The Grey Scale ((Grey Weston and Kaspar, Closed))

[Grey Weston]

<Grey Weston> He’d held the door because it was some vestige of his upbringing. His mother had instilled the importance of being polite in him at an early age - in those rare moments of sobriety. He’d gone on dates rarely in the past year. Jameson hadn’t been the type. His romantic inclinations were muted, usually a slow burn that began after the pair shared a greasy takeout meal, tangled in each other’s limbs. Or when he drew a bath, the tub choked with sweetly scented bubbles that hissed faintly as they broke against their skin. Or the nights where he’d return home in that ridiculous catsuit of his, heaving for breath he didn’t need, clutching some stolen good to his bony chest, flushed with success, grinning his shiteating grin that always coaxed a laugh. DVDs, usually. Jameson was a movie junkie in the third degree. Once, relics. Relics he’d pressed on Grey with a muted sort of urgency, that familiar wild panic in his gaze. That subtle fear that something with sharp teeth would rip him out of his arms and leave him lost without his grounding touch. But they hadn’t gone anywhere.

At most, they’d share the same fever dream in a nest of blankets, lost for days on end in some drug haze. Before Jameson there was Bryce. Bryce who had been teeth-rottingly sweet and whom he’d almost been afraid to touch, because he tried so hard - so hard - to be both the perfect son and someone with the same angular definitions as Grey. Half-feral. They’d gone on dates, despite the fact that the places they went to were catered to the college crowd. Cheap. Tasteless. He supposed he’d been happy. For a while.

So this was...new. Uncharted territory. And, as with all things he was eager to try, he’d decided to leap head first. He didn’t protest when Kaspar’s fingers plucked at his coat, easing it off of his frame, leaving him to shrug out of it like a second skin. He shot him a look when his lips brushed the shell of his ear - a tiny shiver working its way down his spine - but managed a fond snort. “Not forever. Just five minutes.” But he didn’t stop him. Didn’t really do much more besides offer a smile, settling into his chair a second later. The piano music wasn’t pre-recorded. It hovered in a corner, sleek under the dim lighting, the darker timbre of a cello slowly tuning joining the soft play of keys.

<Kaspar>

Hel laughed, brushing a quick kiss to the man’s jaw before busying himself with the task of ensuring he was settled into his seat comfortably. “Ok, five minutes of your wrath I can most certainly handle. Worth it.” He moved around the table, undoing the buttons of his jacket but removing it, taking his seat and settling in. The waitress was back before he had time to think, to speak to the man across the table to fluffy about them with unfolding napkins and offering menus. As she laid it across his lap she give a shy, coy smile, moving over to do the same at Grey’s giving him a quick once over too. She was clearly enjoying serving them a little too much, and with gusto read to them the chef’s recommendations, reciting his name with reverence. “If I can do anything to make your evening more pleasant, please let me know.” She struggled it seemed not to wink after that statement, Kaspar giving a smirk and nod of dismissal at her. “A moment, please, and then we will be in need of drinks.” The girl grinned and slipped away at his request, giving them a second to themselves.

“Well, someone is loving her job.” He murmured, opening the menu to browse idly, “So you don’t drink at all?” He queried, remembering the man turning down alcohol and accepting a soft drink instead. “Sorry if that is a rude question, but better than me committing the faux pas of ordering you wine or the like.” It wouldn’t be unlike him to order for someone, to make the decision if the other seemed too nervous, too uncertain but Grey was different. The man wouldn’t like it, he figured, or respond well to having his choices taken away. Not in a way that was so obvious, at the very least, for as much as they tried to pretend they had a choice in this it seemed they were both as helpless as babes in the woods. He kept himself busy toying with the menu as he waited for response, mulling it over.

The music was soothing, just enough to be notable but without interrupting conversation in clients wished to speak. He glanced around the room, eyeing briefly the other couples, families, businessmen who sat to dinner. Most were quiet, many leaning across the table to lock hands and whisper or simply enjoying their food. A few men clearly celebrating something were laughing at a table in the corner, clinking their glasses of champagne, the flutes looking so dainty in their meaty hands. Rich and tasteless, that much was clear, but happy. Some merger gone well he guessed, or maybe one of them got a new mistress. Who cared. He averted his gaze, watching the cellist taking up to join the pianist, the soft whining sounds of the instrument creating a somber tune that made him want to sway, to move around the floor in sweeping steps, to dance a waltz with partner in arms.

[Kaspar]

<Grey Weston>

The laughter was enough to make him smile in reply, a pleasant warmth settling into his chest at the brief brush of his lips. He’d never bought into the cliche of someone being happy enough to produce a glow, but with Kaspar, he came close. “I’d hope so,” he commented mildly. “If not…” He was forced to let the sentence trail, temporarily going mute with the arrival of the waitress. He tolerated her fussing with a polite smile. It was only once her hands briefly smoothed the crisp white linen across his lap that he continued, voice dropped to a hoarse stage whisper. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Cruel, maybe, but she hardly seemed perturbed; as bubbly as ever as she recited the house specials by rote, her tone no doubt intended to come across as clipped and somber, with a mild flourish, but instead as bright with emotion as champagne bubbles. He watched her retreat over his shoulder with bemusement. “You know, you’re going to break the poor girl’s heart if you don’t slip her your number,” he commented. He shrugged at Kaspar’s comment, one brow rising archily. “Can you blame her?” He countered. He took a moment to unfold the menu, briefly reading over the options. “Not typically.” He said, the words slightly hesitant. “I can make an exception, though.” It was true enough that he didn’t keep alcohol in his home, and for the most part avoided it in public as well, but there’d been...incidents. Some recently.

“Why? Did you see something?” He asked idly, not yet glancing up from the selections offered. When he did glance up, his gaze followed Kaspar’s, a low chuckle escaping him. “At least you aren’t eyefucking someone across the room,” he said mildly. “I’m not sure lusting after a cello is much better.” He was teasing; that much was clear from the soft tone of his voice. “If you want to order a drink, don’t hold back on my account,” he finished.

