "I'm very sorry. I'll pick up more red wine after tea."

"Why would you let it run out in the first place?" Patton demanded, "You're a lazy, insolent boy!"

Before Logan could process what was happening, he felt a burning sensation on his face. Patton had struck him.

This wasn't the first time this had happened. Far from it. Tears formed in Logan's eyes as he brought his free hand to his red cheek. His bottom lip wobbled, and the hatred in Patton's gaze only meant that he saw it. A hot wave of shame washed over Logan.

"Don't you dare cry in front of me!" Patton shouted, shoving Logan to the ground, "Get out of my sight, stupid child! I don't want to see you until teatime."

Logan was trembling to the point where he struggled to stand. Tears blurred his vision, and the world spun as he searched for the door, his eyes eventually lazily locking onto it. Carefully, he crawled out of Patton's room.

"Yes, Father," he whispered before quietly closing the door.

---

"I just know they'll like me!" Roman boasted, "Everyone likes me, after all!"

He was trying on all the dresses that Remy had given him, trying to figure out which was the most suitable for tea. He wanted to wear the red one, but it was oh so scandelous, and gorgeous. Roman decided he would save that one for the most special of occasions.

After sorting through quite a few options, asking Virgil for feedback, and promptly ignoring said feedback, the count eventually settled on a pretty white dress with a fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders. It fell onto his fragile frame beautifully, emphasizing his feminine silhouette. The cream white of the fabric contrasted his dark skin, making him very interesting to look at.

"You look lovely," Virgil complimented gently, "Be careful at teatime, alright? I've heard rumors about that Prince Bolkonsky."

"Which one?" Roman asked curiously, adjusting the fur cloak.

"The old one," Virgil supplied, "Patton. I've heard he's...old and batty."

"If everyone believed every rumor told to them, the world would go to ruin," Roman said, securing the button on the cloak, "There! Much better!"

"I'm just saying you ought to be careful," Virgil said, "Those words aren't usually spoken for no reason. You...aren't exactly the epitome of orthodox."

He gestured to Roman's dress and nice shoes. Many who saw Roman didn't see anything wrong with his appearance, but some saw a boy as feminine as Roman as a disgrace to society. Though someone as delicate and uneducated as Roman wouldn't do much good in a war or political position anyway. Roman didn't care about such opinions when it was nothing but predisposed prejudice. The world was changing, and Roman loved every second of it. He wanted to ride the wheel of life as far as it would take him.

"I'll be fine, Virgil," Roman reassured, "You worry too much! I'll use all my charms, and then, the prince won't be able to do anything but love me! You've seen me at parties, I'm the life of them!"

"I suppose you're right," Virgil sighed.

"Yes! I am right!" Roman said victoriously, "They're the family of my dear Emile, after all. How could they be anything but as wonderful as he? I'm quite excited to meet them."

"How does this look?" Virgil asked, gesturing to his ensemble as he looked in the mirror, "I'm...not sure how I feel about it."

It was one of the purple outfits Remy had provided, a simple black suit with purple pockets and a black cloak with purple trimmings on the sides. It made Virgil look very pale, almost white as the moon, but Roman thought it was becoming, in a mysterious way. The purple complimented Virgil's stormy silver eyes very well, and Roman thought he looked like somebody out of one of his romantic novels.

"You look beautiful!" Roman cried out, "A vision in violet, oh, I fear you'll outshine me!"

"Such isn't possible, my dear," Virgil reassured with a small smile, "Thank you."

Roman extended his arm, offering it to Virgil.

"Shall we go?" he asked.

Virgil chuckled softly and linked arms with his cousin.

"We shall," he decided, carefully walking Roman towards the carriage that was waiting for them outside.

Chapter Text

From the first glance, Logan did not like Roman.

The way the count moved as if he floated, like he knew he was better than everyone else and sought to show it off to anybody who would look in his direction, the way he smiled so brightly and entered without taking off his fine white slippers; it irritated Logan. If nothing else, it was rather obvious that Roman was a person of vanity.

"Virgil! Come in! The prince won't bite!" Roman chided playfully as he looked behind him.

"Good afternoon," Virgil said cordially to Logan.

Virgil was very different from Roman, and not just physically. The way he scanned Logan, a meticulousness in his gaze; as if he was searching for something. It almost reminded Logan of Emile. Someone with a vivacious inner life.

"May I take your coats?" Logan offered as he gently shut the door behind him, "Which are...quite formal, by the way."

Roman glowed as he gracefully passed Logan his white fur cloak, but Virgil caught the dryness in Logan's tone, and his eyes widened.

"I beg your pardon, are you implying that we overdressed for the occasion?" Virgil asked, exchanging a nervous glance with an apparently unbothered Roman.

"No, no, you certainly did not," Logan reassured, though his gaze was only fixed upon Virgil. "I only intended to compliment your taste."

