HAHA

Okay, so I actually started this in January because I wanted to have a small and SHORT continuation of the WW1 christmas storyline...But I lost all motivation to complete. I've been adding bits and pieces every month or so...So here I am now, with an unfinished story that I decided to post almost a YEAR later because I don't think I'll be able to finish this one anytime soon, so maybe there will be a part 3. It's a bit clunky, since the characters have changed so much in the past year through the months, so there are many personality discrepancies - I apologize for that ahahaha. Also, some of the facts are wrong, but I'm no history buff and, frankly, America has been in so many wars that they all start to blend together. Sorry the ending is so rushed!

Striking a match once he turned the stove on, Aspen lowered the flame to the gas, watching it catch. He headed to the sink to fill a kettle with water, watching it as it grew heavier in his hand till he reached over delicately to twist the faucet off. Setting the kettle over the flame, he stared at it for a few moments, his fingers lingering over the handle.

Quickly, he pulled them back when the heat started to curl at his skin and he started into the main room. A little bit short of breath, he counted out some capsules on a table, swallowing them dry.

He had never been particularly rich nor had he been extremely poor. Able to afford necessities and a few extras on the side, he prided himself in not being stuck in the gutter after the war, as most people were. It had probably been since he still got support checks from a friend that sent him a bit of extra money that he owed every month and the fact that, because of his three years in English prison, he really hadn't spent all too much anyway.

A bit of fading sunlight filtered through the room between the slits of heavy red curtains. A smudge of beige paint had chipped off the edge of his door but it was hardly noticeable against the tan plaster underneath. A violin was perched on a low-rise table he had purchased from an obscure oriental shop, though he had little idea how to play. Only a few times had he managed to wring a few sweet notes from it; thus, he had been discouraged. Shrugging off his coat, he let it fall across a chair where it sagged off the corner and he sat back onto it, resting a hand over his eyes as he leaned back. Faintly, he could hear the footsteps of people down the street and he let his eyes flutter shut.

Things hadn't always been so calm.

Sometimes, in the back of his head, he'd see the dark damp walls of the prison. He'd managed to cause a bit of a stir, often in a bad way, and found himself ducking punches and make-shift knives that were threatened to his throat. He had been called a number of things, from brownie to philerast to angel- of which he later learned the real meaning- and was even nicknamed 'chapero' by some Cuban boy that he didn't remember the name of. It wasn't as bad as they made it out in the books, but he figured that they were hardly their main priority with the war going on. With his head still attached to his body, he figured his years in prison had gone just fine.

His rest was interrupted by a knock at the door and he pushed himself up, having expected company. Slowly, he drew the door open, his eyes tilting to the sun before at the person on his doorstep.

"Cas," he greeted in a friendly manner. "I'm glad you came...Come in," Aspen encouraged as he ushered Caspian inside, reaching to take his coat. His fingers curled in the heavy fabric- it was like holding wealth- and he set it on the chair. "How…How are things going along? You must be bored to come around on such a nice day. Either that, or you wanted a nice day and I'm the only method of obtaining it."

Caspian removed his hat, which had mussed his hair slightly. His mouth was a taut bow, the sharp and pleasing lines of his face drawn in a look of scrutiny and suspicion. A faint scar showed itself when he looked to the side and his collar pulled down slightly, baring the thin, white line. There was a regal hint in his posture that he maintained and Aspen felt a pang of empathy before quickly pushing it away and going to the kitchen instead to silence the whistling kettle.

"If I wanted a nice day," Caspian said finally, his eyes drawn to a bookshelf tucked in the corner of the room, "I would have been accepting a purple heart."

Aspen's eyebrows shot up in curiosity, setting the kettle precariously on the counter. "Oh?"

"I can do better than something like that." As if it served as a legitimate reason, Caspian walked over to the bookshelf to pick up a book, his expression growing carefully guarded. "Imre?"

"It's rather dry. Not at all what I was expecting when I heard the controversy around it," Aspen answered, tipping the kettle to pour the steaming water into cups. "You should read it."

"You're not very convincing."

A sultry shade laced his tone. "Would you like me to convince you?"

Caspian coughed pointedly, letting the book fall from his hand back onto the bookshelf. "Definitely not."