<Kaspar>

“Blame her?” He gave Grey a quick once over, shaking his head. “Not at all, look at who she gets to serve.” His smile was sheepish, head ducking to look up at the man through his lashes, “Give her my number? If i’m being honest I think i’ve got enough women giving me grief to last a lifetime. Perhaps i’ll give yours instead, handsome.” He snickered, gesturing to his menu, “As for drinking… No, I did not see anything specific, it just made me think. Normally i’d be bit of a **** and order wine for us, or champagne if it was preferred but instead of getting a bottle you won’t drink if it doesn’t bother you i’ll just get a glass or ride of nice whiskey. I wouldn’t ask you to do so on my account, that would be beyond rude and pointless. I want you to enjoy your night, in your own way.” Kas admitted, once more letting himself stare dreamily in the direction the music was drifting from, watching the hands move across across keys, dragging a bow back and forth across strings. Beautiful, and once more he itched to dance, or perhaps to join the man at the piano letting his fingers fly across them.

Kaspar didn’t look at him, he simply smirked, keeping his gaze in the direction of the musicians who played for the room. “Mmm, and how do you know i’m not lusting after the cellist? Or the pianist? Hell, let’s be honest, it’s the piano that really has my heart.” He teased cheerily enough, dropping a wink to Grey as he finally looked back. “Do you play anything? You have an artist’s fingers, that much is obvious from your painting, but have you ever tried instruments? I have a piano in my studio, I had it brought from my grandfather’s estate once he passed. When we’d come to Canada to visit with them we would play together, he was a talented man but very modest about it unlike his son, and grandchildren too I suppose.” Kaspar shrugged, fingertips fidgeting with the edge of the menu.

“You know, you’ve neglected to tell me where you are from. I suppose i’ve not given you my precise history either, but you probably know more by now about me then I do about you. Hell, I don’t even know if you have a middle name.” He laughed, the sound would have been one of nerves coming from anyone else. “So, Grey, am I allowed to know you better, man?”

<Grey Weston>

The response earned him a blank look for a split second. Comprehension dawned a moment later, and he was so fascinated by the uncharacteristically sheepish expression that the other man wore, he didn’t notice the faint warmth that crept along his cheeks, lending him the briefest hint of color. He was suddenly in desperate need of a glass of water; something to ease the sensation of something caught in his throat. “Tease,” he scoffed. “And don’t. That would just be cruel.” He studied him for a moment, considering. Weighing. “It doesn’t bother me.” It was true enough. He wasn’t bothered by others imbibing; it just wasn’t a vice he was overly invested in, himself. “I am,” he said abruptly, startled by how true it was. He was enjoying himself; enjoying Kaspar’s company. He was relaxed, despite being slightly out of his depth.

“Because everyone knows classical musicians only know missionary,” he countered, his tone dry. He folded the menu shut a second later; the binding was heavy; a combination of leather, carefully embossed with silver, and the stiff backing of reinforced spines, a tassel serving as a page marker. He’d made his decision. The question was answered with a regretful shake of his head. “No,” he said. “I wanted to, when I was a kid. But there was barely enough for rent at the end of the month, so…” He shrugged helplessly. He wasn’t bitter. “That’s probably where you got it from,” he said abruptly. “Your love of it, anyway.” It was true enough. Passion was easy. Love was trickier. His next question was met with a blink. He had a point. A twinge of guilt registered briefly in his expression. “I grew up in Victoria,” he said at last. “My mom was a single mother. And an alcoholic.” He said. There was no malice in the confession; only a flat honesty. “Anyway. I got a scholarship. Then I moved here. I had a year left of school. And then…” A low, exhaled chuckle escaped him, followed by a noncommittal shrug.

[Grey Weston]

<Kaspar>

He grinned broadly at Grey’s admitting he was having a good time, he seemed almost surprised by it but genuine and that pleased Kaspar more than he’d thought it might, of course he may have ruined it with his line of questioning. They were still enjoying each other though, he was laughing at Grey’s remark about classical musicians preferred position, he piped up cheerily. “Actually in my experience the quieter, more straight laced ones can get a little wild in the sheets. I knew this girl, she was a cellist, well actually I suppose she still is… Anyway, she had some special kinks. I didn’t experience this personally, just had the misfortune of hearing about it one night when she was trying to get in my pants. It was interesting, and she actually ended up going with a friend of mine. I think they got married? He too had some interesting bedtime requirements.” OK, so it wasn’t the best topic for the table but oh well.

Kas listened intently as Grey spoke, nodding where appropriate to show he was interested, he wanted to hear more. At the acknowledgement that Kaspar had probably gained his love of certain arts from his grandfather made his lips curl in a wistful smile, it was true. They’d spent hours when they’d go to visit, Kaspar and Klaus sitting either side of their grandfather, him instructing them and the three laughing as they tried to play together. He simply nodded his agreement, not wanting to interrupt by speaking. He waited patiently, watching Grey’s expression and noting the guilt, feeling almost bad for having put it there. An alcoholic, it made sense if he avoided drinking for this reason, it was why Kaspar’s least favourite was was drugs. He’d picked up on his father’s other habits, alas, but the sour moments when they man slipped into a stupid haze because some pretty thing gave him something at a party scarred him enough to avoid it. His mother’s reaction to it was always heartbreaking.

“And then?” He repeated, turning the statement into a question, not meaning to press but it came it before he’d really thought it through. The server returned, grinning at them, “Drinks, gentleman?” She queried, Kaspar requesting his preferred red and letting Grey make his own choice. Once she departed again, Kaspar watching her retreat he resumed their conversation. “You still haven’t told me if you have a middle name.” His brow raised, offering the man a reprieve, however brief. “Smart cookie. What did you study?” It was likely the obvious, but you never knew, people could surprise you.

<Grey Weston>

It was just as well he didn’t have a glass in front of him. He’d likely have choked, following Kaspar’s wryly matter-of-fact response. Instead, he shot him a look that managed to simultaneously be scathing and amused. He couldn’t even bring himself to be overly shocked - or at the very least skeptical - that the pair had settled onto the topic of bedroom kinks. A bit prematurely, but then, Kaspar seemed to have a knack for drawing things out of a person, however inappropriate. Brittle, ugly things that twisted in the light. It should have given him pause. It was dangerous, letting someone under his skin so completely. But instead, he responded with a coy half-smile, head ducking. “I’m sure they made each other very happy,” he replied mildly.


Grey paused. His mother was a heavy topic; far too heavy of a discussion for a date night, when things should have been light. He didn’t resent her; not really. She’d loved him fiercely; there was a hunger to it. A desperation. She’d clung to him because, in her eyes, he’d been the only pure, untarnished thing in her world. Her sole accomplishment. She alternated between loving him and hating him for it, most days. Usually those cold evenings when he’d come home to find her curled up in the stained bottom of their tub, her eyes bloodshot, hair stringy with her own vomit. He’d spend hours patiently bathing her, never saying a word. It always fell to him to scrape her off the floor.