While Virgil's ensemble was clearly one of good fortune, it wasn't nearly as flashy and grotesquely attention-seeking as the count's bright white gown. Patton would not like it, most certainly. He had always taught Logan that cross-dressing was among the lowest of sins. Logan wasn't sure whether or not he agreed, but after living alone with Patton for three years, he eventually deemed his own opinion unimportant and irrelevant.

"Thank you, dear Prince Logan," Roman beamed, "I believe that one with fashion taste is a paradigm for high society."

"I believe the same for modesty," Logan mumbled under his breath, appalled.

How could somebody speak so highly of themselves with no shame? And with such frivolous stupidity at that. Logan at least had the wisdom to know that in the grand scheme of life, the fabrics on one's back was among the least essential details to sacrifice one's attention to. The only reason Logan could see for it would be to act polite at a tea party, which was unfortunately the situation that had been thrust upon him in this moment.

Virgil shifted awkwardly as he stood, causing one of the floorboards to creak noisily. His face flushed with embarrassment, and Logan almost felt guilty for looking at Virgil in such a vulnerable state of humiliation.

"I apologize deeply," Logan said, bowing his head out of habit, "Please, sit down. I'll pour your tea."

Virgil pulled out Roman's chair and waited for him to sit down before sitting down beside him. Roman looked around, taking in all the old, dusty, outdated decorations that surrounded the three aristocrats. As he did, Logan went about pouring the tea, only speaking to ask if either of his guests took cream or sugar. Virgil took neither. Roman took both.

"Goodness, for a prince, he's certainly as hospitable as a servant," Roman whispered, to Virgil, "He also seems awfully...I don't know how to describe it...awfully..."

Roman examined Logan's outfit, face, hair. He wore a sophisticated black waistcoat, paired with an overcoat of midnight blue that brought out the violet in his eyes, practically the only part of his body that was not entirely monochrome. If one stared indifferently enough, Logan might have blended in with the wall behind him.

"Is something the matter?" Logan asked, just as Roman realized what word he was looking for.

"Plain!" Roman cried out in surprise, just as the word came to mind. He rushed to correct himself. "I mean...uh...plain tea is simply abysmal to sip upon. I much prefer cream and sugar added to mine, don't you agree, Prince Logan?"

Logan narrowed his eyes, causing Roman to tense up slightly. It was clear that the count was likely going to be acting like a grown child for the entirety of the event, and the prospect made Logan's skin crawl. He heavily disliked immaturity.

"I happen to disagree, dear Count," Logan said, forcing a polite smile. He was quite good at that. "I believe that unembellished tea is the most...mature and refined of drinks."

Roman bit back a gasp. How on Earth was his dear fiance's sibling such a cold, unfeeling puritan? He expected the prince to be warmer and kinder, more extravagant, and, well, princelike. Logan reminded him more of a dull varlet who had been perhaps locked in the library for too long.

The count looked at Virgil, as if silently requesting assistance. He didn't understand how anybody could speak to him this way. Roman knew he was lovely company, a sweet boy with an entertaining sassiness to him. He was the one who made people laugh when he joked, or cry when he sang. He was not the one who earned snide remarks behind shifty, chilling smiles.

But Roman was alright. He didn't see anything wrong with fighting fire with fire.

"What a gorgeous house you have!" he said, plastering on the fakest smile he could muster, "How on Earth did you decide on the various shades of gray you've thrown about?"

Logan raised an eyebrow, but showed no other signs of being affected by Roman's words. He was certainly much better at maintaining a neutral expression.

"We simply decided upon what would make the most logical sense," Logan replied easily, "Apologies if that concept is unfamiliar to you."

Virgil let out a nervous chuckle despite his best attempts to stifle it.

"Perhaps, dear Roman, we should pay attention to the spread that the prince had so kindly prepared for us-"

"Logan! Why didn't you tell me you had company?"

A loud, booming voice with a terrible gratingness that caused all three young men to wince cut through the forced formality like a knife. When Roman turned his head, he was met with an ancient elder with a matted wig, wearing nothing but his underclothes. The count blushed scarlet at the sight, thoroughly disturbed.

Logan, the same prince who had addressed Roman with such sharp wit and unforgiving seriousness had shrunken extraordinarily as he bowed his head towards Old Prince Patton Bolkonsky.

"I apologize, Father," Logan said, "I only intended to get them out of the cold. Please sit down."

"You don't tell me what to do in my own household, boy," Patton muttered gruffly as he sat down beside Roman.

The sour odor of aged alcohol and a lack of cleanliness caused Roman to barely resist gagging. He wasn't used to such a scent in any capacity, especially one as strong as being seated beside the old prince. He forced a strained smile as Patton inspected him, even grabbing his arm to look at it, rotating it slightly and pulling up Roman's sleeve.

"You aren't Russian," Patton mumbled, gazing at Roman's arm, "You must be a songster. Or a Gypsy."

Roman yanked his arm back, shocked by the prince's assumptions.

"I am too Russian!" he proclaimed, "Why, my mother has the same shade as I do!"