Refusing to let up on the topic, Aspen gave a sniff of disapproval. "Achilles and Patroclus were both written in a romantic fashion in reference to each other," he said, steeping tea bags in the cups slowly. "That was the eighth century."

Crossing his arms, Caspian refused to seem uncomfortable. "That's different."

"Oh? How so?"

"You're an ethel…and that's literature."

"And isn't literature inspired by real life? I certainly like to think that I inspire a great deal of art and artful thinking," Aspen said and smiled back at him, his green eyes glimmering. "I'm definitely artistic in terms of my interests. And in terms of myself…But if my talks are making you embarrassed, we can speak of artillery and war tactics if you'd like."

Caspian made a defiant expression, a bit of smouldering annoyance alight in his features. "I'm not embarrassed. You must mistake me for a child. The only one here who acts childish, I'm sure, is you."

Aspen had been about to make a biting comment but stopped, shaking his head and silencing himself with a sip of his tea. He sauntered into the main room, forcing a cup into Caspian's hands. For a moment, he lingered, watching him in a manner of concealed endearment before brushing past him to put the book back in its spot, his own teacup balanced in his hand. From across the room where Caspian had wandered, a shaking noise disrupted the silence and a few pills clattered across a table. They rolled about until they halted at a few papers and Caspian flicked one with the tip of his finger without much care before glancing down at the label.

"You're sick?" he assumed, fighting a frown.

"Was sick. And I hardly felt bad at all," Aspen stressed, walking over to set his tea down and snatch the bottle from his hand. "Don't mess with my things. You're nosier than I am."

"What was it? They used that stuff for soldiers that had infections and the sorts." Slowly, Caspian straightened, a twinge of pain crossing his features although it was quickly smoothed over with a sort of expressionless visage.

"My immune system was all messed up after England, so I got a mild cold. It's all gone now, mind you, but the doctor still wants me to be careful."

"So it's not that bad," Caspian said decidedly. "Were you just trying to get a prescription for drugs?"

"I didn't invite you over to talk about that." Bored, Aspen pulled at his tie to loosen it, setting down the pill bottle back where it had originally been. "That's an utterly dry subject."

"Why did you invite me over, then?"

"No reason, really." Biting his lip, Aspen stifled a smile. "But stay awhile, will you? Sit, sit. I'll get us some drinks."

Steff's bag had more or less been her chance at freedom, but also what stood in the way of it.

She never had many books at one time, but only one would fit in her bag along with her pencils and folded clothes and what money she could scrounge up. She didn't dare sneak into her parent's room to take money from the box they hid under the bed, but she had almost considered it. In the end, though, she hadn't managed to go through with it and guilt ate away at her at the very thought of stealing.

Reaching, she snagged a hat on her fingertips, lifting it to pull it over her tightly braided hair. She had folded a corset in her bag, as a habit per her parents, although she doubted she'd need it in the changing times. They had always stressed S-lines and ivory bone busks, though she was sure they were still stuck in their old fashioned ways. Girls that she saw hardly wore corsets like those and she couldn't help but feel slightly dated.

So she packed her most comfortable one, with elastic inserts that allowed her to breathe and move. Without her parents, she wasn't too concerned with their judgement.

The bulk of her clothes allowed for little room for the other items to be packed, but she made do, staring longingly at the few books she did have that she'd have to leave behind. A copy of Emma made it into her hand and she slipped it into the bag.

From what she could see out of her window, it was still fairly dark and hardly dawn. She had grown up in the horse-tracked bluffs where the fields changed with the seasons, forming and popping like soapsuds. There was a patchy beige barn in the distance, stripped naked from the wind and the elements. If she made it to the stalls quickly enough, she knew, she could spend her time there with the horses, letting her fingers wander through their mane before returning to her house and her parents and her brother. Like a good daughter, she thought bitterly.

Homesickness to her, she realized though, was not the longing for a big house in the countryside and a cornfield, but a walk through the city with the people mulling about and the smell of pastries and rain lingering in the street. She tired of the grass and her far-off neighbors and conservative parents and longed for a bit of danger that came with the changing times. That idea both enticed her, and scared her.

From her place on her rug, she reached over to the window to pull the curtains shut, casing her room in the dim burning light of a candle that sat at the edge of her room.

"Where do you think you're going, Stephanie?"

Startled, Steff jumped slightly, looking up at the door from her place on the rug.