He’d loved her, in his quiet way. In the way that all captive things love whatever suffocates them. “And then,” he repeated with a snort, “Jameson happened.” He hadn’t looked back. Discarded everything and everyone without realizing. The pair of them had been dying stars; attracted by the light they gave. Jameson had been incandescent. The problem was that Grey hadn’t noticed the third degree burns his touch left behind until he peeled away, sucking away what light remained and leaving him to his personal heat death. He gave his head a wry shake at the question. “Film, originally. I had a minor in musical theory.” He shrugged. “I keep telling myself I’ll finish up my degree. One of these days.”

[Kaspar]

<Kaspar>

Jameson, of course it had been. Kaspar let out a deep, slow sigh, the sound hissing at the end because it left through clenched teeth. His jaw was set, tensed, only relaxing once Grey had finished speaking. The temptation to find the man in question and smack him upside the head was strong, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d done it either, though usually it was followed with kisses and heat. This time, it would be a slow seething thing, a colder distance rather than normal heated passion. No, not this time. He let it go, realising he was balling the napkin in his fist beneath the table, trying to loosen his grip. “Was it really him? Or did it start before?” He queried, hoping it was the latter, that it wasn’t all on Jamie that Grey slid into the existence he had, void of the education he’d clearly sought. Perhaps it had been an escape? The scholarship a reason to leave, to get away.

Kaspar had taken his excuse, his reason to stay in Harper Rock rather than going back to Germany, when he easily could’ve convinced his wife to move.

“Film, huh? Not overly shocking, but musical theory? Really?” He was relaxing further into the conversation, “You should finish, well, you don’t have to if you don’t want but why not? I was sort of rushed through school, both Klaus and I were already in university at seventeen.” He acted as if it were forced on him, and in a way it was. They had skipped ahead a year, it might have been two had they not moved and ended up playing catch up. He was relieved for it, in a way; skipping one year made you smart, skipping two began to turn you into a freak. “He studied biochemistry, like the genius nerd he is, and I of course studied Business focusing on music management, ended up specialising in music industry management and music publishing and recording. Hence, Morningstar Inc.” He stretched a little in his seat, letting one long leg extending so the toe of shoe could nudge gently against the leg of Grey’s chair, ankle brushing to his. “And our sister dropped out at sixteen and started touring her band, thanks to Vater’s money and contacts.” His eyes rolled heavily when he spoke of Kit’s decision.

The drinks were delivered, the server pausing to ask them whether or not they were ready to order, Kaspar giving Grey as look as if to ask if he were, for he would likely just point vaguely to something. He didn’t require food, but he still enjoyed the taste and action of eating, it made him feel more human.

<Grey Weston>

“No?” He asked. Most tended to express bemusement over the former of the pair. Either that, or they tended to assume he’d been an art major. They always seemed a bit at a loss when they learned that his interest in painting was more incidental than planned. “Why not?” He asked, curious as to what it was Kaspar thought he’d picked up that made film a natural choice. He shrugged a second later. “I was interested in composing for a while,” he explained. He’d quickly learned he was better suited to art, to the use of his hands. Not because he wasn’t spoken, but because it trumped his love of words. It was easier to show a person what he meant than attempt to explain. He studied him for a moment, surprised and mildly taken aback by the earnest opinion. By the encouragement. “Maybe.”

At the mention that both Kaspar and his brother had entered college a year ahead of schedule, he shot him a curious look. “Business?” He repeated, tone wry. “Isn’t that supposed to be too...I dunno. Soul crushing for your type? Faustian.” He countered. By ‘your type’ he referred mainly to musicians. The gentle brush of his ankle against his own - a light pressure - made him smile, his foot briefly shifting to tuck lightly against his. “Nothing wrong with being a dropout,” he said. “College isn’t the answer for everyone.” He cut himself off as the waitress returned, pleased that the long awaited glass of water had arrived, sides slick with condensation, a twist of lemon floating at the center. “I’ll take the Kobe tenderloin,” he told her. It had seemed appealing; a cut of marbled tenderloin, cooked in ‘Broken Road’ chardonnay. The side consisted of a small summer citrus salad and russet potatoes in a garlic cream sauce. Normally, the price tag would have made him cringe, but he’d been doing well for himself, lately. Between commission work as well as his more...illicit activities, he was more financially stable than he’d been in years.
Her gaze swung to Kaspar expectantly, pen poised over pad. Grey waited until he’d placed his order before gently plucking at her sleeve, coaxing her close, murmuring briefly in her ear before releasing her with a self-satisfied smile. “To answer your question: I don’t have a middle name.” He commented, once she’d started away. “I used to be a huge comic book nerd when I was a kid. There was this shop I went by on the way to school. Mom wasn’t too happy about it. School called a few times, assuming I was sick. Or lost. Nah. Just late.” He snorted quietly. “I, uh, skip to the end of books with dogs in them first to make sure they don’t die. I know,” he finished abruptly. “Don’t say a goddamn word.” The smile he shot was lopsided.

[Grey Weston]

<Kaspar>

His smirk told Grey a reply was coming, but he waited until the girl had taken the man’s order, when it came to his own he sighed, pointing dismissively towards something similar to what Grey had chosen, though picking the salmon. He gave their server a gracious smile as he handed over his menu, glancing at his partner for the evening. “I’ll strongly consider dessert, I do like a bit of sweet on the side.” He damn near purred, looking like a cat who’d gotten into the cream until Grey whispered to the woman. He could’ve tried to listen, but that would have been rude so he acted distracted until she was gone and he was being addressed once more. “Comics, huh? I like the “X-Men” especially gen-x era, if i’m being honest, but I also like “Constantine” a lot, oh and “The Wicked and The Divine”. God level powers, mutants and angelic/demonic influences. Gee, no great shocker. I’ve picked up others here and there too, but it didn’t take up a huge amount of my time. I read more music magazines than comics, and more classic literature than either. Klaus had more of a collection, it’s rather why I picked them up at all, I was more likely to be reading poetry. What a nerd, mm?”