"Well, then she must be a Gypsy," Patton decided with a shrug, "You mustn't raise your voice, child. It's very unbecoming."

"I'm not a child," Roman said with gritted teeth, trying to keep his voice steady.

He wasn't afraid of Patton. Roman wasn't afraid of anybody.

But Patton's manner was absolutely unexpected. Just when Roman thought that princes couldn't get any ruder than Logan. How on Earth was Emile related to this wretched family?

"Tell me, child," Patton said, causing Roman to audibly huff, "Who is the accessory sitting next to you? One can hope he has at least a little more class, seeing as he is actually quite Russian."

"My name is Virgil, Prince Bolkonsky," Virgil said, his voice barely above a whisper, "Count Roman is just as Russian as I."

"Speak up, boy!" Patton snapped, causing Virgil to jump. "How do you expect me to hear you when you mumble so? It's embarrassing!"

Roman was on the brink of tears as he shrunk. He wasn't used to being spoken to in such a way, and he wasn't used to hearing Virgil be addressed this way either. It was so terrible, his hands shook.

Virgil was too spooked to repeat himself, and after a few seconds of baited breath, Patton waved Virgil off, deeming him a lost cause as he took a long sip out of his own cup. It was evident to all that it wasn't tea that Patton was drinking.

"Father, Count Roman is Emile's fiance," Logan reminded gently, "They're going to be married when Emile returns from fighting in the war."

"I worry for him so," Roman said, eager to be talking about something he was familiar with: Emile. "He hasn't written in so very long."

"Please rest assured, dear count," Logan said, almost sounding warm for a moment. "Our Emile is rather equipt. And he is fighting for our country. What an honorable thing to do."

"Besides, he certainly doesn't have time to be writing letters like a giggling schoolboy while he fights on the front lines," Patton spat harshly, "What did Emile see in you anyway? Neither of you are very much to look at."

Roman's vision flashed, and for a moment, he saw nothing but a dangerous rouge. Says the man wearing nothing but his underthings! Says the man with a wig that looked like abandoned sheepskin!

Despite his anger, Roman kept his obscene retorts to himself. He knew better than to speak unkindly to his elder. He took a deep breath before looking back into Patton's eyes as he kept reminding himself. He wasn't afraid of this man, this fumbling old man who could hardly stand up straight.

"I refuse to dress for children," Patton continued, "Especially little Gypsy children pretending to be royalty."

"I would kindly request you stop calling me a Gypsy," Roman said, hating how his voice wobbled, "That's incorrect. I'm not-"

"And I refuse to dress for lifeless accessories who have no more charm or wit than a handbag," Patton interrupted, now setting his sights on Virgil.

"Father, please, Virgil is sparkling company," Logan attempted to defend.

Virgil looked up at that, quite surprised.

"Really?" he asked Logan quietly, unable to resist asking.

Logan smiled and carefully bowed his head in affirmation.

"Absolutely," he reassured before turning back to Patton, "Perhaps we should discuss more civil matters. We purchased tickets for the opera tomorrow night, but the kindly couple who we planned on treating have a prior engagement they failed to tell us about. Would you two like to attend in their stead?"

Roman looked up, slightly intrigued. He had been to many an opera back home, but never one in Moscow. He wondered how glorious and fine it would be, in a city filled with art, music, and culture. As much as he despised the dreadful company of the Bolkonskys, he had no idea when he would again have this opportunity when tickets were so notoriously difficult to secure.

"That would be lovely, we accept graciously," Roman responded stiffly, "Thank you very much for the invitation."

Abruptly, Patton stood up. Once again, he looked Roman up and down. In a moment of unbridled rage, Roman stood up as well, staring Patton down as well as he could when he himself was shaken to the bone. The silent standoff lasted for too many agonizing seconds before Patton stormed off, huffing to himself.

Among the mumbles, Roman only deciphered one word.

"Gypsy."

Immediately, Roman placed his teacup onto its companion plate and pushed his chair in, reaching for his cloak on the tall coathanger, tears blurring his vision and stinging his eyes.

"Count Roman, please, Roman, wait," Logan said, rushing over to the young, distraught count.

"I must take my leave, I apologize," Roman said, turning away so Logan wouldn't see him cry.

"Please wait!" Logan exclaimed.

Roman stopped in his tracks. That was the loudest he had heard Logan speak.

"I just...I want you to know that...uh..."

Now that Logan had Roman's undivided attention, he was shyer with his expression.

"I want you to know that...I'm pleased that Emile has fallen in love," Logan said, "Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon," Virgil said, "We will see you tomorrow evening?"

"Yes, yes," Logan said, appearing quite relieved that those plans were still in place, "Yes. Tomorrow evening at seven, we'll have a carriage pick you up from the Dmitryev manor."

The second Roman and Virgil were back outside, the cold wind nipping at Roman's nose, the young count let the tears escape.

