It's been five days, five stupidly long days since Mark had said 'I love you' – granted he'd been in a post-sex daze and the words had just kind of popped out of his mouth without his permission, but that didn't make them any less true.

He'd woken up, sheets sticky against his bare skin, beads of sweat working down his body in tickling little trails – and completely alone. Normally, that wouldn't be an issue, but when he'd gone to sleep with his arms full of a very naked, very drowsy boyfriend – he damn well expected said boyfriend's ass to still be pressed up against him – ready, willing and fucking panting for a morning grope. Not an empty, cold, other side of the bed.

Mark had stomped to the shower, noticing that it probably hadn't been a good idea to go to sleep without having at least a wash the night before – what with the now dried come plastered to his abdomen, cracking and flaking with every movement. It'd occurred to him that he probably should have been a little more disgusted by the sight, and a little less turned on. But whatever – there are worse obsessions to have, and a growing addiction to Caesar isn't exactly something that he would consider an issue.

There'd been no note, no text (he'd checked his cell more times in that first day than he cares to admit), and no call to explain where, and why, Caesar had gone. It'd driven him crazy – unsure whether to be angry or worried. But now, five days later, and they still haven't been able to have a conversation that's lasted longer than five minutes and doesn't consist of something like, 'pass me the ball', or 'yeah, the 3-4 defence might be more effective', without Caesar throwing Mark a look of unadulterated need followed by a determined frown and very quick, tactical retreat.

Mark Antony is fucked off (and hurt, but he won't be telling anyone that any time soon!) He wants answers. And as his father has told him from the moment he could understand the words – Anthony's take what they want, the consequences be damned.

Caesar had freaked out – okay, that's probably the understatement of the century. Caesar had gone absolutely fucking batshit crazy, is a much more accurate description. He'd laid there – pizza crumbs scratching his skin, arm numb and trapped under Mark, watching the moonlight chasing shadows across the angles of Mark's face. He'd stayed there; his breath mingling with Mark's to that point that it was probably unhealthy to be inhaling so little fresh air, replaying the whispered words over and over in his mind. They were words he thought he'd wanted to hear, words he'd thought of only earlier that day. But hearing them had thrown him completely.

Mark is never going to come out of the proverbial closet willingly – at least not until he's middle aged, surrounded by kids and a wife he can only fuck with a mind full of the men he's been meeting secretly in seedy clubs at the weekend. And, in all honestly, that wife will probably be Cleo. She'll be Mrs Mark Antony before their final year of college is up, pregnant with an old money, high class little heir before their twenty-fifth birthday's have passed – making Mark's dad deliriously happy, and Mark content in that moment, for fulfilling the life his father has set up for him since the day he was born. And Caesar could deal with that, for maybe another year or two. But eventually, being the dirty little secret, the bit on the side, would eat away at him – he'd resent Mark for putting him in that position, and he'd resent himself for being too weak to put up any fight against it.

He should get out now, should stick to being Mark's friend. But doing that would be so much easier knowing that Mark didn't feel anything other than lust for him. By leaving now, by putting a stop to this – he's going to hurt them both. And he can deal with hurting himself, but just the thought of hurting Mark is abhorrent to him, even though it's something he has to do. So lying there, realising just how much he didn't want to hear those words, how much he didn't want to feel the leap in his heart along with the twitch of interest in his cock whenever Mark is near, had sucked any happiness he could have salvaged out of the moment.

He'd run.

He'd run before he could be an idiot and give in to the desire to say the words back. Because if he said them back, if he'd even so much as whispered them, then they'd both be damned to a half life – of never being able to live and love the right person.

Love? Full blown love was most certainly not part of the plan. He refuses to let himself fall any more in love with a man he can never truly have. He can't do it, doesn't want to do it. He won't fucking do it! Yeah, he can't even fool himself.

The Octavian house is the biggest thing that Marcellus has ever seen. The damn thing is probably three times the size of his own childhood home, and much more suited to being called a mansion than a house. It's Greek revival too, with the white-washed marble and Doric columns, the sweeping driveway and cast iron gates. If Gus' parents knew he was even entertaining the idea of throwing a party here, they'd kill him. Then resurrect him, just to kill him again – slowly and painfully.

"How many people do you reckon are gonna turn up?" Asks Gus, watching the Jag works its way out of the gate – carrying his parents off to their conference. They'll be gone for the entire weekend, thank heavens.

"Fuck knows, dude. You invited the entire senior class. And that's without the probable gatecrashers we're gonna get."

"If they trash the house, little brother, I'm not even gonna pretend to help with the clean up," says a voice from the top of the stairs. Marcellus turns his head, watching Julia's slow decent.