He poked his tongue out before taking them back to their previous topics of conversation. “Animals being injured or dying always hurt me more than humans in books and films, I suppose that says something about me.” He scoffed, but his own smile was present even as he did so. “Are you saying i’m not the business type, Grey? You see I figured I didn’t need to study to be a performer, attending an arts school wouldn’t have much real world impact for me considering my parentage, as vain as that is. I had natural talent, yes, but I worked my *** off to make sure I was GOOD and didn’t rest on my laurels. Studying business, especially music management, meant that I had the knowledge to turn that talent into something. I am also quite good at spotting it in others, so this has given me the opportunity to choose to represent other artists or as i’ve done create a company which incorporates these elements. It seemed the smarter option for me, and I found it quite interesting. I’d seen it in action from a distance, it’s cool to be both sides of it.” He shrugged, brow raised as he lifted his glass in salute, “Prost.” He spoke, making sure he held Grey’s gaze before taking a sip of the wine.

“Does it surprise you that i’m not some dumb, pretty musician? Figured you’d know by now my brain doesn’t always reside in my pants.” He quipped, nudging Grey’s foot with his own again. “Nothing wrong with being a dropout, no, that’s not what bothers me about what she did. Kit literally never tried it on her own, never wanted to put in the work. She pouted at Papa until he gave her what she wanted, she used his contacts and his money to kickstart her career. Yes, it worked and yes, in a way it could be considered a smart play but it’s lazy. It’s just so damn typical, and petty. The girl also has a brain, she just chooses to waste it away on drugs and booze, dragging her butt into day spas to look revived enough to play shows where she manages to survive for three hours acting the pop princess before slinking off to some dark corner to recover and do it all again. She is demanding, she expects to be treated like a princess hasn’t even put in the hard yards. She’s a right ****, basically.” He grumbled quietly, lowering his glass before he gripped the stem of it too hard, not wanting to crack it.

“Sorry…” He cleared his throat, his calm smile slipping back into place. “Siblings can be a pain in the ***, but it probably wasn’t easy for her being the eldest especially when her younger brothers were twins that constantly took each other’s side. We all found a way to cope with our upbringing, hers was to embrace it and become the female millennial version of our Papa.” Kas shrugged, “So composing, huh? You really should come by the studio and have a play sometime, I think you’d like it there, Grey.”

<Grey Weston>

“Perv,” he accused. The comment held no malice, though; that much was clear from the hint of a startled grin, briefly hidden as their waitress collected their menus. “We’ll see. Maybe there’s a to-go menu.” The words were matter-of-fact. All the same, there was a degree of tension; a mild flirtation that hinted at things to come. He was silent for a handful of seconds; content to watch Kaspar, expression softening. He was quickly losing track of the conversation; gaze fixed on his eyes, his own soft. Unfocused. It had the same hazy quality typically reserved for those times where he was lost in thought, a stray thought suddenly sparking a soft, sweet smile; inhibitions removed. “Isn’t that the one with the pop icons who are dead in two years?” He interrupted abruptly. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them; he suddenly perked up. He’d flipped through the first few issues idly, drawn by the art, and later the storyline. It seemed...uncharacteristic. Heavier than the previous titles.

“I was into the McFarlane arcs of Spiderman,” he confessed a second later. “I liked some of the earlier X-men.” He leveled a look on Kaspar then, eyes narrowing slightly in a way that promised mischief. “Surprised Lucifer didn’t make it on your list,” he said airily. He sobered a split second later. “Poetry?” He asked, chin settling onto the knuckles of his curled fingers a second later, elbow resting on the edge of the table. It was horrifying etiquette, admittedly, but he was beyond the point of caring. Swept up in Kaspar’s words. It was easier to navigate the conversation to safer harbors; to avoid addressing the uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he hadn’t heard the question about Jameson; he had.

The problem was that he didn’t want to talk about Jameson. “Maybe. But a hot one,” he teased. The sudden flash of Kaspar’s tongue earned the man exaggerated bedroom eyes for a moment. “I’m offended. Who do you think you’re going to use that one, hm?” He gave his head a slight shake. “I’m not a psychologist. The most I can offer is that it entitles you to cop a feel at some point.” He paused a second later, bringing his glass of water to his lips. The water was pleasantly cold, the slice of lemon providing a suggestion of crisp flavor. Not so much as to be overpowering, but enough to mask the otherwise bland nature of his drink. “I wasn’t saying that at all. I think it’s bold of you to risk it. Musicians don’t seem to have a very high opinion of the industry.”

A low, startled laugh escaped him at Kaspar’s comment. He didn’t take offense. Having gone to a university that prided itself on “the arts,” as it were, he could affirm that it wasn’t the most practical of environments. If anything, it set the expectation that the collective student body would find themselves unceremoniously, violently dropkicked by life. He arched a brow a second later as Kaspar offered his wine glass in a toast. “To?” He lifted his glass all the same, reaching across the table to gently click the side of his glass against the rim of Kaspar’s own. He’d scarcely settled the glass onto the table when the mood abruptly shifted. He frowned, saying nothing.

It was only once Kaspar paused for breath that he reached for his hand, fingertips gently working over the back of his tense knuckles, massaging lightly. “Hey.” He started, carefully gripping his wrist, easing it away from the fragile stem of the wine glass that threatened to shatter. He lifted his hand to his lips a second later, pressing a kiss against those knuckles. “Hey,” he said again. The word was phonetically correct, but it sounded closer, somehow, too ‘easy.’ He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. It’s okay.” Though he didn’t say it, his gaze silently communicated Are you? “I’m not…” he started, before relenting. “Sure. I’d like that.”

[Kaspar]

<Kaspar>

Shook his head, a wistful sort of smile curving his lips as he allowed Grey to take his hand, to tug it up to lay a kiss against the knuckles. It made him let free a sort of sighing sound, resigned. “It’s fine, i’m fine. Just frustrates me, hoped she’d be better than him you see.” He laughed then, abruptly, giving Grey’s hand a squeeze before withdrawing his own. “Lucifer, you mentioned? Yes, I have that too, i’m not going to list off all the comics I might have come across and enjoyed, because that would mean admitting I rather like Aquaman and am a big fan of Green Arrow and Black Canary. I mean Neil Gaiman, how could I not? And is it any surprise that Oliver speaks to me? Poor Dinah.” He smirked, brow raised, “Since I'm admitting to being a bit of a geek, I also own a bunch of Anne Rice graphic novels, and the corresponding books. Yes, considering what happened to me it's somewhat ironic I dig Lestat.” He tsked at himself, once more capturing the wine glass and putting it to his lips.

