((Sorry for the long wait, guys! Some things came up.))

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"Master?"

Bailey snapped out of his daydream to find old William standing in the doorway of the drawing room. The young man licked his lips guiltily.

"Yes, what is it?" Bailey stammered slightly, his eyes immediately drawn to the box delicately held in the servant's hands.

"This was left on the doorstep, sir. I heard a knock, but no one was there when I answered it," the servant replied. His mind still clinging to the daydream, Bailey briefly wondered if it was from Oliver, but a ghost of a tiny, bleeding heart drifted through his memory and he suddenly wondered why the messenger had disappeared so swiftly.

"Leave it on the table, William," Bailey said, suddenly sitting up straight. The old man did as he was told and slowly left the room, glancing worriedly at Bailey before shutting the door. Bailey stayed where he sat for a long time, staring blankly at the box as the glaring sunlight shone off of the tan surface. He hadn't noticed it when William had been holding it, but there was also a tidy envelope sitting on top of the box. A letter and a box. There had been a letter along with the last "present" as well. But maybe it was just a present from Oliver. It might've even been a present from Elizabeth. A souvenir from France or something of the sort. No need to start panicking over every present you get, Bailey thought to himself. He needed to be more of a man, for godssakes! With a new resolve to prove that he wasn't afraid of a shadow, Bailey stood up abruptly and marched over to where the box sat innocently, its simple design clashing with the lacquered, elaborate table beneath it. Don't hesitate, Bailey thought desperately to himself. Just open the letter and read it! You don't even have to open the damn box!

However, just when he reached out his hand to pick up the envelope, Bailey stopped. His trembling fingers hovered millimeters away from it and he cursed himself. So much for manliness. His shadow now fell across the box and the sun shone brightly in Bailey's strawberry blonde hair. Such an atmosphere hardly constituted any more reason to be frightened of a silly little letter. Bailey pursed his lips and suddenly grasped the letter, almost crushing it in his grip. He hadn't meant to pick it up so forcefully and he blushed slightly in embarrassment despite the lack of company. Unnecessarily clearing his throat, Bailey attempted to feign nonchalance as he opened the envelope with his still shaking fingers.

Master Bailey! Master Bailey!

Bailey wanted it to be Oliver that called him "Love" and "Darling". But the black ink could hardly disguise the poison coating every letter and seeping into his hands as the horrible truth welled up in his brain.

Master Bailey! Don't you know? Have you heard?

Such beautiful words. Oh, such beautiful words. And he hated them. He loathed them. The fear and the paranoia and the hope all crumbled and fell off of the young man's features. The paper crackled in his fists and now his whole body was shaking. What had he done? Why was this happening to him? That bastard! He didn't even need to hear the words spilling forth from the maid's mouth like vomit. He already knew. The door burst open and an excited young servant with tousled blonde hair breathlessly entered.

"Master Bailey! Have you heard? Mr. Smith was found dead with his heart cut out!"

The girl had hardly finished her last word when Bailey, in one movement, violently swept the little wooden box off the table with a cry full of hate for himself and for the monster who had dared to lay eyes on him. The box barely missed the girl and it slammed into the wall, popping open and releasing its treasure, bleeding red. The maid screamed and ran from the room.

"It's his heart! It's his heart! Oh, dear Lord, it's his bloody heart!" Her shrieks echoed throughout the manor, but more so within Bailey's head.

"GODDAMMIT!" he screamed, lashing out at the table that the box had been resting on. The armchairs were thrown backward and the vases were smashed, but even as shattered, the noise still couldn't drown out Amon's words nor those of the servant girl. However, his anger was too much for his feeble body and he soon collapsed near an upturned sofa, sobbing into the wooden frame. His knuckles were bleeding from striking all the furniture within reach and the blood smeared onto his cheeks or joined salty tears in their journey south. There were no words he could possibly utter that would cover the extent of his self-loathing. It was all his fault.

"No," he growled to himself, his teeth clenching. No. It was that godforsaken murderer. He pulled himself up and ran to his quarters, ignoring the questions being shouted at him from every direction. He flung open the doors and ripped the drawer right out of his desk. Bailey snatched up the revolver he had never used before and sped toward the front door. A few of the braver servants stepped in his path or took hold of his sleeves.

"Master Bailey," cried William. "What do you think you are doing?"

"I'm going to bloody kill that rat bastard!" Bailey snarled, his face still covered in red streaks.

"You can't do that, sir!"

"Then I'll send for him!" he replied, turning sharply around so that they all jumped back.

"Master, he has proven to be a very dangerous person! You can't invite him in and expect any of us to stay alive! Think of your health, sir!" The servants reached for Bailey's arms once more, but found the barrel of a revolver swiveling around to meet them.

