Careful, slow, like he's approaching a wild animal, Zef raises his hand to brush his fingers feather-light against the arch of a cheekbone. Gray's skin is pale, easily bruised, and sure enough a blossom of colour is coming to the socket of his eye where he got punched tonight. Zef takes care to be gentle. Gray tilts his head by a tiny measure. An invitation. So Zef cups his cheek with his open palm.

It's not being naked that feels vulnerable, now. It's the way Gray's looking at him like he's afraid but doesn't wanna be.

"Okay?" Asks Zef.

Gray closes his eyes. "Yeah."

"Can I ask? Why is this— Why don't you like it? Normally, I mean, not now. Unless you don't like it. Now. I can stop." He's babbling. "Sorry. You don't have to answer—"

"It's how they controlled me," Gray says. His breath comes out a shiver, lower lip caught in his teeth. "If they wanted to...to override my tech controls, make me do things I didn't want to— All they had to do was touch me and I just became a ghost in my own body."

He opens his eyes to meet Zef's and gazes at him, not speaking for what feels like a very long time.

Zef had guessed at the reason, and he'd been right, but it's harder hearing it out loud. A protective urge overcomes him. He suppresses the need to cradle the back of Gray's head and draw him in. That feels like more than Gray permitted. But the thought of someone— anyone— having that degree of control over Gray?

That photo of him in the factory feels tragic instead of terrifying. Gray, young and doe-eyed and only gaining control of his body back when he'd already ripped other humans apart with his bare hands.

It makes Zef sick.

And you wanted to hand him back over to people like that.

The sick feeling intensifies. Only now, he's sick with himself. He'd thought Gray capable of ruthlessness. In some ways, he is. Zef had also thought Gray was ruthless enough to kill him and leave his corpse between a couple of vending machines, though.

With painful certainty, he knows Gray wouldn't.

He traces the hairline scar on Gray's upper lip with his thumb. Rubs the place where it ends on his chin. "Did they do this to you, too?"

Gray gives a tiny shake of his head. A movement slight enough it doesn't dislodge Zef's hand. "Got that following their orders. Sometimes my mark fought back. Not for long." He wets his lips. His tongue nearly touches Zef's thumb. The dip in his chest just below his collarbones inflates with a swiftly drawn breath. "Sometimes I think it was a good thing I wasn't in control, 'cause if I had been, I'd just let 'em..."

"Let 'em?"

"Kill me."

Zef can't help it this time. His hand moves, sliding to the hinge of Gray's jaw, holding him there. Fingers carded in his shorn hair. Protective bordering on a possessiveness he doesn't deserve to feel, but it flips a switch in him.

"No," Zef says, not sure what he's denying. "You can't think like that."

A wry smile. "You the thought police?"

"If it comes to it? Haven't finished that implant yet, so I'll just have to remind you myself. You didn't deserve all that. You—" Zef brushes the scar on Gray's lip again. "I'm bad at words."

"Maybe situation's like this don't need words."

Does Zef imagine that Gray's eyelashes dip over his eyes because he's looking at Zef's mouth? If not words, does he mean actions? Actions like kissing?

"What do they need?" Zef asks.

Gray's gorgeous, scarred lips pull into a devious smile. "More booze."

"Shit." Zef recalls he brought a bottle of tequila with him. He had it before. Evidently, Zef lost his mind and the bottle of tequila when Gray said he could touch him.

Zef casts around the surface of the water for the bottle. Though it's dark, he just makes out the neck of it bobbing above the surface, several yards out to sea and well outside Zef's ability to wade.

"Fuck."

"Relax. Horrifying bot friend will come to our rescue, I'm sure. Hello?! Bot friend?!"

"I'm afraid submersion in water is inadvisable for a model such as myself," says the bot. "Would you like me to order a new bottle?"

"No, no, that's no fun," says Gray. "I'll do it."

"You're a strong swimmer?" Zef says.

"Just watch."

And—Zef's heart can't take it—Gray does an adorably accurate impression of a dolphin squeaking before diving beneath the waves and emerging several dozen feet away, performing an impeccable front stroke until he reaches the bottle. He holds it aloft like a trophy. "Let's drink this one on the beach."

Zef makes a face, uncertain how he feels about sitting around bare-assed.

"Ah, you're right, sand," Gray says. "Bot friend! Fetch us some towels!"