“Mm, yes, come by the studio. Maybe you can paint while I write, tell me when it's rubbish or perhaps I can teach you to play piano if you'd like to try?” Kaspar was a surprisingly patient teacher, having a child helped with this of course but he’d always had time to impart knowledge. He liked the way people looked to you for advice when you were showing them new, the praise of it. He had an image in his head he couldn't shake then, Grey’s head in his lap, the pair of them reading together in the quiet afternoon. He could see them spending the day together, laughing as they tried to play piano together, nudging and pushing each other off the narrow seat. “I'd really like you to see it.” His voice was soft, catching slightly and he tried to play it off with a cheeky grin, acting as if it had some other sordid meaning. Not this time.

This was supposed to be their first date and yet Kaspar was sitting there half daydreaming about curling up with the man like a couple, just silently enjoying each other’s company. What the hell? Grey had wormed his way closer than Kas had suspected he could, and it was wreaking havoc on the man’s mind, he found it very easy to open up to him, it was not that he struggled really in general but that he wanted to. He didn’t want barriers between them, while he was enjoying the journey of finding things out he liked the idea of this guy really knowing him.

He cleared his throat, the man had retorted in a seemingly surprised manner at his interest in poetry, and Kaspar decided to drive the point home with one of his favourites. “I choose to love you in silence, for in silence I find no rejection. I choose to love you in loneliness, for in loneliness no one owns you but me…” He hitched shoulders in a shrug, “Or if you prefer, “Absence, hear thou protestation, against thy strength, distance and length. Do what thou canst for alteration, for hearts of truest mettle. Absence doth join and and time doth settle.” He stared into his wine glass as he spoke, twisting it to watch it create legs against the fine glass. “I can recite in English, or German, I tend to try and read as close to the intended translation and meaning. You can lose things, otherwise.” He lifted his gaze to Grey’s, studying it a moment. “I don’t write poems as much anymore, occasionally but mostly lyrics which have a different flow.” What he didn’t say was that he’d written some about the man he sat across from.

<Grey Weston>

He eyed him carefully for a handful of seconds more. Despite his attempts at reassurances, he seemed far less at ease than he pretended. He didn’t argue the point; not then. It was a topic that deserved further exploration later, when the two of them were alone. When he was free to mold his lips to every crack and flaw and other subtle hurts the man bore; to quiet the worst of his doubts. “I think,” he began quietly, “she might be more disappointed than you realize. No one wants to turn into their parents.” He let him take back his hand without complaint, offering a wry, fond smile in response to the laughter. “Aquaman,” he repeated, mildly skeptical. “That might be a step below Superman fans on the virgin scale,” he pointed out primly.

He was content, for a brief second, to step onto the heel of his boot, slowly easing his foot up and out. The tip of his toe brushed along the curve of Kaspar’s foot. It was innocent, at first; a soft tracing that became singularly filthy as he lifted the cuff of the man’s pants with a firm nudge of his toe, foot sliding against his skin in a slow, unhurried manner. He had the courtesy to keep things mostly tame for the moment; not settling it between his thighs and pressuring. His expression gave nothing away; still rapt on Kaspar, stupidly smitten. “We can paint,” he said abruptly, startled by the soft sincerity in his own offer. He attempted to sound casual; the truth was, however, that he was particular about who was allowed in on his creative process. He could be insufferably touchy; uncomfortable.

But Kaspar sounded so hopeful. It was hard to say no. That itself had already gotten them well in over their heads in recent weeks. “I always have time for you.” The words escaped in a rush. He hadn’t meant to be quite so frank, and he winced slightly; they were honest, but oddly exposing. “I like --” he started. You, mostly. He mercifully bit back the sappy sentiment. “Horror,” he finished. It was another tidbit to feed to Kaspar; a bone of contention between himself and Jameson, if only because the other man had once eyed him with growing concern. It had been a long winter. Most of the books he’d consumed had ‘dead’ something or other in the title. In hindsight, maybe he’d had a point. “ I actually --” he started, suddenly falling silent in the face of the recitation. There was a cadence to his voice that was soothing. The sort of thing that made you want to curl up against him, settle into his lap. Let the world drift by, lulled by the rumble of those words low in his chest. He sounded like home. He didn’t interrupt; waiting until he’d finished. “I’d like to read them,” he said, tone quiet. Almost shy. “If that’s okay.” There was no pressure. No rush. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, trailing off as their meals arrived at last, set before them with a flourish. “I kinda want to get a bigger place. You want to help me look?”

[Grey Weston]

<Kaspar>

His eyes had rolled at the comment about virginity and it’s correlation to comic books, though ended up conceding to his point with a nod. Why argue the point? It was playful, and he’d thrown enough seedy facts out for one evening to spark amusement. His brow raised as a sneaky foot crept over his shoe, finding it’s way beneath the cuff of his pants, nudging until skin was found beneath seeking toes. Cheeky. It could’ve been worse, he figured, and while he was tempted to reply in kind he behaved himself, merely leaning into it and allowing the touch. “Trouble.” He murmured, the word low and rumbling, had more force been put behind it it might have been a growl.

Kaspar found himself leaning forward slightly intent on the man before him, considering his words, watching his mouth form them with a fond smile, though the expression shifted as he mentioned moving. They were interrupted before he could respond to anything, perhaps a saving grace as plates were placed before them, the server fussing about until Kaspar nodded at her to offer dismissal. “Thank you, we are fine.” He hadn’t fully looked at her, a mere glance before focusing his gaze on Grey. “Maybe one day, I have mountains of little black books containing them in my closet.” He laughed, a strange thing to say but it was true. He did in fact have containers full of the tiny books, he always had one in his pocket along with a small pen. As if to prove the point he reached inside his jacket pocket, tugging it out and placing it atop the table, just out of reach. Leather, printed in gold across the cover “Devil In The Details”. Most were similar, bought in bulk, the words rarely changing.