"What a terrible man! What terrible people!" he cried out, "My dear Emile....one can only imagine what he has been subjected to his entire life, being forced to live with such an insufferable family!"

"My dear, my dear cousin, we're only just outside," Virgil warned softly, "They could still hear you."

"Let them hear!" Roman sobbed hysterically, "Let those awful people hear me cry like a child, it's what they wanted! It's what they wanted out of me that entire time!"

"Come now," Virgil mumbled, gently holding Roman's shoulders to guide him, "Let's go home."

Chapter Text

Roman had been agonizing in his room for the past two hours as he laboriously struggled with one of life's most cumbersome questions.

What on Earth was he going to wear tonight?

The white dress he had worn to tea was obviously not an option. Roman couldn't possibly wear the same thing twice in a row, it was practically criminal. Especially for a self-proclaimed fashionista such as himself.

None of the dresses and suits he owned had the special quality that Roman was looking for. He wanted to wear a dress, but even if he wanted to wear a suit, they were all entirely too boring for such an exciting occasion.

Most of his dresses were white, because they fell so beautifully upon his unique, regarded by some as exotic, skin tone, but white didn't feel right for this event. Roman wasn't quite sure why. Perhaps it was because he wore white so often, and tonight, he wanted to try something new.

That was when his eyes fell upon the red dress. Significantly less fabric than the other dresses he had recieved, a striking color that reminded him of roses and everything romantic.

Why hadn't Roman thought of it before? It was perfect.

"Roman, are you about ready to go?" Virgil asked, anxiously shuffling into the room. "The carriage will be here in an hour."

"Just about!" Roman said, "Can you please tighten my corset?"

This would be Roman's first time wearing a corset. They were a new trend in Russia, rather scandelous and different. A tiny waist used to be the exact opposite of Russia's beauty standard. But nowadays, it was becoming all the rage, and Roman was never one to fall behind.

"Sure, how tight do you want it?" Virgil asked, going to stand behind Roman.

"As tight as you can make it," Roman reassured, "That's how one is supposed to wear them, after all."

"Are you certain?" Virgil asked worriedly, "I don't want to crush your ribs."

"That's so dramatic," Roman reassured, "You won't be crushing my ribs, just pull as hard as you can."

Virgil sighed and did as he was told. Roman tensed up, not expecting so much pressure. It was uncomfortable, but when he looked in the mirror and saw his silhouette, a smile formed on his face. So worth it. His waist was delightfully tiny, and the corset made him look even more feminine. What a thrill!

"Now, you lace it up," Roman said, "Just loop it through the small holes."

Virgil laced up the corset rather expertly, and tied it off. He still wore a grim expression.

"You look beautiful, I assure you, but please tell me if it's too tight," he said, "I don't have any experience with these things."

Roman had no trouble believing that. Virgil's fashion taste was essentially nonexistent, and his only consistent themes were modesty and an overwhelming blackness. Roman would never understand why Virgil always dressed as if he was going to attend a somber funeral.

"I promise, Virgil, I will!" Roman laughed lightly, "You act so elderly sometimes."

Virgil went a little red.

"Really?" he asked, "Is it unbecoming?"

"No, no!" Roman promised, "No, you're wonderful. I only like to tease you."

"Oh." Virgil nodded curtly. "Understood. Remy's made supper, let's eat quickly before we have to leave, alright?"

As Roman followed Virgil down the stairs and to the dining room, the delightful smell of stewed meat and roasted vegetables wafted through the house. On such a bitter winter evening, the idea of a hot meal was very appealing.

"Oh, Roman, that dress!" Remy exclaimed, utterly delighted, "You're a beauty! Come and eat, you skinny boy, that corset shouldn't be coming in as much as it is!"

Roman laughed, expecting such a comment from Remy at this point as he sat down and started to eat. He wondered what dinners at the Bolkonsky household were like. Did Patton and Logan eat beef stew and roasted vegetables just as he did?

No matter what it was they consumed, Patton likely washed it down with a bottle of wine. The thought repulsed Roman.

Virgil seemed to be thinking similarly to him, as he turned and spoke to Roman.

"Tell me, what do you think of Prince Logan?" he said softly.

"Prince Logan?" Roman repeated, wrinkling his nose as he spoke, "You know exactly what I think of him. Cruel, and colder than...colder than Russian winter at midnight! Why on Earth would you even ask?"

Virgil hesitated before continuing.

"Don't you feel...even the slightest bit for the boy?" he mumbled, "He's lived alone with such a terrible man for years. He seemed so timid when Prince Patton walked into the room. If he's such a menace during teatime, one can only wonder how he acts behind closed doors."

"Oh, Virgil, you're much more good than I," Roman said fondly, "I think if Prince Logan really disliked it so much, he would simply leave. It's not like Prince Patton has much time left to resent him."

Virgil gasped to hide a laugh.

"Roman, is the red in that dress bringing out the devil in you?" he gasped, "It's shameful to speak of elders that way."

