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Rain drums against the windows of the manor, and the fire crackles in the hearth. Alice is curled up on the sofa, dozing -- probably dozing, anyway. Do chains need to sleep? Do the rules of ordinary chains apply to her? Every new thing that happens brings up more questions. It makes Oz restless.
The rain isn't helping, either. He can remember how much rain drove him crazy when he was little, how frustrated he'd get when he couldn't go outside to play. It got a little better once he had Gilbert, who could at least keep him company. Gilbert was always there for him.
...Well, that's still true, isn't it? Oz sets down the book he's been trying to make himself read and gets up from his chair. He opens the door -- carefully, but it still squeaks faintly. Alice kicks a little in her sleep. She really is like a rabbit sometimes, isn't she?
Oz slips out into the hall before she can actually wake up, though. He likes her, he's pretty sure. She -- she makes him feel a lot of important things. But they're weird, and complicated, and sometimes he doesn't want to deal with that. Sometimes he wants something familiar.
Of course he's a little out of luck just being in the Lainsworth manor in the first place, which is like a familiar place, but isn't one. The floor creaks under his feet as he wanders down the hall. At home he knew where all the creaky spots were, which made it a lot easier to be sneaky. He wonders if he'll be here long enough to learn this house's quirks, too.
Down one direction, the hallway is just closed doors, and a big window at the end with an excellent view of the rain. Oz pivots on his heel and starts back the other way. The room on the other side of his looks like it has somebody in it -- the door's cracked open a bit, and light from inside spills out into the hall. Oz inches up to it carefully, peering inside.
It's Gilbert's room, of course. He should have guessed. And Gilbert appears to be alone, sitting by the fire. He's taken off his heavy coat, and his shirt hangs half unbuttoned. Oz can almost see his scar, or thinks he can.
He pushes the door open enough to be able to slip inside. "I should have known you'd be somewhere nearby," he says.
Gilbert startles, and for a second that makes him so familiar, before he stands up and he's a tall, lanky almost-stranger again. "Young master," he says. It sounds so different, but still somehow almost the same.
Oz looks up to meet his eyes -- and that's backward -- and they haven't changed at all. "I wanted to come find you," he says.
"You must need your rest," Gilbert says. His hands go to his shirt buttons.
"Don't," Oz says, putting a hand over his to stop him. "I...I want to see."
Gilbert doesn't move. "It's not your fault," he says.
"I didn't say anything about fault," Oz says. He's not letting himself think about that at all, if he can help it. "I said I want to see." He puts a hand on Gilbert's chest and pushes, and Gilbert steps backward -- two steps, before he reaches the sofa, and he sinks down on it without looking away from Oz's face.
Oz nods. "Better," he says. He straddles Gilbert's thighs to make sure he doesn't get any ideas about going anywhere, and pushes back the open folds of Gilbert's shirt.
He could be thinking about the coming of age ceremony, about red cloaks and red blood, about golden eyes wide with hurt, about bright sharp knife blades. He decides not to. Not now. He's not ready.
The scar is a soft brown against the whiteness of Gilbert's chest. It feels stiff under Oz's fingertips, more like cured leather than living skin. "It's strange," he says, not looking up. "The idea that I've been gone so long. That there are ten years just...missing. I didn't do them."
Gilbert takes an audible breath, so his chest rises under Oz's hand. It sounds like he wants to say something, but knowing him it would be an apology.
"I almost wouldn't believe it," Oz goes on, to stop him. "Except that there's you." He looks up then. "I know you. I recognize you." He stretches up to touch Gilbert's cheek with one hand. "I look at your face and I can see how you've changed. I can see shadows of the way I remember you in the way you are now." Gilbert's cheeks are turning pink, proving his point. "The house getting ruined is just spooky. Something weird. But you...you're real."
The way Gilbert closes his eyes, and that little touched smile, those are familiar, too, even if the angles of his jaw and cheekbones still seem strange. He must have had a lot of baby fat to grow out of. "Thank you," he says.
Oz laughs. "That's a silly thing to thank me for," he says. It's only the truth, isn't it?
"Still," Gilbert insists.
Oz still thinks it's silly, but he supposes he doesn't mind. Gilbert was always a little silly and too grateful for things. And he's being so patient now, so cooperative. Oz runs his fingertips over the line of Gilbert's jaw, one direction and then the other -- he can feel a faint hint of stubble, just a little bit of roughness that never would have been there before. It's odd to think of Gilbert shaving. Oz still doesn't have to himself, and he'd always been sure he would be the one to grow up first.
When he traces his way further down, he can see other changes, too -- apart from the scar, even. The growth spurt that Gilbert must have had, the same one that melted away his round cheeks, gave him longer limbs, broader shoulders, more...solidness through his chest. And when Oz sits down again, he can feel a stirring against his thigh.
"Oh," he says. "That's different, too."
Gilbert flushes redder. "I'm sorry," he says. "I don't mean to. I know it's not appropriate at all. It's just -- hard to control the physical reaction."
Oz leans back on his heels and reaches down. If he looks, he can see the outline of Gilbert's cock through black fabric, and when he presses his hand against it Gilbert shudders. "Show me," Oz says.
"What?" Gilbert says, tensing up.
"You're still my servant, you said," Oz says. He sits up straight. Gilbert can barely look him in the eye. "That means I'm still your master. So it's up to me to take care of you."
Gilbert looks like he wants to argue more -- he's so stubborn about the silliest things -- so Oz rubs the heel of his hand against Gilbert's cock, and instead Gilbert moans. He does look straight at Oz then, and Oz is pretty sure the name for that look is smoldering, and he's irrationally jealous because it'll probably be years before he can pull that off. Gilbert reaches for the buttons of his pants. Oz watches.
It makes sense, of course, that his cock would be big enough to match the rest of him, but it's still impressive. It's thick and hard, the foreskin drawn back just enough to expose the dark red of the crown, and there are curls of black hair all around the base. Gilbert's tense under Oz, his thighs trembling. Oz wraps his hand around Gilbert's cock, impressed again when his thumb and fingers barely touch.
He strokes Gilbert's cock more or less how he'd stroke his own, watching Gilbert's face for cues how to vary it. He could always read Gilbert well -- it's good that hasn't changed. Well, he'd thought he could, anyway.
"Did you always like me this way?" Oz asks. "Or is that another thing that's different now?"
"I h-haven't done anything so unusual," Gilbert protests. "All I did was grow up. You're the remarkable one."
"Well, not from my perspective," Oz says. "I'm still the same old me." That maybe isn't true, not really. Being contracted to a chain is a big difference, isn't it?
-- No, that's another thing he doesn't want to worry about right now. Right this minute is good: Gilbert is okay -- more than okay! -- even if he's changed, and they're still friends, and making Gilbert make those needy aching faces turns out to be just as good as making him panic. Maybe -- maybe -- even better, Oz decides, watching Gilbert's eyelids flutter, watching his handsome new face go slack-jawed and helpless with pleasure. This change, at least, he could get used to.
And the noise Gilbert makes in his throat when he comes, that's good, too, so much lower than Oz remembers his voice, so rich. He's turned into an impressive man, hasn't he?
The sheepish, grateful smile he gives Oz is just like always, though. "You are," he says. "Still just like I remember you."
Oz beams. "See?" he says. He can't really doubt it himself, if Gilbert believes it, too. He sits back on his heels and starts tugging at his own trouser buttons. "So now it's your turn to take care of me."
Gilbert sputters, and Oz has to laugh. In some ways, it looks like he'll never really change.