“What kind of horror? Modern? I actually don’t mind a bit myself, like the old penny dreadful’s, though some were in fact dreadful. I admit to enjoying some Oscar Wilde, i’m a sucker for Dorian Gray and who hasn’t read Frankenstein, and a certain book written by your dog’s namesake? I have read a lot of what are considered to be classics, but some of my favourites are more modern like “House of Leaves” by Mark.Z.Danielewski, or “Haunted” by Chuck Palahniuk. I also have a soft spot Daphne Du Maurier, especially “Rebecca”, there is something about her writing that clings to you.” He paused, grinning wolfishly, “If you simply spend all day reading Stephen King I might have to leave you.” It was of course a joke, but a wink confirmed it.
He picked up his cutlery, casually cutting into the hot food, deciding on what he wanted to taste of it. “You want my help looking for places? As in, you would like my opinion or just the company? I can provide either, Grey, schedule is still pretty shocking but it’s easing up over the next few weeks Just let me know when you’d like me and i’ll work around it, though, you may end up with a baby in tow.” He admitted, a slight frown creasing his brow, “Would that be a problem for you?” Kaspar lifted his fork, taking a small bite of the salmon, trying to focus on the flavours not on the question he’d just put between them. Of course Grey had taken his having a child well, but that was a very different thing to actually interacting with one. He’d introduced his son to Indigo finally, he was beginning to think he needn’t keep the parts of his life so separate. He didn’t really want to.

<Grey Weston>

The slow travel of his toes paused at the hint of that growl. It wasn’t quite a freeze; that would imply there was at least a small measure of guilt involved. The look on his face was appallingly smug for a handful of seconds. He eased back after a moment all the same, foot casually resettling onto the floor. It was a mistake, that hushed rumble of sound. It confirmed what he’d already suspected; that getting under Kaspar’s skin to wind him up was painfully easy. It might have been a little unfair, but it was mostly innocent. An affectionate way of keeping him grounded, skimming the surface of weightier topics.

He was half-tempted to aim a soft kick against Kaspar’s shin at the abrupt dismissal of their server. Instead, his gaze shifted to her briefly, and he flashed a quick, grateful smile, eyes communicating a mute apology. Not that they weren’t both preoccupied. “Sounds dirty,” he commented, picking up his silverware and carefully cutting into a corner of the meat. It was just soft enough that the knife sank into it as quickly as if it had been room temperature butter, steam curling from its faintly pink interior. He shot the tiny notebook a brief glance all the same, his gaze drifting up to Kaspar with a faint quirk of his lips.

He didn’t answer immediately; choosing to spear the piece of meat he’d cut free, bringing it to his lips and quickly focusing on savoring the taste. There was a vague citrus undertone; crisp and sweet that burst from it, leaving him distracted. His eyes threatened to glaze as Kaspar launched into a series of rapid questions. They were even enough; not spoken too quickly. Nothing to suggest that he was nervous, or trying to put him off. Still, his gaze narrowed slightly, that familiar urge to kick him mounting.

He swallowed, allowing himself a second to chase it with a sip of water. Buying time. Composing himself. “Please. You couldn’t leave if you tried,” he said smoothly. He didn’t add that it was because he probably wouldn’t let him, if it came down to it. “Any kind,” he said, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation. “I started with Lovecraft, actually. Thank you very much. Some King. Christopher Buehlman’s pretty good. Ditto for Ajvide Lindqvist.” He paused then, considering. “Your opinion,” he clarified cautiously, moving onto a potato.

“Not at all. You should bring him.” He hesitated for a split second. “Maybe we can find a place with a spare room,” he suggested, words cautious. “You could use it for a study. Or a nursery.” He took a steadying breath. “But yeah, I’m...I kind of want a place that’s just...ours.”

[Kaspar]

<Kaspar>

Watched him with thinly veiled amusement as he could sense the faint annoyance, it was still a mild enough thing between them that Kaspar wasn’t afraid it would flair into genuine anger any time soon as it had previously. They seemed beyond it now, that touchy behaviour, finding it too easy to frighten the other back a step or make them feel on edge. When had the shift occurred? Was it the night after the party? Before that, perhaps, the night after the costume shop? The easier moments had started sometime after, the nights he’d dropped by since then were calm, mostly quiet. Kas playing with Stoker before Grey had enough and wanted his attention for himself, dragging him off to the couch and asking about his day before they grew silent, curling up and just enjoying time. Yeah, it was different now. This may be their first actual date night, but it certainly had moved long beyond that.

His smile was genuine at Grey having his turn to spout off authors he enjoys, Kaspar enjoying listening to the man talk, they way he said “actually” like a gentle correction, a playfully reprimand. Kas wrinkled his nose, teasing and pretending to judge the man’s taste though in reality he was quite content with it. They were acceptable to be on a bookshelf, strange that he had thought of how they’d be arranged beside his preferred titles. There were too many, he had books all over the place, including on a large bookshelf in the place he shared with the Wife and son. “My opinion? Then it’s yours.” He responded, watching Grey digging into his food before returning to his own. He’d cut a few smaller bites, layering different flavours meticulously onto his fork to create the perfect bite before bringing it to his lips. It was as he was chewing that Grey decided to speak again, to continue.

Kaspar stopped mid-chew, gaze lifting at his statement. A spare bedroom? A study? A nursery? A place that was just… He swallowed, giving a slight cough and reaching for his wine, smiling apologetically as he washed down the mouthful. “Pardon?” He breathed, considering the words as he once more took a sip of wine, buying himself a moment to mull it over. The blonde let his elbows rest lightly against the edge of the table, fingertips steepling together, the points of them nudging against his mouth in a tapping motion as he thought it over. “Grey,” His voice was amiable, he was worried this might be taken the wrong way, “Don’t you want a place that is just YOURS? It does not mean that I won’t spend plenty of time there, because I like to spend time with you, but I want you to be able to meet your own needs. I’d like to…” Kas groaned, slumping back in his chair, pressing his hand up to rub over his face, following the motion to carry back through golden locks capturing them in a gentle grip where fingers rested.

There was conflict in him, a voice screaming warning, too soon and too much while another beckoned him to give in, to follow his… What? Heart? No, that was tacky, cliche. It wasn’t that he didn’t want it, but it was more that he felt Grey needed something else. “I’d like to see discuss this further at home, well, once we are alone I mean. I’m not sure if you’re aware of your worth, of your value. I never want you to feel that you need someone else to represent that. I want you to be able to be by yourself, to revel in your own company and not fear it.” His sigh felt cumbersome in his lungs, like he had to release it before it dragged him under the table. “Love, we can look, and we can talk. We have time, ja?” It was a conversation that could be considered vexing, and he didn’t want it to go the wrong way here and now, he wanted them to really have time to discuss it together and consider the implications.