"Right away, honoured guest," says the bot, and its silhouette rushes up the steps horror-movie fast.

They wade out of the water, Zef feeling cold and awkward enough to cross his arms over his chest even though he's no longer got breasts to hide. The bot returns brandishing two—

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Gray says.

Zef takes the small hand towel the bot offers him. "I suppose we never specified what kind."

"Hm. I mean, thank you, bot friend. When the robot uprising happens, I hope you remember we were polite."

Gray takes his towel and scours himself with it. Zef avoids staring by focusing on his own drying efforts. Okay, so he almost avoids staring. When he's fairly sure Gray's got pants on, he glances over his shoulder.

The moonlight reflects blue off the cap of Gray's shoulders, decorated with curling chrysanthemum petals. Droplets of water glitter like pearls on his skin. He puts on a thin chain necklace—normally hidden. The bullet hanging from the chain settles in the hollow between his collarbones.

Zef only spied it briefly on the subway. He'd thought something was written on it, but it's too dark now to tell.

Should he ask?

The thought is arrested when Gray waves a bottle enticingly in front of his face. "Share?"

Zef shimmies the rest of the way into his pants and reaches for the bottle. Gray dances out of reach, grinning. "Gotta catch me first."

He takes off up the stairs. The balloon in Zef's chest swells close to popping. He gives chase, scrabbling up the stairs on all fours, and catches up at the mansion's titanic doorway. He blocks Gray's path, about to scream, 'password?!' Gray willingly collides with him, so it comes out 'passwOOF.'

Zef's hands are ghosts on Gray's warm waist. Breathlessly, he says, "Caught you. Pony up."

Gray tips the bottle to Zef's lips. "Darlin', what do you say to a little game?"

Zef swallows, the tequila a welcome burn to distract from how his ears and every point of contact between them is doing dizzying things to his dwindling faculties. He's never been drunk before. His head feels heavy and fuzzy, though. It's appealing. "What kind of game?"

"Hide and seek. You know it?"

"Might have heard of it."

"But there's a twist." Gray leans in closer, darkly reckless. Hands on Zef's shoulders. Zef's back pinned to the doorframe. Muscles squeeze in his belly so hard he quivers. Gray says, "The one who's hiding counts. For every second it takes to find him, the finder's gotta take a sip o' this."

"Gray, the mansion's huge. We'll die."

"Spoil sport. For every ten seconds, then."

"Unfair. Your metabolism control thingy—"

"I'll turn it off."

Zef grins. He wants to say you're on but he also wants to linger here. He's never known casual intimacy like this. Never understood that something like holding another man in his arms could feel so good it hurt.

"Gotta close your eyes," Gray says.

Heart tripping, Zef closes them. Lips brush his ear. "Count to ten."

The sound of Gray's footsteps echoing off into the mansion follow. Zef catches his breath and counts. Never occurred to him how menacing 'ready or not, here I come' sounds until he's shouting it into the cavernous atrium. He wastes no time, sprinting around, searching under the grand piano and behind the bar. The upside to the open-plan is that there aren't many places to hide. The downside is that Gray is small, and Zef's fairly sure he'd fit in a cupboard if he put his mind to it.

Sure enough, he finds Gray wedged into one of many shoe shelves, in a walk-in closet, which is larger on its own than most apartments in Neorleans. The tell-tale sign of Gray's presence was all the shoes he'd subsequently dumped on the floor of said closet.

"Took you a whole minute," says Gray. He gets out. He's wearing a pair of Louboutin heels he found. The black with scarlet soles kind. Hot. Stupid hot.

"Zis place's too damn big," Zef says. Did he just slur his speech?

"Small sips, then." Gray hands him the bottle. So Zef drinks, fuzzy to the tips of his fingers and toes, then they're off again. Gray counting this time.

Zef finds a modern statue to hide behind, only for Gray to yell, "You! Security bot! Find my friend, please!"

The bot obediently responds, "Behind the statue in the East wing chambers, sir."

"Cheater!" Zef shouts.

Gray reappears, a grin so wide and mischievous on his face that Zef can't even hold it against him.

They only play three more rounds before declaring Gray the undisputed victor, but the games don't end. Gray seems to have a never-ending supply. They race up the length of the driveway, piggyback riding on the security bots. Then Zef gives Gray a piggy back ride to see if they can beat the bot's time. (They can't.)