"I asked you a question, Stephanie," Loki sneered, his arms crossed as he leaned against the doorway. A bandage was still wrapped around his arm from when he had come back prior from customs. She swallowed and her hand hovered over her bag, shying away from him. The smell of alcohol clung to his clothes and a smirk clung to his expression.

"Into town," Steff answered, willing and praying for her voice to not waver. "Just for a bit. I…I was thinking of getting a gift for mother-…I know she's been under the weather."

"You really trying to convince me that you give a damn if dear mother has a cold. God knows you've disappointed them time and time again," he remarked, walking slowly, smugly into her room, picking up a book from her dresser. "Really, you should try to think of a better lie." He flipped over the book in his hand, bored and unimpressed. He let it dangle from his hand, his fingertips pinched around a few pages and they ripped ever so slightly at the base where they hung precariously. "Are you still into these things? I thought you had outgrown such stupid things."

"They're not the stupid thing in here," she mumbled under her breath, her fingers grasping the fabric of her bag, tightening her grip slightly.

Loki raised his chin, letting the book clatter to the floor where it landed with a dull thump. She reached for the book quickly, her hand braced against the bag as she extended her other hand to grab it. As soon as she did, though, her brother lowered to yank on her arm up where she yelped as the bag hit the floor. Unintentionally, she winced but kept silent; she knew more than well her place in the household and talking back or badly to his face wasn't one of them.

"I'd shut up, Stephanie, if I were you. God knows what happens to dumb, little girls that can't keep their mouth shut," Loki hissed, his breath against her cheek and she tried to draw back but he gripped her arm tighter. "Now, if you're not back by ten, I'll tell mother and she'll really make sure you regret ever being born. You understand, little sister?"

"I'll-…I'll be back by ten," Steff answered hesitantly, although her eyes gleamed in defiance, pulling away quickly when Loki let go of her arm. Although he was hard to please, and even harder to not anger, he wasn't very smart. "I wouldn't want to anger anyone."

"Good. And later, you'll have to clean up in the drawing room," Loki ordered, straightening. "We have guests coming and our parents would hate for you to disappoint them. Again."

"Mmm. There's nothing wrong with a bit of fun now and again," Aspen laughed, stretching back on the couch, a bottle dangling from his fingers. "C'mere, Cas, sweetheart." He extended a free hand to him, beckoning him with a finger and a wanton smile. "Cas, Cas, Cas. We should catch up."

"We did catch up. And you talk far too much. A few of your…consorts even said so when we had to fight together in the fifth regiment," Caspian replied, sitting down on the couch where Aspen hadn't yet occupied. "And-…" He found it frustrating when he couldn't find the things to say and he swished his glass about, watching it and thinking that Aspen often encouraged made him make stupid decisions. "You ask too many questions and you're far too…"

"Charming?"

"Persistent."

A drunken giggle escaped Aspen's lips and he set his bottle down, sitting up to drape an arm over his shoulder. "Tell me Cas, have I ever charmed you?"

"On the contrary, I don't think you could charm anyone in this state," Caspian remarked, running his free hand through his hair. He pushed Aspen's arm from his shoulder, but the alcohol had dulled the pain in his shoulder. "And definitely not me."

"You're such a stickler all the time." Growing serious, Aspen removed his arm, looking a little uncoordinated as he reached up to play with a bit of Caspian's blonde hair. "How are you? How are you…really?"

"I should have known better than to drink with you." Scowling half-heartedly, Caspian took a swig from his glass, swallowing as if to give himself a bit of liquid recklessness. "And I'm annoyed."

"With me?" Aspen paused for a long while when there was no answer and he sighed. It was difficult, sometimes, to skirt around the things, the real things he wanted to ask and he hated the silence after he asked them. Burning curiosity grew and he could not help but push for answers.

Caspian, it had been known, was the child of some rich military general that was a stickler for rules and those sort of laws. Too naïve on all sorts of government politics, all that Aspen knew was that some scandal had happened and that forced the general's son into a guilty spot of shame. There had been rumours that he had committed some illegal act that forced him to flee to the middle of combat, but Aspen refused to believe any of them. Caspian, he was sure, went to war for the hell of it- it seemed like something he'd do. Of course, Finn and Kellan had assumed Aspen wanted in on some of the money that came with his bloodline, but that wasn't true at all. Simply, he was in a fitful boredom that left him hungry for something reckless and something dangerous, and by God, did Caspian prove sufficient.