There was a time when he'd found her attractive, all dark black hair – choppy and rebellious, legs that were made to wrap around someone's waist and eyes the colour of slate. She's hot in the way that Ali is – cheap and easy with the promise of a good lay. But he'd learnt his lesson with Ali, and the most a girl like that can give you is a complex, herpes and a bad case of self-loathing for even considering going there. Add to that the fact that since she'd gone off to Arizona State to study Journalism, and Marcellus had pretty much moved into this house – he'd started to see her in a sort of sister-ish way.

"I see you're still here then," says Gus, his voice a monotonous, bored drawl. He watches her reach the bottom step, a cool kind of indifference glazing across his normally bright eyes.

"'Course I am, love," drawls Julia right back at him, swiping her tongue across her teeth with a wet sounding cluck, eyeing him with as much distain as possible. "I wouldn't miss your little attempt at throwing a party now, would I?"

"Don't you have classes you need to get back for or something?"

"Student orientation," replies Julia dismissively, fluffing her hair with a practiced flick of her wrist. "Don't worry, Gussie, I'm leaving Monday. Then you can have all of mommy and daddy's attention to yourself again."

"Anyone would think that you two hated each other," laughs Marcellus, planting a quick kiss to Julia's heavily made-up cheek and heading for the kitchen.

They've always been argumentative, Gus and Julia, but they'd do anything for each other – Marcellus remembers the venomous look Gus had shot Tiberius the last time he'd upset her. If looks could kill, Tiberius would have been dead a hundred times over by now.

"Yeah, Gus, anyone would think you hated me," replies Julia, peering at him in the mirror.

"I hate everything you stand for, Jules. But let's not make this personal, eh?"

"Meh, I couldn't care less what you think. If I did, then I wouldn't be going to see Tiberius would I?"

"Whatever Julia," sighs Gus. "Just don't send him any more naked pictures, please. I don't particularly want to see them plastered all over Facebook again. My hand still hurts from the last punch I broke his nose with – I wouldn't want to risk damaging it again, defending your rather shattered honour."

"Don't bother then. I didn't ask you to overreact last time." Sneers Julia, puckering one last time in front of the mirror. "He only posted those pictures to boast. It was flattering."

"God, you're stupid"

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," snaps Julia, "The last I heard, you still hadn't gotten laid. My tits are probably the only real ones you've ever seen," before yanking the front door open and tottering away on heels far too high to be safe.

"That's disturbing, bud," shouts Marcellus from the kitchen, the sound of a Cheetos packet being ripped open drifting through to Gus. Yeah, disturbing, agrees Gus with a shudder, but it's not my fault my sister can't keep her clothes on.

Fancy dress sucks. Like, proper sucks. Looking around Gus' house all Mark can see are clusters of idiots – witches, rabbits, vampires, a fucking banana. And then there's Caesar.

"You've gotta give him credit," chuckles Cleo, eyeing Caesar as he works his way through the room. "He's put together the best costume here."

"That's not a costume," growls Mark, glaring as another cheerleader attaches herself to one of Caesars arms, fluttering her ridiculously long eyelashes at him. "It's lingerie. And he looks like an idiot."

"Actually, I think he looks hot," purrs Ali, coming up behind Mark and stealing his drink.

Normally he'd care more, but not right now. Because his boyfriend is stood in the middle of the den in a fucking red corset and suspenders – his legs encased in fishnet tights, the outfit topped off with black stilettos – the origin of which Mark hasn't got a clue because he knows for certain that no shop would hold stilettos capable of fitting Caesar's size elevens. The same way that no pair of panties should be able to hold the package that Mark knows is beneath that lace. It's all absurd. And in no way hot. Nope, Caesar in a corset, suspenders and stilettos is not going to become another kink. It's not. Ever.

"I wonder why he chose it," ponders Cleo, absentmindedly handing Mark her own cup. He downs it in a gulp.

"I heard him talking about watching Rocky Horror the other day. I'd say Frank N. Furter was his inspiration," laughs Ali.

"It's a true man who's confident enough to wear something like that to a High School party," replies Cleo, smiling at Ali.

Even the weirdness of those two sharing a conversation without hurling insults at each other is nothing compared to what's going on in the den. Guys, girls (everyone!) is swarming Caesar – laughing and smiling, back-thumping and shoulder-patting, as if he's not dressed like a beacon to his being gay. He wants to kill him – for risking outing himself, and Mark in the process. But then Caesar turns around Mark gets the full view of how little the panties really cover and the thought of killing him morphs into the need to bend his wayward boyfriend over a desk.

"I'll be back in a bit," says Mark, smiling thinly at Cleo. "It's about time the idiot starts talking to me again."

"Go clear the air, babe." Encourages Cleo.

Mark feels a small stab of guilt lance through his chest, but it doesn't stop him from heading straight for the one person he can't stop thinking about, leaving his girlfriend stuck next to the school ho. They've got five days to make up for – and Gus has far too many guest rooms not being put to good use. Time to remedy both.