"After the way he spoke to me yesterday at tea?" Roman asked, "It's horribly unfair to hold me to impossible standards, Virgil. It would be even more shameful to back down after such a humiliating experience."

"My dear cousin," Virgil chuckled, "You have such a fire inside you. Don't let anyone put it out, it's really quite lovely. And amusing."

"How patronizing of you to say!" Roman said in mock-astonishment, "I am not amusing in any capacity!"

"I simply must disagree," Virgil said, that teasing smirk still present on his face, "You are rather adorable."

"I am not adorable!" Roman whined, his face turning red. "You are a menace!"

"You wound me with your accusations while I do nothing but observe the truth," Virgil said as Remy came into the dining room.

"Both of you quit your carrying on," he said with fond gruffness, "The carriage is waiting outside, so you'd best hurry along."

"Already?" Roman asked, quickly standing up to kiss Remy on the cheek, "Thank you! Goodbye!"

Roman picked up his skirts so they wouldn't touch the snow as he rushed out the door and into the carriage, laughing breathlessly as Virgil jumped in after him and shut the door.

"Ooh, it's so cold! I should have brought a cloak!" Roman realized, "The snow touched my shoulders, it's unbearable!"

"Here, let me help," Virgil said, dusting the meitling snow off Roman's arms and shoulders with his gloved hands, "Do you feel any warmer?"

"Yes, thank you," Roman said graciously, "How do you suppose one handles wearing dresses like these every day? I certainly couldn't."

"That's a question you'll have to ask Remus Bezukhov," Virgil joked quietly, causing Roman to tilt his head.

"Who is that?" Roman asked, "I only know of Thomas Bezukhov, he's a family friend. I haven't seen him in years, though."

"Oh, Remus is Thomas' husband," Virgil supplied, "Many regard him as the 'queen of society'. But he can be rather dangerous when left to his own devices, I have heard."

"You and your rumors," Roman teased, "You need them like you need air to breathe. It's a wonder you don't ever engage in the gossip yourself."

"What do I have to talk about?" Virgil responded, "I don't have much else to do at a party besides listen. I'm dreadful at games, and I cannot initiate conversation as seamlessly as you do. There's not much to do besides listen to what everyone else has to say. And you would be surprised how accurate rumors can be, they don't spread for no reason."

Roman shrugged at that, and opened his mouth to speak again, but when he looked out the window, the thought he had been wanting to express immediately escaped him. The opera house was the most gorgeous building he had ever seen, the pinnacle of modern design. The windows were tall and elegant, and the bricks were a cream white that glowed as it was lit by the nearby streetlamps.

It was a rather grown up thing, going out at night. No matter how often he did it, Roman wasn't sure he would ever get used to it. As he stepped out of the carriage, the bitter chill hit him right away, and he wrapped his arms around his chest.

"Prince Bolkonsky said he would wait in the lobby for us with his father," Virgil said, "We mustn't keep them waiting."

Roman huffed and rolled his eyes. As excited as he was for the opera, seeing Patton again was definitely not something he was looking forward to nearly as much. But he forced a smile, practicing it a few times before starting to follow Virgil in. He was a good pretender when he wanted to be, and Roman wasn't planning on losing face in front of Moscow's most sophisticated aristocrats.

The inside of the opera house was even more glorious and luxorious than the outside. The marble floors shined in such a way that Roman could see his reflection in it, and the lighting was a delicious aesthetic, dim and mysterious. Candlelight and a small chandelier was all that lit up the large lobby, and Roman nearly missed Logan and Patton in the crowd, who were standing off to the side in order to stay out of the way.

"There they are!" Patton grumbled, "What took them so long?"

"The crowd is only growing larger, father," Logan murmured to him, "Perhaps there was traffic."

"Well, can we finally be seated, then?" Patton asked, and Logan responded with a polite nod before acknowledging Roman and Virgil with the same gesture.

"Good evening, Prince Bolkonsky," Roman said radiantly, "How are you this evening?"

"I'm well," Logan responded, "I look forward to the opera."

"So do I," Roman replied immediately, relieved that he and Logan were finding some common ground.

"We've never been to an opera in Moscow," Virgl added quietly.

"It's quite lovely," Logan said, smiling shyly towards Virgil, "I think you'll enjoy it. It's rather contemporary, but it takes little more than some simple analysis to understand what's happening. I'm certain you'll have no trouble, Virgil. Is it...alright if I call you Virgil?"

"Yes," Virgil said quickly, "I mean- uh- of course. What else would you call me? Unlike my cousin, I have no title."

"Then you shall call me Logan," Logan decided, "Please, I insist. It's odd to not reciprocate a first-name basis. Come, let's get to our seats before the crowd gets any bigger."

The seating arrangement worked out fairly well, for the most part. As well as it could have. Patton sat on the end of the row, with Logan next to him, then Virgil beside him, and then Roman next to Virgil. Roman rather liked that he didn't need to sit near Logan or Patton, and Logan didn't even mind sitting next to his father because Virgil was sitting right beside him as well.