"Don't you dare. Don't you DARE try to stop me!" he yelled at them and for a moment, the look of a bullied toddler crossed his handsome features as more tears leaked out. His servants backed down with nothing but pity in their eyes as they watched their master dash out the door.

It had already been established that Bailey was a lost cause with horseback riding, something that his sister Elizabeth had given up on teaching him. However, in his blind rage, there was obviously not much room for rational thought. In other words, common sense. He did manage to get on the horse, but he was probably going to have to take a very, very cold bath afterward. By the time he reached town, he was nearly falling off the horse, especially since he had never ridden bareback before. The crowds stared at the seemingly bloody apparition that had ridden into town and he straightened himself before addressing them.

"Where is the one called Amon? WHERE IS HE?" he yelled across their heads. They all stood in silence, just staring. Bailey let out a guttural noise of irritation and more fell than got off the horse. Alleys seemed like the kind of places Amon would probably hang out in and also because Bailey was feeling particularly stupid in terms of his well-being, he picked one at random and set off down it, revolver in hand.

There was a strange commotion going on outside his tiny sanctuary, but for once Amon's undying curiosity did not lead him to the source to investigate. No, his body was much, much too tired. His mind too far gone into the depths of his thoughts. Oh, those thoughts! Damn those thoughts. Those horrifying ideas…

What a pitiful man he was to think—to dream—that someone as breathtaking and as wonderful as Bailey Adams could ever hope to accept him. He had no money, no home, not even a slightly recognizable name. Never once before had he succeeded in attracting the man's attention when he was poor! The first time he ever learned the man's name was at that disgusting party, when he wore that one clean suit.

And yet, Amon was hopeful.

He let out a quiet, shuddering sigh as the sticky, ink splattered hand fell from it's place over his eyes and traveled down to cup his mouth, allowing for his odd eyes to finally reopen and look at the grimy world he lived in. Yes, this was his home. A cramped space between two tall, moss eaten stone walls—and yet even here he could find some sort of beauty. Why, right on the ledge was a tiny song bird, her feathers fluffed up to keep her warm while she rested. Amon stared at the small creature with a child's fascination. Perhaps he should take this as a sign? Were good things to come once the harsh winter has passed? Whether this was a true sign from God or not—and he never recalled God speaking with him before—it brought a sliver of hope into his anguish-stricken heart. Yes, he still had a chance with Bailey. What romantic couple didn't have a burden to overcome?

Amon shut his eyes a moment to draw the realization in. He desperately wanted—needed a second chance with Bailey. Or was it that Bailey needed a second chance with of him? After all, he was the one who cheated. Nevertheless, Amon was willing to do what ever it took to mend this broken relationship. Oliver was a mistake; he'd prove that to him. He'd prove Oliver's love wasn't real. It wasn't! No, only his love for Bailey was true! No body else could love him more than he did!

He had to show that!

He must prove that!

He--

A reoccurring echo bounced its way into the brunette's ears, giving his heart a start as Amon finally recognized another being invading his personal space. Now, this wasn't something new to him. Many other peasants found a home within these alleys. It wasn't that. But upon Amon's travel back, and upon entering the alley, in his depression, Amon had stripped of his costume and had thrown them aside in sloppy heaps in the muddy ice. The ugly dress, blood smeared apron and shawl were now buried in the slush revealing to the open now a man in dark pants and buttoned shirt.

He hadn't much cared any longer who happened to discover the 'awful murderer' from the posters. However, his feelings regarding his safety very much changed now that he had spawned new faith in him and Bailey! He couldn't afford to get caught, but what was he to do?! Dive for his clothes?!

His eyes narrowed and his gaze rested on the emerging figure, one hand still on his mouth while another snaked casually around his waist, finger tips dusting the hilt of his knife on the other side. Amon didn't make a move until the stranger finally emerged from the alley shadows and revealed himself to be exactly who Amon wanted to see.

His hands fell to the side without question while his eyes lit up, smile blooming. "Bailey," He greeted sweetly. Pushing himself from off the cold stone wall he had been leaning against, Amon self-consciously began to dust himself off and fix his hair, chuckling gently and muttering stupid things like, "Had I have known you were coming to visit I would have prepared!" Done with that, the peasant began to step forward but stopped a good couple of feet away as a glittering something in Bailey's hand drew his attention and made his brows rise in surprise.

Stumbling and sloshing through the alley's filth and mud, Bailey stormed through the dark recesses of the town, furious thoughts flashing through his mind as he went.