"Maybe I'll bug your father to give us the military supply of whiskey," Aspen joked carefully, his gaze unfocused and merry. "And maybe mend ties. I'm good at fixing all sorts of problems. And causing them."

"You speak to him, Aspen, and I'll murder you. I don't need him thinking that I sent some commoner over to fix up my problems," Caspian said decidedly, shaking his head as if the idea was preposterous. "And...and you really have no right to inquire about him."

"C'mon, Cas. You know a little somethin' somethin' about me. It's only right you tell me a bit." Moving to rest his head against his shoulder, he did a messy hail Mary. "I haven't prayed since Alabama, but I swear I'll do it if you'll tell me a little bit about something that went on."

"You? Praying? That'd be a sight for the both of us."

Aspen reached for the glass with the alcohol, raising it till it touched Caspian's lips. "Then spill. You need a bit of encouragement? I can certainly provide encouragement. Endless encouragement and-" He giggled, his hand steady with the glass. "Charming-ness."

"You're only this ridiculous when you're drunk," Caspian muttered, grabbing the glass from him to down it, leaning forward to put it unsteadily on the table. "I don't want to talk about my father."

"Then let's talk about your shoulder. You got injured, right? Is it going to heal?" Aspen's hand drifted over to his shirt over Caspian's shoulder, his fingers knotting in the fabric. He tilted his chin up to watch him, wetting his bottom lip demurely. "Does it hurt?"

On any normal day, Caspian would have pushed him away firmly, but carefully, and gone to make himself another glass, but he just shook his head and frowned. "They said it'll be...messed up for a while. The bullet lodged in the back and permanently damaged a few things. I won't accept a purple heart, though. That's like accepting-accepting-…"

"A weakness?"

Caspian made a reluctant sound of agreement.

"Who was it that made you drop a rank once?" Aspen mused aloud thoughtfully. "Sol?"

"I could kill him," Caspian said suddenly, his tone sharp and angry and imprudent. "He's a commie, a bastard commie, I'm sure. I don't see how the others haven't caught on it yet." Pressing a hand against his forehead, he finished with an angry interjection. "An idiot that's going to leak secrets, war secrets, to the damned Russians. I tell you, in another twenty years, there's going to be trials and such to kill all of them."

"Oh? And you think America is so high and high and mighty? Aren't…aren't we allies with Russia?"

"I don't trust them. They're power hungry."

Aspen rolled his eyes, extending a hand messily to lay against his cheek. "You're just saying that because you had a drink and you're all charged up to kill, as usual. You're reckless."

He paused, his grey eyes catching onto his words with a hint of looseness that reflected the empty glass in front of him. "Charged up to kill? Is that what you think of me?"

"Never mind, Cas," Aspen said and tripped as he rose, catching himself on the edge of the couch. "Just sit there. I'll get you another drink."

Tilting a three-cornered hat over her eyes, Steff hurried down the road, her bag slung over her shoulder. If she calculated correctly, it was a twenty minute ride by automobile to the station, which had guaranteed her a long, strenuous walk. A wet newspaper fluttered near her and she sidestepped it slowly enough to read the headline: Stock Market Millionaire Scores Big. All traces of the war had been wiped away and she raised her chin, a bit of sun filtering through the trees in the distance.

The weight of her bag dug into her shoulder, the strap of her oxford pumps equally painful as she walked. The fluttering of her long, straight skirt skimmed her shins but stockings shielded her skin from the cold. Her home was farther, much farther back than she could see and she didn't dare look back, enamoured with the promise of independence and cigarette smoke and a spot for a woman journalist. Her brother hadn't bothered to call her a taxi, being far into the countryside, and she almost didn't mind, her braid soon unraveling from the pins against her head so it was one long plait of blonde hair down her back.

Train tracks etched the grass, puffing smoke into the air and she quickened her pace, her fingers clutching her bag as she started to run, pulling out a slip of paper from a pocket in her satchel. The station was bare, save for a few geese, and even they flew off once she pulled off the side of the road to catch the morning train.

"Ah, here's my commutation ticket," she said, handing the conductor the paper at the window. "I thought I would miss the train, so I'm glad-"

"Yeah, look lady, just get on the train," answered the conductor gruffly, handing her back the ticket. "We're on a schedule."