“Grey,” He spoke the man’s name with affection, a soft smile, and a nudge of foot under the table. “I want to be with you, alright? And I also don’t want to fall into the same patterns and mistakes of my past, or yours. We can do this our way, ours. We’ll figure out what that means later, for now, let’s eat and be merry so I can whisk you away somewhere I don’t have to be so considerate, hmm?” His tongue flicked out between his lips, moistening them before the lower was sucked between his teeth, giving Grey a vaguely beseeching look. He wasn’t asking him to let it go, just to bench it. “You should meet him soon, my son. You know Sigrid is only going to continue giving me grief for not having brought you around, don’t you? Maybe if you do she’ll get off my case. Daumen drücken!” He crossed his fingers as he spoke, showing his meaning.

[Grey Weston]

<Grey Weston> The sharp sound that Kaspar made - the gentle intake of air, followed by the violent spasm of long dead lungs, their function half-forgotten, beyond moments where they suddenly remembered, and reflexively struggled to draw in air - made him flinch. It wasn’t the sound. It was the fact that for a second - just a second - he’d forgotten that there was no immediate danger of Kaspar choking. The concern in his gaze was evident; emphasised by the soft frown that caused a mild crease between his eyes. It was mild, but present. He waited, taking a second to slowly tug another piece of beef from the twines of his fork, catching the corner of it between his teeth.

He gave up the act a handful of seconds later, allowing his fork to clatter against the rim of his plate with a low sigh. “What do you think my apartment is, exactly?” He countered. There wasn’t any aggression in the question; nothing accusatory. The question itself was quiet. Patient. At one time, the apartment had belonged to himself and Jameson jointly. But he’d spent the past several months carefully scrubbing traces of the man from the walls. From the sheets. From the kitchen. Peeling him away like the skin that sloughed away during a sunburn; slow to heal. Translucent and delicate. A day at a time. It made it easier. He hadn’t gotten rid of anything that had been Jameson’s; just packed them away. The few things he’d left behind. Most of it wasn’t visible. Maybe that’s what made it harder.

Harder, because he’d been the sort of person who invaded every aspect of someone’s life. A lot of what he’d left behind had been...recreational. He’d half expected, for the first few weeks, for him to come back for the cloudy, half-torn bags of thin, glass-like shards of crystals. Snarling. Bristling. Unfair of him, maybe. Things had generally been okay between them, in that respect. Never spiraled into outright violence when there wasn’t enough to go around. It didn’t mean the rage wasn’t there, just under the surface of Jamie’s skin. It doesn’t mean he hadn’t flinched from it, as if attempting to avoid eye contact with some brooding, ugly thing out of the corner of his eye. Mostly, what hovered unspoken between the pair was that in many ways, he was still in love with Max. That he couldn’t let him go. That two years had been spent competing with a ghost. By the end of it, he had doubts that there was much love left between them at all. He’d avoided it, if only because his own had seemed enough. Felt like enough to keep the both of them warm. Addicts saw what they wanted to.

He didn’t interrupt. He watched him carefully for a handful of seconds. It wasn’t wary. Not exactly. Instead he watched for some sort of signal that he’d pushed too hard, crossed some invisible line. Bracing himself for the inevitable rejection. When it wasn’t forthcoming, the tense look faded into something else. Unreadable. Almost tired. But definitely relieved. “Mmm. Okay.” And that was that. It had gotten easier. A week ago - less - he might have struggled to bite his tongue and avoid accusing Kaspar of sidestepping. Avoidance.

He didn’t respond to the comment where his ‘value’ was concerned. In the grand scheme of things, it was true that his self-worth was well. Worth pennies. Just not for the reasons Kaspar assumed. It wasn’t co-dependence. He could handle being alone; in many respects preferred it. “Oh, right. I was supposed to...do that.” It was a bit sheepish. “Let me know what works best for you. It’s not like my schedule’s exactly in high demand these days.”

<Kaspar>

“I’m sorry.” He spoke it clearly enough, fork poking idly at his plate, watching the salmon crumble beneath the gentle pressure of it. “I don’t know what i’m talking about, and should not presume. We’ll talk about it later.” He had expected resistance, argument but when he had received none he felt he had to apologise. It was wrong to decide for Grey that he was clinging, that he was trying to fill a void. Kaspar had to admit that his companion was seeming far more pulled together over the past few weeks, his acknowledgement that Jamie was gone seemed to be real acceptance. At first he was concerned he was replacing him in a way, providing something that Grey needed in his absence but that quickly disappeared. At the the end of the day, Kaspar and Jamie weren’t very much alike at all, if Grey was looking for a Jay replacement then Kas wasn’t it.

After pushing the food around in silence for a few moments he made a valiant effort to in fact eat some, taking a few bites and chewing in a rather bored way. It didn’t taste as good anymore, not that it wasn’t delicious but more so that he had lost his interest in eating entirely. Kaspar tried to continue his meal, because that was the thing to do and he’d promised the man a night out. How could they have this life Grey clearly wished for if they couldn’t manage that much? He would much rather be somewhere quiet, talking about nothing and everything than forcing down food he no longer required. His wine was a nice break in the monotony of chewing, so he sipped it instead before responding to Grey’s adorably sheepish statement.

“You of course do not have to, just because she is being demanding. You’re not required to interact with the other elements of my life, unless you want to. I’d like you to, Grey, i’d like you to be involved.” He popped another mouthful in, chewing it a little more enthusiastically. “That being said, why don’t you come by on say... Wednesday?” It had no specific relevance, it just seemed an innocent enough day and Kas wasn’t aware of specific commitments had that night. No gigs, no grand openings, no business meetings, no promises to lovers. It was just a night. He continued to pick at his meal, but giving up when the server arrived to check on them, “I think i’m finished, but I would another glass of wine, thank you.” He ensured that he was extra polite, even slightly flirtatious though it was for Grey’s benefit, and the man across from him no doubt knew it. “More water, my love?” Hel asked, lashes lowering just the once to his cheeks, tilting his head so that he was effectively looking up through them.