That bastard! How dare he! And he dared to show up like some gentleman to that ball! Fool! I should've seen right through that suit! I bet he stole it from somewhere, that filth! No person that criminally insane could possibly be a part of high society! Bastard! How dare he kill Oliver! What right does he have to take away what I want?

Bailey rounded the corner and his eyes immediately locked onto a man who was standing a ways down the alley. Friend? Foe? Well, anyone smart enough to notice that a blood covered young man was waving a revolver around was already locked inside their homes or as far away as possible. Striding forward, nearly slipping in the mud, Bailey had every intention of interrogating whoever this stranger was. Unfortunately, Bailey had never actually held anyone at gunpoint before, nor had he ever been menacing enough to do so and be taken seriously by the receiving end. But there was murder in his sharp, cold blue eyes and not even his obvious lack of muscles could stop him from trying to avenge the one person he actually had any feelings for. However, before he had reached the stranger, the figure detached itself from the wall and called his name. Bailey stopped in surprise. He stared intensely at the stranger and the image of a young man in a fresh, clean suit somehow fell into place alongside this scraggily street rat. Bailey bared his teeth and growled like an angry wolf, his chest heaving from the combined efforts of trying to stay on the horse on his way over and from running through a maze of side streets and alleys, all which were trying to drag him down through means of sticky substances.

"You!" he snarled, raising the gun up to point, hopefully, at Amon's chest. Though, having never used a gun before, he hadn't actually checked to make sure that, one, there were any bullets in it and two, if the gun's hammer was even cocked. "You! You dare to even call me by my name, you wretched scum! You're disgusting! You think you can send me honey-coated love letters along with hearts you just happened to rip out of other people? And to another man, no less! I don't think I've ever seen anyone lower than you, you horrible, insignificant bastard! I really hope that Oliver put up a damn good fight before you brutally cut out his heart that's far too beautiful for your filthy hands to touch because you really deserve to be beaten to the ground! And I'm sure that when I put this bloody bullet in your own sick, black, twisted heart that Hell would reject you for being far too much of an evil, insufferable maggot to even be torn to pieces by Satan himself!"

Bailey stopped to catch his breath. His own heart was pounding furiously and he could feel it in his skull and hear it ringing in his ears, making him about ready to burst. It was still winter, but Bailey had left the manor without his coat, so that the only things that were left to keep him warm were his white shirt, now incredibly soiled, his silk maroon waistcoat, black trousers, and cravat which was already half undone. He was shivering slightly, but more out of sheer rage than actual cold. Bailey's delicate fingers, wrapped around the revolver, felt like ice but the heat in his face and neck was burning him up, fueling his hatred.

"So, you rat," Bailey said, spitting on the ground before the other. "Can you possibly have anything to say to me after what you've done to me, after what you did to Oliver, and before I silence your poisonous tongue forever?"

Needless to say, Amon was quite taken back by this fresh show of aggression. Never had he seen Bailey this way! Why, the man always seemed so proper and delicate. Had Oliver truly changed him so much in what felt like mere days together? How could that be, he wondered, how could he have changed so much!

A spark of hatred was burning in his chest. He could feel the angry fire scorch his flesh, sizzle his skin and boil his bones. It was a hate that could just barely meet the other man's, but it was still there and it fueled him. But this hate had nothing to do with Bailey—oh, God no, nor the spiteful words he spat, for Amon had heard these titles so many times before. No, what pained and angered him so was the mere passion. The frank and terrible passion Bailey had for Oliver. A kind of power that, that blasted man did not deserve from his beloved. It was a misguided feeling Bailey held for the other, and it made the street rat's stomach positively sour to know that Oliver had tricked him so wrongly.

A few seconds before Bailey finished his rant, Amon had already begun trudging forward toward him despite the gun's barrel pointed at his chest. Whether Bailey's aim was dead-on or not, it wouldn't matter with the target now moving so much closer to him. Still, Amon did not care for that because Amon was not afraid to die. If Bailey honestly had wished to shoot him, he would have done it.

If Bailey truly loved Oliver, he would have done it…

Brave or foolish, the brunette dared to grab the man by the wrist and force the aristocrat's body up against the near by wall, wrists pinned to the stone and the street rat's body against his. "I love you." He told him. His voice was warm and tender despite the budding hate inside them both and of course the struggle of keeping the crazed aristocrat down. "I love you so much and I'd never hurt you. Never, ever hurt you. I loved you before you even knew I existed." The heels of his hands pressed down against the slender bone of Bailey's wrists, hoping to cut off the blood supply and perhaps numb the man's hands so that he might drop the gun before he set it off.