"Of-…of course," Steff stammered, suddenly berating herself for speaking. Shoving her ticket in her bag, she swung up onto the side, pushing her way up the steps to board the sad, empty train. She sat across from a white taxi man, an expensive looking pin decorated upon the lapel of his cotton coat and she offered a small nervous smile but he ignored it, flipping over his page of the daily paper. With a sigh, she set her bag upon her lap, the corner of a book poking relentlessly into her arm as she clung to it ceaselessly. The train jolted perhaps once or twice to stop at a few other country stations before speeding off to the city.

It was cold. Condensation clung to the windows of the traincar the way smoke would cling to clothes and her arms prickled with bumps in the air. A woman near her tried to comfort her child while her husband sat impatiently, looking on to the ashes of the field that seemed to fade away, unseeing. A dirty world formed around her, rising out of the ground with drinking taverns and whorehouses and little autoshops that sold beat up wagons. A wooden theatre sported an old wooden sign that read 'for sale' on the front, but the lettering had swelled and bled to the point of illegibility. The traincar filled until it was pressed with people and Steff closed her eyes to push away the relentless force of the crowd around her that chattered about soda and stock markets and skirts and the war and it felt like her home and she stood up quickly, too quickly and she had to catch her bag before the contents spilled out and the people themselves spilled out at the station and Steff found herself free.

"See her now, the goddess of burlesque herself," a man in a pinstripe suit called out, handing out fliers to wanton men. "You'll want to spend your night entangled with Ivy. See her now, the goddess of burlesque, opening act with her crew."

A woman with louche makeup flaunted around the crowds, a smudge of red lipstick on her mouth bright against the pale of her face. Her eyebrows had been plucked to thin, angular lines that raised her brow bone and accentuated the sharpness of her eyes. She raised her hand to give a flirtatious wave to a man and white powder glittered on her fingertips. Fringe at her knees swayed when she walked, her figure thin and willowy and Steff stared at her in mute curiosity. The woman looked ahead of her time, her chin tilted up in a way that most women didn't understand, and her thick hair had been effectively pinned up to her ears.

During the war, Steff had grown used to quiet cities with kind bakers and simple bookstores that she would steal away without her brother knowing. Now, they were less enticing that they were in her grasp and all she yearned for was a room and bed.

Her gaze traveled to the docks that had once housed the warships and she started on her way, welcoming the tangy scent of the sea that the breeze carried with it.

She had tried to leave home once or twice before, convinced that at her age, she should be out in the world rather than serving as her family's maid, but she hadn't the courage. Every now and again her brother would snatch a book from her fingers and cast it into the fireplace and she was convinced that she'd run. Then, soon after, she'd visit the stables and remember that she shouldn't…couldn't make stupid decisions. Her brother would often remind her of the stupid decisions she'd make now and again, from spilling a drink to tripping over her feet to forgetting a chore. It's a new world, Steff reminded herself; once she had gotten her articles discreetly published in the papers, it had been more than enough to finally encourage her run from her home. Her family wouldn't miss her anyway.

Her heels clicked against the pavement, the crowd dying down as she slipped from the main city to what neared the suburbs. She ran a gloved hand against the railing of a schoolyard and bit down a rise of nervousness. No, she'd turn back home, apologize again and again and-…Tilting her head up to the morning sun, she managed a sigh. This was much, much better.

A few small boys in corduroy ran past her, their bookbags thumping against their side as they darted with childish laughter. Two little girls in gingham dresses boarded a school bus and Steff observed in curiosity; she had never been to a public school. From a young age to fourteen, her parents had invested in a teacher to give her the necessary information. Her brother, on the other hand, had been fed from a silver spoon, allowed to continue his education although he became no smarter. He read 'philosophical' research anthologies about the plight of the wealthy and spoke incessantly about his superiority. Steff never said much against him. She had been too careful either way to raise a bad comment about his behaviour anyway.

"Come on, Charles," a woman called to her child, crouching to call a young boy over. "Your nanny is waiting for you."

Steff watched her for a moment, admiring her long brown hair. Personally, she had never liked letting her hair out and she reached up with her free hand to tuck a curl of blonde hair behind her ear. As she stood there, the woman picked up her son, carrying him on her hip to her car. Vaguely aware of the ache in her shoulder, she adjusted her bag where she carried her home, herself, and everything that ever mattered to her.