[Kaspar]

<Grey Weston>

He flinched at the apology. It was subtle; easily overlooked. His gaze averted, lowering to his plate. For a brief second, he pretended to be absorbed in carefully carving off another thin slice of the tenderloin, the pressure causing a mixture of juices to spill free, tinged a watery shade of pink as it pooled just underneath the untouched pile of mixed greens. He felt a pang of guilt; sharp and unexpected. It wasn’t necessary for Kaspar to apologize. If anything, he owed the man an apology. For a handful of seconds, an almost palpable tension hung between them; taut and more than a touch awkward. The only sound was the dull rasp of Grey’s knife and the soft hum of conversation, pitched low, that served as an ambient white noise; a sharp counterpoint to the mellow tones of both piano and cello.

It was the kind of silence he hated. The stiff, stubborn sort that followed on the heels of an argument or an outburst; both parties too stubborn to break the silence first. It was the kind of thing that left him feeling cornered; vaguely claustrophobic, chest tight. He was almost startled to find the too-tight sensation was absent; that half-congested feeling brought on by a volatile mixture of emotions mercifully nonexistent. It was a relief, really; that sort of silence usually left him feeling like he was desperately attempting to bite choked, mangled screams in half. He glanced up once the piece of meat had been successfully sawn in half, spearing it onto the edge of his fork with a dainty movement. Just in time to notice that Kaspar’d been reduced to pushing the remnants of his own meal around his plate like a chastened child, the disinterest obvious.

He sighed. He couldn’t help it. The guilt returned at the sight; it was caught between adorable and frankly a touch depressing. He hadn’t meant to make the man lose his appetite. But then, if recent months had taught him anything, it was that he could be a world champion fuckup when the mood struck. Usually even when it didn’t. He was saved from having to reply by the return of their server. “Could you bring us a box, please?” He asked, automatically. Not that he expected Kaspar would actually finish the meal in the privacy of his own home. There was a chance he wouldn’t mind giving it to Stoker, however; the dog was a fiend for ‘human’ food. Grey had given up trying to break him of the habit; indulging him every so often, instead.

He bit back the snort of laughter that threatened at the flirtatious display. Of course. The man had an audience, and he’d clearly be damned if he wasted the opportunity. “Yes, please, sweetheart!” He countered brightly, offering a flutter of his own eyelashes. “You’re such a gentleman.” He waited until the server had retreated to fetch both a carry out box and a refreshed glass of wine before abruptly leaning over the table, shoving the fork and its dangling piece of meat at Kaspar. “I’ll go Wednesday,” he agreed, amiably enough. “But only if you try this.”

The tension between the pair abated, just like that. For the moment. The server returned briefly. Enough for Grey to catch their eye pointedly. “Brat prince over there would like to see the dessert menu, I believe.” He stated smoothly. What she held in her hands wasn’t the glass of requested wine. Instead, she held a long stem of sparkling champagne. “From the gentleman over there,” she explained, gesturing towards the pianist and his companion. A flute likewise rested on the edge of the piano; a bucket of it on ice. “He’d like to speak to you, I believe.” Grey, for his part, sank back against his chair, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. He was desperately attempting not to look like the cat who’d gotten into the cream.


<Kaspar>

The concept of someone “taking a box” of leftover food home always amused Kaspar, he rarely did it, though that was because he was fairly good at only ordering what he would finish and not in excess. On the times he did he rarely felt need to take the remnants with him, his family never really made a big point of it. The only time they did was when travelling in areas with a higher rate of homelessness, then any pieces of largely untouched food his mother would ensure were separated into plastic containers and we’d hand them to those tired, hungry looking people along with a bottle of water on our way home. She said she would give money but she wasn’t sure where it went, and would rather give someone a backpack full of necessities than a handful of change. At winter time they had once worked a few shifts in shelter beside her, handing out sleeping bags and coats, taking note of who had somewhere to stay when the snow would begin to fall lightly in the cities.

Germany for the most part wasn’t so bad, they had less to worry about there, it was when they travelled with mother doing her humanitarian work she so loved. It was genuine, she genuinely cared for the plight of others but Kaspar still couldn’t help but think it was slightly cliche. Model, wife of a rockstar, photos of her kneeling down laughing with someone else’s poor, innocent child in her arms after she’s given them all new clothes or donated to their village or something of the sort. He was not opposed to charity, not opposed to helping others and never complained while doing so, people were people. Everyone needed assistance sometimes, and if they were in a position to provide it then they should. This was the same woman who had taught him how to place his knife and fork to show he was done eating, which cutlery how to use, how to sit and behave at a dinner table. He’d naturally broken at least two of her rules, his elbows had graced the table once already, and he was slouched slightly to make it easier to nudge at Grey with his foot.

He did so affectionately, laughing along as the man called him sweetheart and played along. “Let me guess… Not for me. Stoker?” He guessed, Grey knew full well he wouldn’t touch the food again, it wasn’t exactly like he got hungry for it and he couldn’t imagine Grey wanting it. Had to be for the dog, well, he’d be eating in style tonight. Kaspar gave a curt nod in agreement to Wednesday as it was brought up again, only to eye the piece of meat presented to him with speculation. The man did as he was told, leaning forwards slowly, eyes remaining latched onto Grey’s as he captured the morsel in his mouth, chewing delicately, assessing it. “Delicious.” He noted, brow raised, “I’ll tell Sigrid you will be coming over Wednesday evening, and she will hold you to that.” His eyes rolled, though there was no real displeasure in the expression, just a playful thing. “The old ball and chain, as they say.” He chuckled, tilting his head to watch the server return.

“Brat Prince?” He echoed, eyes narrowing on Grey, “VERY cute, last time I tell you a thing.” He grumbled, acting wounded. Wait til he found out that Lyonel genuinely did refer to him as the Little Prince, and had done so since their first encounter. He’d just love the irony of it all. This bit of information was not shared, he was too distracted by the server speaking to him, placing the champagne in front of him and watching Grey trying not to have a fit of hysterical giggles at whatever naughty plan he’d concocted. “I see, thank you.” His smile was tense, but polite and the woman rushed away quickly to find dessert menus. “I might kill you, Grey, you know that?” His tone was warning, but there was no genuine threat, Kaspar lifting his napkin from his lap to place on the table. He rose to his feet, tucking his little black book safely away rather than leave it for the vulture to snatch up, collecting the glass of champagne. “You are so cruel to me.” His lips formed a brief pout, leaning down to brush a kiss to his forehead before heading towards the piano.

“I believe my partner has been up to some mischief.” He greeted the duo, flashing them his most charming of smiles, tilting the champagne glass towards them in salute.