Most would call it 'casual sex', but there's nothing casual about anything these men do together. It's very private, very closed--though not for more of the obvious reasons.

They have never spoken a word of what they do outside of locked bedrooms. And while they've never tried to hide passing glances and the occasion brush of shoulders or hips, the act itself is still very much an act all their own.

They have never worried over persecution or that their compatriots will shun them. It is a family they have. Bonds forged through time and blood. These men they do not worry over such things. The privacy they hold up simply exists to define personas.

The Pied Piper is a man of music, weaving notes like cloth on a loom, the picture almost always a surprise for the listener. They listen, and they follow.

And while Piper commands a world a mice and men, Weather Wizard commands the heavens, splicing the skies with bolts of lightening, bending the raw elements to his will.

But the skies always clear and the people disperse, leaving the men back to themselves. All they need is a little push to see that there's some left to them.

It's an easy task.

As aching hinges twist, doors lock in a hideout deserted for the evening by the rest of their fellow rogues. Hands take to snaps and ties, stripping their bodies of the titles they wear. Shoes, pants, shirts, glasses and masks.

Piper, no--Hartley, kisses with his eyes closed. Mark, for the life of him can never figure out why, but follows suite, making sure that if Hartley will play sightless for this, he'll be left breathless as well.

These are men of want. Fortune, fame, power. They want it now and they'll probably want it forever.

But this is a need, filling voids that have been long missing in their lives. They'll never be filled completely, not ever. But in lives run fast and played faster, a moment is all you need. So they take it.

There is passion, but no fake lust or heated kisses--no hands scrambling for purchase against skin slicked with perfumed oils. None of that.

It's slow, careful, deliberate. They know what they want; a steady hand, a willing body.

Hartley always closes his eyes before they touch, lids in a slow droop, fluttering shut as Mark's fingers trail down his arms, over his stomach, low--so low.

The quiet moments after, caught somewhere between afterglow and flight are the calmest. Mark is well read by choice, Hartley by breed. When it rains, they talk about Twain. When it's cold, they talk about Asimov. When it's hot, they bask and don't talk about much anything at all.

They certainly have no delusions that this is lasting. The world is flux, as are the Rogues.

Some things never change--a genius, albeit tacky designer of their costumes for one. As ever, they want, that is still for certain, though motivations shift underneath them quietly.

Mark keeps with Cold and the gang. Hartley reforms.

Mark likes the fight, the chase. Almost as much, he likes women. Piper is just a fix in between, reddish blonde hair and soft eyes a distraction until Mark's -next- distraction can come along.

Hartley likes helping people, despite the sting of public opinion. He likes his music, and hiding his masochistic streak, he likes James. The Wizard is just a scapegoat, a body against his own to tell him that he doesn't need the man who chooses to throw jokes Hartley's way about his sexuality, rather than remotely considering to take their friendship any shade deeper.

Parting their separate ways, they're no less miserable than when they first started. Only colder, with no blind touches to keep them warm.