As people shuffled into their seats, there was a lot of chatter and reunion. The opera was a place where friends met up, and where friends met other friends unexpectedly, and where new aquaintences were made. Roman observed as he watched beautiful women in gorgeous dresses not dissimilar to his own as they had sparkling conversation, and he itched to get up and join in all the fun. Especially as he gazed around and noticed people looking at him and looking away to speak to a friend.

Roman was being talked about. He just knew it.

The idea delighted him, being popular enough to be gossiped about. Roman had been fairly well-known his entire life, as the Rostov name was well-renowned throughout Russia as a whole, with his father being a famous military strategist. Roman had been quite the beloved child; even when he was too young to partake in festivities such as balls, he still showed up from time to time to sing or entertain the guests who attended, in his nightgown and prepared to sleep once his performances were finished.

But now, he was a young man in society, engaged to yet another popular name amongst upper-class Russia. They were a fine couple, anybody could see it, but their collective fame was what had gosspiers call them the greatest match in Russia. It was quite an honor, one that Roman would accept proudly.

As Roman looked around, trying to detect hints of what was being said about him (he was certain that everything that was being said was lovely and wonderfully true), his eyes fell upon who was only the most scandalous-looking man he had ever seen in his entire life.

He was of average height and build, but that was the only average thing about him. His dress was even more deprived of fabric than Roman's own, and instead of red, it was a lacy, seductive black that trailed up his body provocatively. His eyes were a shocking bright green, and they shone with an all-knowing amusement, and a mischeviousness that was made even more obvious by his fox-like grin.

His neck was fully exposed, and all that adorned it were strings upon strings of cream colored pearls that fell upon his skin and shone against the lights beautifully. Roman brought a hand to his own neck, wishing with a dumbfounding intensity that he had pearls such as those upon his own neck.

The man standing before him, who was now making eye contact with him, who was now walking towards him, was so powerful. Roman didn't think he had ever met someone who carried so much space with him wherever he went.

"So beautiful," the man said as he came even closer to Roman, carefully touching his cheek and running his hand down Roman's face, tracing his jawline gently. "What a charming little thing you are."

"Thank you," Roman whispered, his face going scarlet, "If I may ask your name?"

"My name is Remus," the man supplied, "Remus Bezukhov."

"Oh!" Roman exclaimed, "You're Thomas' husband?"

"Um...yes, I am?" Remus said, appearing confused, "I wasn't aware that my husband had relations with you."

"He's a very close family friend," Roman said fondly, "I haven't seen him since he announced his engagement, but how I miss him! Did he come with you to see the opera?"

Remus laughed at Roman's obliviousness.

"Heavens no," he said, "Thomas hasn't joined me for an outing for years. All he does nowadays is drink and waste away in his study."

Roman frowned at that. "Really? Why?" he asked softly, "Has he been struck with a tragedy?"

"Besides being married to me?" Remus joked, "Nothing that I'm aware of. You know how men can be sometimes. Stubborn and impertinent."

"We're both men, aren't we?" Roman asked.

"Yes, but at least we're self-aware," Remus whispered, coming up close to Roman and smirking, as if the two of them were sharing secrets that all others were forbidden from discovering.

"Next time, please do try and bring Thomas," Roman begged, "How I would love to see him again. I was only a child when we last interacted, and I want him to see how much I've grown."

"I'll try my best," Remus promised ambiguously, "Now go sit down, my dear, the opera is about to start."

Roman smiled pleasantly and nodded, obediently trotting back to his seat. Now, the house was almost completely full, and when the lights dimmed, the whispering hushed as the large audience sought to fully immerse themselves in what they would be experiencing.

The curtain rose, and Roman stared with baited breath at the scene before him.

Sounds, colors, music, voices, it all washed over him as he watched, in a stupor. It was absolutely astonishing, but oh so confusing. Roman tried and tried, leaning forward in his seat so he could perhaps better hear the words that were being spoken and sung, but nothing made sense. He didn't understand what was being said, the singing wasn't in Russian. He didn't understand why the actors were moving, why they were dressed the way they were; he didn't understand anything.

Roman looked around, and everybody else was engrossed in the opera. Unable to tear their eyes away. How did they all know what was happening? Or were they all just wonderful at pretending?

Around halfway through the first act, a harsh beam of light came from the other side of the opera house, causing heads to turn. It was very rude to enter an opera in the middle of an act, especially in such an eye-catching manner.

Roman was one of many who turned to see who had obtained the audacity to enter in such a way.

The man walked with an impossibly weightless swagger, which would have looked absolutely ridiculous had he not been so handsome.

Everything about him was breathtaking. His tall, well-built stature. Roman wondered if he ever had trouble lifting anything. His posture, which was so confident and assured. But more than anything else, his eyes; one was a deep dark brown, while the other was a striking golden color. When he made eye contact with Roman, his heart raced, and he felt his face glow.

