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There's a guest in the house. A quiet one, though, delightfully, not nearly as quiet as once assumed. But Eles's decision had gained a grace period and level of indulgent patience that others could never hope for. Who made his situation so captivating? Who made every decision he makes the first of its line? So, not a staff member or a pet, but a guest that came and went, a little less comfortably and well-heeled than either, but with a series of ever increasing options outside of Malory's domain.

He'd give it a few more days before asking if the other found that enjoyable, empowering even, or if it was growing overwhelming. There were always probing little questions to ask, over meals and under covers; tracing lines across a bruised back and healing palm like reading the next chapter of a book.

A little bit of routine formed around the space between them, enough that Eles knew both Malory's typical schedule during the day (late wake up, time in the mirrored studio or swimming, breakfast, school and theater work for some hours) and during the night (Malory leaves and does not come back for hours). With the former, Eles is always welcome to come, be it to classes or rehearsals. With the latter, there is no invitation, not even a lie that explained where he was going or why.

Returning after one such night-into-morning, Malory texted the staff as he slowly, achingly, climbed the front stairs, giving them the day off. He wasn't in the mood to be fussed over for once, and the thought of being surrounded by industrious people going about their business seemed too much like staring directly at the sun. He was still on the phone as he walked in the front door, cancelling the few appointments he had with enough smiling emojis to assure the recipients that the message was passive aggressive and surely they'd done something wrong.

He was in the same clothes he left in last night, a designer tshirt with designer torn-off sleeves, a pair of black pants lined with needless zippers, a high ponytail that would've showcased the graceful arc of his neck if not for the thick leather collar that bound it. Despite the hour, the clothes were pristine. Not even a wrinkle or the typical whiff of split drinks and furtive cigarettes. No signs of anyone else's perfume or makeup either, a rarity.

The only thing that looked worse for the wear was his face, with a bruise clearly forming around his right eye; and his forearms, now in echo to Eles's own fading injury.

There was a long stretch where Malory simply looked at Eles, features still and neutral. Then he decided that he didn't mind the other boy being here, in this moment, and he broke out into a put-upon little huff. Signing, he answered, Maybe. This city has too many people that love punching beautiful faces.

The senshi hadn't hesitated, was almost business-like with her cast magic, the following restraint, the clean punch. In a way, that lack of drama, of interpersonal exchange, made him feel even shittier than the actual punch. (To his face! His face.) There was no dance to it, no give and take. No chance to play a part, other than a target. (And then, a speed bump.)

He glanced over and noted the book, the towel. You went for a night swim? A subject of infinitely more interest.

It'd be a lie to say that Malory never talked about himself, but it'd also be a lie to say that he did so often or with any depth. Or many truths. It wasn't something people often noticed, though, not when they could be prompted to talk about themselves instead. Eles, frequently exceptional, was an unsurprising exception.

Even so, Malory replied, But wouldn't you look so lovely? Drifting like duckweed under the stars? It'd suit him, wouldn't it?

He thought, as that hand rose, that he might lean into it. Might take a little bit of the pampering comfort that he'd been determined to avoid only minutes ago. And then came the poke, and the pain and he was hissing with it before letting out a startled, joyful bark of a laugh.

Oh, it looked Eles had won tonight's little who can make the other vocalize first contest. It was cheating, but it was always a matter of cheating.

"Please," Malory replied, raspy and smiling until he remembered to be pitiful.

The choice was made with a dramatic sprawl, and of course that choice was the chaise lounge. Eles was forced to choose between hovering over Malory like a doting nurse, or squeezing alongside that sprawl of limbs and all their little mischiefs. It was the baggie full of ice, efficient, practical, and unlovely that shook off the last bit of upset.

"Most people," he mused, looking up at Eles, "...would be so much more helpless than you: most vulnerable person I've ever met, and without an ounce of helplessness to be found." With a dramatic sigh, he tilted his back and admitted, "For a second I thought, maybe I should tell him to be careful at night, the city's so dangerous. But you'd be fine, wouldn't you? Or mugged again and still some measure of fine and calmly figuring out your next steps."

"I just think you're so much more interesting than me," he deflected.

Shifting, Malory made room for the other body, then relaxed into Eles in a comfortable press. The wine was taken with silent observation of both choice and quantity, filed away into a slim but ever growing mental index. It was a little surprising, when, after taking a drink, he realized he'd been thirsty. Perpetually aware of his body to an almost obsessive degree, it was strange he hadn't noticed.

Maybe the hit had shaken Malory more than he'd thought.

"I like to cry about it. I love to cry about it," the boy who had yet to cry about it insisted. "And being useless is a priviledge." Malory added with a haughty little sniff, ruined by a soft hiss as the skin of his cheek pulled just so. He didn't hate the sting of it, the growing ache. He knew it was developing more rapidly than was normal, would disappear far sooner than it should.

Which wasn't very interesting compared to the boy who wasn't afraid of anything. After all, even if it was a deflection, Malory had been telling the truth. "Are you sure? There's quite a bit of everything, to not be afraid of any of it."

Doubt. Amusement. Challenge. All rang clear in that smiling voice.

In answer, Malory finished his drink with a flourish and stated, "Deal, but I'm going to be both useless and I'm going to cry about it. A lot." And loudly.