"До свидания. Don't get into trouble," a schoolteacher called, dismissing a few children. Steff lifted her head quickly at the sound of a familiar voice although she couldn't place a name until she searched for the source, her eyes brightening a fraction.

"C-…Connor, right?" she started hesitantly, having only been given his Christian name. "I didn't know you worked here."

Slowly, Connor looked over, his eyes skimming over her before they settled on her face, a haze of recognition on his expression. He reached into the pockets of a slim wool coat, his fingers catching on the edge of a cigarette. With a sense of urgency, he set it between his teeth to light with a match, tossing the splinter of wood to the ground. All the time while watching her, he inhaled the smoke slowly, anxiously.

"I teach Russian," he answered finally, exhaling. "It-…it was the only school around this area that would allow it...With the communist scare and all that..."

"Oh. That's good you found a place like this, then," Steff commented politely before biting her lip as if she were embarrassed. "I don't know this area, if I'm honest...Do you know how to get to Williamsburg? I have a friend there. I don't mean to bother you. Are you still working?"

"I have another class at noon," Connor said, calming with each drag of his cigarette. "So in around...three and a half hours, if I remember. Many children only come to early morning classes."

Suddenly remembering how she had last seen him, Steff formed her words carefully, pausing. "So you're a teacher. Does your brother teach as well? I think I remember you mentioning him."

"He's fine. He's not taking visitors right now, so I don't like talking about him without him around," Connor responded sharply, his eyes darkening into an emotion that Steff couldn't place. Uncomfortable, Steff rubbed the shoulder that had been supporting her bag, noting that he hadn't answered her question.

"Forgive my curiosity," she apologized immediately, taking a step back. "I don't mean to intrud-"

"It's fine."

"No, really-"

"If you go west long enough, there's a cafe in Williamsburg, around fifteen minutes from here by car," he offered suddenly, any hint of discomfort disappearing from face. "Next to it is a neighborhood where your friend might be at. I can drive you there if you'd like."

Although the idea was enticing, Steff gave him an odd look before remembering to look gracious at his offer. "I-...Um...That's not very modest of me to go off with a near stranger," she excused. "Really, I don't mind going by bus or taxi."

"Right. I forgot. You're part of the modest country folk. Don't worry about it, I understand," Connor said with a tilt of his head towards her.

Noticing his inclination towards the street, she inquired curiously, "Are you headed somewhere?"

"I have to pick up a few textbooks at the library that the school doesn't carry," he answered. "It's a pain, but at least it's just around the bend."

"I'm sure it's an annoyance," she sympathized easily, straightening up. "I won't keep you."

"I'll be off, then. Hopefully we'll run into each other sometime. We can talk about the paper or whatever suits you. Somehow, gossip doesn't seem like a topic fitting for us to talk over tea."

Nodding, Steff made sure to meet his gaze, giving him a hint of a smile. "I'd like that. It was good to talk to someone familiar."

"The city is a big place, Stephanie. Don't take any wooden nickels." In a friendly manner, Connor gestured at her loosely with his cigarette before starting off to a creme automobile at the end of the street, his coat moving slightly in the faint breeze.

Steff watched him inquisitively, letting her bag fall to her feet and she stood there, listening to the rustling of the leaves, the cars, and the people that ghosted down the street. And, for a moment, she let herself admire a little town of the big city, thinking that maybe once she'd be more than what had been prescribed to her by her family. Then, with a huff of breath, she reached for her bag again to start west.

Aspen only brought back one bottle, placing it in Caspian's hands when he returned. His attention settled on his own bottle, still perched on the table and he noticed that Caspian was watching it as well.

"You're not going to have another one?" Caspian asked, sounding displeased as he popped the bottle open with little effort. "Don't waste your drinks on me."

"You know I can't hold my alcohol. A sip and I'm doozy," Aspen protested and, as if to accentuate his drunken nature, sat down beside him to lean his head against his shoulder. "So take all you'd like. It's better than tea, much better than tea and the whole tea party and whatnot. And let's talk, shall we? I like talking."

"You hardly ever don't want to talk."

"I like talking about you."

Suddenly, Caspian's eyes flickered with suspicion, his fingers tight around the bottle as his features slowly settled into a null expression. "What are you getting at?"