"Mais charmante," he addressed, nodding once towards Roman before taking a seat in the front row.

Roman's breath caught in his throat, and he was unable to respond. He shook his head and looked back to the opera, trying to dismiss the moment that had just occured. Even when every time he looked in the direction of the mysterious man, direct eye contact was made. Those eyes seeing Roman, and seeing through him. It felt like Roman couldn't hide anything from this man, like he was completely exposed.

The opera had gotten even more confusing. It all felt so impossible to enjoy, even as Roman tried again and again to just watch, even at a surface level without understanding. But his mind wandered back to the mysterious man, over and over it did, and he was relieved when the lights came up for intermission.

There was a box near his row, and it was completely empty. As everyone else got up to stretch their legs or get another glass of wine, Roman snuck off and entered the box. He needed some time alone.

It was gloriously empty, such a lovely respite from all that he had endured. The walls slightly muffled the sound, and Roman took a seat in one of the chairs, just taking a moment to breathe.

Not even a minute had passed before Roman felt a rush of cold air hit his bare arms once again, and he heard footsteps entering the box and approaching him.

Chapter Text

"My goodness...I haven't seen you since the Naryshkins' ball. What a pleasure to find you again, here and now."

Roman's mouth once again went dry as he did nothing but stare at the man standing before him. What a smile he had. So charming and good-natured. He was almost handsomer up close.

"I'm so sorry," Roman managed to exclaim as he remembered once again how to move his mouth, "I'm afraid I don't remember...your name."

In all honesty, he didn't know who this man was at all. He had gone to many balls as a child, and he had met so many people that it would be impossible to expect him to remember everybody. Besides, this man appeared to be close to his own age. So it was likely that he was also a child who had only appeared for parts of the balls. The entire Naryshkins' ball was somewhat of a blur in Roman's head anyway. Their balls were always rather dull, and his family didn't usually stay for long.

"There's no need for formality around me, dear," the man whispered, quietly shutting the door to the box before sitting beside Roman, "My name is Janus. Janus Kuragin."

The Kuragins were a well-known name throughout Russia, so of course, Roman knew of them. But he wasn't familiar with a Kuragin named Janus. And the man was so good-looking, Roman figured he certainly would have recognized him had he seen him before tonight.

"Good evening, Janus Kuragin," Roman said politely, too shy to look him in the eye.

Janus gently placed a gloved hand underneath Roman's chin, lifting his head and tilting it so they were face to face. His smirk lit Roman's heart on fire. He had never felt so close to somebody in his entire life. Not even when he was with Emile or Virgil. He'd never felt so hot. Why was he so hot? The theater was freezing, and he wasn't wearing very much in terms of cloth protection.

"Now, now, my dear, what did I tell you about formality?" Janus chided playfully, "You are to call me Janus, I insist to the utmost degree."

"Are you certain?" Roman asked, "I barely know you."

Janus laughed at that. "I think you'll find that we know each other rather well. You know I'm handsome."

Roman blushed bright red.

"And I know you're beautiful," Janus continued, "What else must anybody know about anybody? How do you like this opera? It's rather avant-garde, don't you think?"

"I don't understand it," Roman admitted, though he had no idea what had possessed him to utter such a shameful secret, "It isn't in Russian."

"You don't speak French?" Janus asked, rather surprised.

"I know a little," Roman said, rather ashamed, "But I had so much trouble with it that my tutors gave up. They insisted I would never be able to learn it, or much of anything. I'm quite terrible at academics."

"Oh, my flower," Janus purred softly, tucking a piece of hair behind Roman's ear, "Who needs academics when you possess such a lovely face? How wicked of them to say that you're incapable, they're the ones who are incapable of teaching."

"Did French come easy for you?" Roman asked, rather curious about Janus' backstory.

"It did," Janus shrugged, "If you'd like, perhaps I could teach you a few more words. Tell you about what's happening in the opera. If I may let you in on a little secret? Half the people in this audience are just as confused as you; they are just excellent liars who know how to cover it up."

"How do you know?" Roman wondered aloud, and Janus was more than happy to answer.

"I occasionally like to play the part of the trickster," Janus replied, "I'll talk after the show with some acquaintances, and ask them about events that never occured on the stage that night, and see what they say. You would be surprised by how often I would get an agreement on my fake sentiment, or even a fabricated disagreement. It's quite eye-opening, though disappointing. How I appreciate somebody as honest as you are. It's very refreshing."

"Why, thank you," Roman giggled softly, "Many view my honesty as an obstacle. Especially the Bolkonskys."

He muttered that last part under his breath, but Janus had still caught it. The amused glint in his eyes made that rather obvious.

"Bolkonsky?" Janus challenged quietly, "Isn't Emile Bolkonsky your betrothed?"

Roman's face went bright red. How wicked of Janus! To know he was engaged and still pursue him like this. Was Janus even pursuing him? Or was Roman seeing things that weren't there?