After a breathless defeat, Gray says, "Hmm, I don't rightly like this game no more. How about something else?"

"Do you only like games you're good at winning?" Zef goads.

"Who likes games they always lose? No. Wait. Karaoke. Everyone likes that, even if they're bad at it."

So he installs a virtual reality karaoke game on the home cinema, and Gray can't carry a tune, but Zef can, and it affords him a private moment of both triumph and tenderness to see the look of gentle delight on Gray's face as Zef sings a queer as fuck murder ballad at the top of his voice. The world is spinning a little, not unpleasantly. Gray, who always looks pretty, looks extra pretty draped over the back of a chair with his thumb between his teeth. Zef thinks so this is what drunk feels like.

Gray says, "You didn't tell me you're musical, darling."

"I just sing in the shower."

"You've got good pipes! Can you play? Like, piano?"

"Pffth, you think I could afford lessons? Or a piano?"

Gray gets up, marching towards him. "C'mon," he says, taking Zef's hand.

Zef goes along with him. He has all night, and he can't say he regrets it. Deep beneath the alcohol and the fun and the warmth of Gray smiling at him, Zef knows the hangxiety will hit him like a freight train come morning, but he's too deep in it now to back down.

Gray takes him to the grand piano.

"I can't play," Zef says.

"I don't care," Gray says back. He sits innocently upon the keys, the loud jangle of chaotic music filling the open room. He crosses his legs and shamelessly pats the spot beside him like it's a park bench, causing another horrible clang. "Take a seat alongside me on my throne."

"And what should I play for you?"

"Hit us with the classics. Gimme a 'lil Mozart," says Gray. "Requiem or somethin'."

"Nah, too sad," Zef says, like he could play it anyway. He tucks into the bench, poises his fingers over the keys not occupied by Gray's ass. "Let's Ode to Joy this shit."

Gray makes more noise getting up onto the smooth, glassy surface of the piano. He sprawls across it like he's an ancient Greek sculpture. Trans Man In Exquisite Repose. Zef can picture it in a museum.

"I've always wanted to be one of those slinky sex pots hanging out on a piano while a charming gentleman serenades me," says Gray. He rolls onto his elbows, looks over a coquettish shoulder at Zef while kicking up a red heel. "Security bot friend! Can you teach the gentleman how to play?"

"I have not got fingers, sir," one of the bots replies.

"Hm. We'll have to improvise." Gray strokes the top of the piano, and it comes alive with a musical trill, lights glowing from beneath the semi-transparent casing. It paints Gray in angelic, renaissance strokes. Clearly the piano, like most things here, has a few technological advancements of its own, because the lit keys blink to indicate which to press.

Zef clears his throat and affects a pompous, aristocratic air, stroking the piano keys. The facade is largely undercut by his flushed cheeks, giddy smile, and the fact he can hardly take his eyes off Gray long enough to look at the keys. Haltingly, he begins to play, following the piano's directional lights and his hazy memory of the pieces. It's not as if he's any good, but it doesn't matter. They're drunk, the mansion is large and quiet, and the instrument itself rings clear and heart-rending enough to start a religion. Gray props his chin in his hands and watches. The once bright smile on his face fades into something silky. Fond. More than once, Zef hits the wrong key because he stares back too long. He could blame the tequila, but it isn't the tequila.

It's the sense that, no matter how much of the expensive liquor cabinet they've plundered, he could never get blackout enough not to remember this moment. The piano's sharp, wonderous sound and the equally sharp, wonderous gaze of this man Zef is agonisingly certain he's falling for.

Gray's fingers play a scale of their own, each tapping against the edge of the piano. He grips that edge and pulls himself forward, sliding closer so he can watch the keys light up and Zef's hands dance over them. He's bent so wisps of his hair—dried with salt and smelling like sea brine—brush Zef's forehead. His eyes aren't on the keys anymore.

"Zef."

Zef's concentration falters. "Yeah?"

"You asked me a question. Earlier. In the water. About what situations like these need aside from words."

Zef misses one of the keys, playing a discordant note. "Yeah?"

"I think I know what."

"Y-yeah?" Zef says, aware it's all he's said, aware he's stopped playing music and lifted his gaze, only to freeze there, paralyzed with the tip of his nose centimetres from Gray's.

Gray's voice quivers. He says, "Kiss me."