"What do you mean?" Slowly, Aspen recoiled at his accusation.

"You hate alcohol. You hardly encourage it." His silver eyes darkened in thought, distrust hardwired into every cell of his body as he sat there silently. People: he couldn't trust them even if he wanted to trust Aspen but he was too snakeish for his own good and by God, how could he be so foolish? "I'm not stupid, Aspen. You're trying to get at something with all this."

Flicking off his concern, Aspen gave a laugh. "I know you're not stupid. On the contrary, sometimes I suspect you're much smarter than I am. I can't focus in this state. You ought to not talk of such things that my head can't currently wrap around. I'm drunk. Sloshed. Tipsy-"

"I need to go," Caspian said instinctively, standing up quickly and pausing to allow his vision to settle. "Aspen-"

"Plastered. Wrecked. Soused-"

Shaking his head with a hiss, he cast Aspen a look of exasperation before reaching for Aspen's bottle, which had been left on the table. He hadn't been paying attention and he picked up the drink in his free hand and it was heavier, much heavier than it should have been and Caspian stared at Aspen as he spoke, his voice feverish and nervous as he spit up words from a thesaurus in his head.

"Ossified, besotted-"

"You lied to me, Aspen."

"-Lashed-...Lied? No, I didn't. Why would I lie?"

Looking down at Aspen's bottle, Caspian set his jaw. "You're sober. Your drink is full."

Aspen's expression fell, his green eyes guarded as he realized his flaw. "Surely, you must be mistaken. I...I did drink. I wouldn't lie to you." He jumped to his feet alongside Caspian, reaching out to grab his arm. "Ah, you must be confused since you've had somethin' to drink."

"I don't see why you'd lie." His tone bordered feverish anger, setting the bottle back down. "I wanted to trust you wouldn't lie to me. And what was it for? Were you trying to get in my head? Make me...me talk so you'd have some advantage?"

"I'm not trying to take advantage of you," Aspen said quickly, immediately putting a hand against his cheek to try and comfort him. "I don't know where you're getting these ideas from. Not after everything we've gone through."

"I'm not stupid, Aspen." Caspian flinched away from his touch, a look of betrayal crossing his face. "What-...what are you trying to get at?" It was difficult to get the words out, the drinks making his thoughts muddled.

"I'm not trying to get at you," Aspen responded nervously. "I just thought you ought to relax."

He dipped forward quickly to kiss him as if it would offer some sort of reassurance, his hand migrating to press against the nape of his neck to ensure that he couldn't pull away. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he hoped he had remembered to pull the curtains shut. It didn't last long. Caspian's hands pressed firmly at his shoulders to push him away roughly, looking dismayed and annoyed. He had pegged Aspen for a good number of things, from a cheat to a flirt, but he had always hoped he wasn't a liar.

"I have to go," Caspian remarked curtly, wiping his mouth and walking over to get his coat. "If you're looking to be entertained, I certainly won't be your plaything."

For once, Aspen was at a loss for words, trying to formulate a response that would fix what he regarded as a minor fib. He hated alcohol for the most part - Caspian was right - but he'd been curious and Caspian never had a loose tongue.

"You're not a plaything," protested Aspen, reaching forward again to catch his arm. Caspian batted it away, a warning look in his expression as he fumbled with his coat to slip it on. He muttered a curse under his breath at an upcoming headache, messily pushing blond hair from his eyes.

"If you had just asked," Caspian started bitingly, "I would have answered what you wanted to know."

He didn't let Aspen answer, walking to the door to leave. He braced a hand against the wall before drawing in a deep breath to steady his vision. Not knowing what to do, Aspen gazed at him as he swung the door open to head down the steps and leave.

Only when the door slammed shut did Aspen swear out loud, pressing a hand to his forehead. He didn't understand sometimes why he was often so adept at angering Caspian.

Taking a step back, the backs of his legs hit into the couch, his tie starting to feel like it was constricting him. Hooking his fingers in the collar of his shirt, he tugged on it to loosen it and undo the top button. He shook his head and scanned his pace regretfully. He knew Caspian would come around sometime, but he couldn't help but still feel terrible, which was odd because he rarely felt guilty.

Sitting back down, he sank back into the couch to stare at the ceiling, figuring he'd write him a letter later to apologize.