"But Darling, he never did. He never loved you not even a moment. Please, please listen Love, he's not worth fighting for. He didn't even put up a fight…"

In all of his fury and absolute loathing of the man that stood on the other end of the gun's barrel, Bailey had hardly noticed that Amon had come toward him until the man's rough hands grabbed his wrists, forcing him suddenly against the wall. He gasped as the air was forced out of his lungs from the impact with the cold, hard surface that contrasted with the warmth of the slightly taller man's body. And then he heard those words. The ones that had been repeated time and time again right before the inevitable discovery of a fleshy, bloody lump of rotting tissue. It made Bailey shudder with disgust. He would've given anything to have had those words whispered in his ear so tenderly by any other man than the one pressed against him. Why had he even dared to dream something as impossible as having another man love him? Why hadn't he just stuck to women? His father had always told him to be careful what he wished for. Now it was far too late for that. Maybe this wouldn't have happened if he hadn't chased after Oliver like the lovesick puppy he was. Maybe this was punishment for defying the rules. Maybe this was punishment for being himself.

He attempted to free himself from the human cage, but failed miserably as his body was already worn out from exerting more energy than he ever had in his entire life. In addition, he had never felt dirtier in his entire life. His clothing was irrevocably ruined, his face was muddy now in addition to being bloody, his thick hair was wet and muddy and fell across his eyes, which he hated, and he most definitely was starting to stink of garbage and piss. But despite all this, the brunette before him had still called him "Darling" and "Love" and spoke to him like Bailey was his woman. It made Bailey blush despite everything and he lashed out with his feet in shame, but nothing connected enough to do serious damage. As Amon continued his assault of unbearably sweet nothings, Bailey suddenly felt a sharp pain in his wrists and he couldn't help but cry out. Instinctively, he dropped the revolver. Damn.

"Don't touch me, you sick, disgusting miscreant!" Bailey spat. The pain was pushing him to borderline hysteria and panic as his only weapon was now sinking into the mud beside them, but it only added fire to his purpose. "How dare you speak such nauseating lies! Oliver was one hundred times the man you will ever be! I'm sure you deceived him somehow with that same trickery you used on me the first time I had the misfortune of laying eyes on you! Oh, I would kill you again and again if I could for everything you've done to me!"

Although he threatened and yapped like a little dog around Amon's heels, it was slowly dawning on him that he was in a very, very undesirable position. What little energy he had was waning and he knew that if he didn't act soon, he'd be at the mercy of the other. He didn't want to, but he'd give up his pride as a gentleman and shout for help if it meant seeing this perverted murderer on the other end of a rope.

"Bailey…"

The pistol no longer in the other's grip, Amon slowly released the pressure he had been applying to the aristocrat's wrists, sympathetic eyes watching him as Bailey continued to struggle and rave in panic. A pang of guilt and concern pounded at his heart amidst all the anger burning inside his shell. He hadn't meant to make Bailey cry out and, as though to comfort him, Amon trailed his hands upwards carefully until their hands were joined palm-to-palm and from there he forced his fingers between Bailey's, continuing to pin him down.

Amon waited patiently for the body in front of him to cease its movements, for the words to lose their fire, all the while holding an unreadable expression until an awkward silence finally settled between them. As moments ticked away, Amon could see a hint of wariness on Bailey. His body, he noted, was shivering and seemed to be lacking the energy to attack him any longer and immediately a sense of worry corrupted his once hard gaze.

"Are you cold?" He asked softly. Throughout all the venomous insults and accusations that spewed from Bailey's lips, none of it seemed to linger in the peasant's mind as he leaned his face closer to the other man's. As if he hadn't heard any of it. Or rather, took none of them to heart.

A gentle kiss found its way unwelcomingly on Bailey's cheek first, and then on his other cheek and finally stopped against his forehead where Amon seemed to rest a moment, his face hovering just inches away. From the corner of his eyes he stared at the gun in the mud.

"If you kill me… will you be happy?" He asked suddenly, warm breath ghosting against Bailey's cool skin. Smiling slightly, the man pulled himself away a little in order to watch Bailey's expression. Search for some kind of sign that this was what he would honestly like. "If I die…"

Amon left his thought unfinished and let Bailey go, quickly crouching into the slush and retrieving the filthy pistol. Once he had rescued it and brought it up with him, the man began to make quick work cleaning out the barrel and handle with the end of his shirt, examining it for a split second and then offering the weapon to Bailey with a polite smile. "Here you go, Love."

Once Bailey had taken back the gun, Amon stepped a little back and spread his arms wide, trying his best to expand his chest so Bailey could hit it. Or where ever else he might want to hit!

"I'll do anything for you. I want to prove that to you."