"Yes," Roman said, "He is. And he loves me very much."

"Really?" Janus asked, lightly chuckling, "When was the last time he told you that, darling?"

"In...in the last letter he sent to me," Roman responded, avoiding eye contact.

"What was the date on the letter?" Janus continued, leaning closer to Roman, who drew back.

"I don't see why that's anything you should concern yourself with," Roman said immediately, "I- I don't understand."

"I only ask out of interest, dear Rostov," Janus reassured, "And I wanted to ask you another question."

His eyes drifted downwards from Roman's face. Roman stayed completely still as Janus' eyes lingered upon his neck and shoulders, taking in the slender curves with voracious eyes. It made Roman feel smaller, as if he was prey. But he found himself enjoying the feeling of being looked upon like a piece of artwork.

"Would you like to attend a costume party that my friend is hosting?" Janus asked, "My dear friend Dolokhov is hosting it, and he throws the most splendid parties. I assure you that you would be the prettiest there. The loveliest little rose amongst a sea of flowers."

Janus' gaze stayed fixed on Roman, though his eyes wandered all over Roman's tense body. Roman's heart was pounding, and his blood was rushing into his ears so loudly that he feared that Janus could hear how frightened he was.

"I..."

"Please come, please do come," Janus begged, grabbing Roman's hand and holding it with a surprising tenderness. "It would be wonderful to have you there, and you would be the prettiest, I promise. None of my other friends could come even close to you."

"I don't..."

"At least take this."

Janus pulled a small golden brooch from his lapel and attached it to the breast of Roman's dress. It glinted in the faint light of the box, and it had the shape of a snake with a black gem for an eye. It was absolutely gorgeous. And Roman was certain that it was expensive.

"Take it. You can give it back to me at the costume party. And if you can't make that, my sister is throwing a ball in a few days. You could come to that."

"I suppose I can ask my godfather," Roman said slowly and hesitantly, though his face grew warm. It felt good, he realized, to be admired so by somebody so handsome.

"No, no, you mustn't ask," Janus said, shaking his head firmly, "You're an adult, aren't you? You can decide for yourself."

Roman bristled as he remembered all the times that Old Prince Bolkonsky referred to him as a child. It simply wasn't true! Roman was old enough to make his own choices. And this didn't have to affect his relationship with Emile. Surely, Emile wouldn't mind if Roman went to an innocent party.

Did he just expect Roman to sit all alone, waiting for him?

"Alright...I'll see what I can do," Roman said mysteriously, not quite wanting to make a promise he couldn't keep, but wanting to make it clear that he wanted to attend. "Thank you, by the way, for the invitation."

"Any time, mon cher, anything for you," Janus said.

And slowly, very slowly, Janus moved closer to Roman. Closer, and closer, until their legs were touching. And then, their hands. And then, their shoulders. Roman felt as if his entire body was on fire. But he didn't stop Janus. He was frozen still, and he didn't know if it was out of fear, or out of wonder. What on Earth would Janus do next? Roman wasn't used to being handled in such a way.

It had been so long since he had been held.

Roman found himself closing his eyes, and resting his head upon Janus' chest. He smelled like a crisp, fresh snowfall. As Roman curled against Janus practically subconsciously, he wondered how his scent carried from Janus' perspective.

It didn't take long for Janus to answer his silent question.

"My lovely rose smells as sweet as one," he flirted, "I wonder if you taste the same way."

As Janus brought his mouth to Roman's shoulder, Roman's face grew unbearably hot, and he tore away from Janus in a swift movement.

"Do you like it here in Moscow?" Roman asked, quickly and cautiously as he hugged his shoulders.

Roman felt a strange fear ripple through his body. Janus' eyes were dark and handsome, but were alight with danger. Roman wasn't sure what Janus might do to him. They were all alone. If Janus chose to do something cruel, there would be nothing Roman could do to stop him.

But to Roman's surprise, Janus relaxed. He leaned back where he was sitting, and for a moment, his gaze didn't look so hungry.

"I didn't enjoy it at first," he shrugged casually, smiling at Roman and flashing his strangely sharp canines, "But...seeing all these dresses and skirts changed my mind. What makes a city is its women. Or...in some cases, its lovely young men."

Roman's throat went dry, and he found himself unable to look away from Janus' eyes. Those frightening eyes seemed to hold Roman hostage. But it felt so warm. Roman almost didn't want to tear away, even if he was able to.

"Are you afraid?" Janus asked after a long silence. His voice was gentle and kind. "There's no reason to be afraid. I'm here for you. I'm here to serve you."

"You're so close to me," Roman whispered, unable to get much sound out, "I don't know what to do."

"Hmm..." Janus mused softly, before making a sly suggestion. "Come closer?"

And slowly, Roman found himself complying. As if he was under a wicked, magic spell. But as his arm rested against Janus' once again, Roman felt the fear grow dull and his heart slow.

He wanted to stay here all night.