Nathaniel was wearing one of his favorite pairs of blue jeans, so faded that they were turning white in places. They fit his lower body like they were painted on, and it was a nice paint job. His shoulders had broadened since he moved in with me. He was filling out, developing the body he'd have for the rest of his life, if he took care of it. A "late bloomer," my grandmother would have called him. He'd looked younger than he was for years, a delicate body to match the eyes and hair. It had made him popular with a certain kind of clientele that his old Nimir-Raj had pimped him out to. Muscles moved in his arms, shoulders, and back, as he set the tray on the table and began to pass out mugs of coffee. I watched him asking, "How many lumps?" and "Do you want cream?" He moved gracefully around the table on his bare feet. He'd thrown his hair over one shoulder like a cape, so that it was out of the way. I'd have never been able to keep that much hair out of the way without help. Nathaniel made it look effortless.

I sipped coffee out of my penguin mug, and watched him play Suzy Homemaker. I waited to be irritated, but I wasn't. In fact, I was somewhere in the middle of amused, proud, and pleased. He was so cute when he did this.

Richard tensed whenever Nathaniel got close to him, as if he'd have moved back if it hadn't hurt. He didn't take coffee, because he didn't drink coffee. Nathaniel offered to fix tea, but Richard said he didn't want any.

Richard looked at me. "Jason never does this for Jean-Claude."

"Does what?" I asked.

"Play hostess."

"Nathaniel isn't playing," I said. "He's the closest thing we've got to a hostess. It's not really my gig."

Richard looked down at the floor as if looking for inspiration, or counting to ten. Since I hadn't done anything to piss him off in the last five minutes, I wasn't sure where all the tension was coming from. He looked at me with those solid brown eyes, and I still missed his hair. The sad remnants of curls were beginning to grace his head, but it wasn't even close to what he'd had before he got mad at himself and butchered his own hair. "He acts like your wife."

Nathaniel moved back to the coffeemaker, and since I was still leaning nearly in front of it, that put him beside me. He was very careful not to meet my eyes, almost as if he were afraid where the conversation would go.

"And that seems to bother you, why?"

"You're not sleeping with him."

"Yeah, I am, almost every damn night."

"Fine, you want to split hairs, we can do that. You aren't fucking him."

I shook my head. "You always were a sweet-talker when you got pissed."

"I'm not pissed, I'm trying to understand."

"Understand what?" I asked.

Micah wasn't watching Nathaniel or Richard, he was watching me. His chartreuse eyes were very serious, as if he were afraid of what I was going to do. I tried to give him a reassuring smile, that I wasn't going to blow this, but I'm not really good at reassuring smiles. So his eyes went from serious to a little worried.

"You and Nathaniel and Micah."

What I wanted to say was, Why do you need to understand it? But I was trying to be nice, or nicer. "What's to understand, Richard?"

Nathaniel began to pile his hair up into a high, tight ponytail. It was a style women wore more than men, that high, bouncy ponytail that moves when you walk. But his hair was long enough that, to keep it out of the way for cooking, he had to either braid it or do the bouncy ponytail. Once he figured out that I actually thought the bouncy ponytail thing was cute, he'd started doing it more. He washed his hands and went for the fridge.

"How can you watch him like that, when you aren't fucking him?" Richard asked.

By the time I looked fully at him, I knew my face wasn't friendly. "If you want to play rough, we can, Richard, but you won't like it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Fine," I said, "we'll play it your way. Why don't you watch Clair the way I watch Nathaniel, if you've fucked her?"

His face darkened. "Don't talk about Clair like that."

"Then don't talk about Nathaniel," I said.

Nathaniel seemed to be blissfully unaware of us. He got the big marble board out of the cabinet and put it down beside the sink. The marble was only used for one thing—baking of some sort. He moved to the fridge, getting out the dough that he'd made yesterday before we had to get ready for the wedding. Apparently, we were still going to have homemade biscuits, as planned.

"What is he doing?" Richard asked.

"I think he's making biscuits," Micah said.

Nathaniel nodded, making the long fall of auburn hair bounce like it was on a string. "Who's having biscuits, so I'll know how many to make?" He turned peaceful eyes to the kitchen, as if we weren't fighting. Of course, I'd seen what his memory of "fighting" entailed, so maybe by his childhood standards this wasn't a fight.

"I want some," Fredo said.

"Homemade biscuits?" Doc Lillian asked.

"From scratch," Nathaniel said with a smile.

"In that case, yes, please."

Nathaniel looked at Richard and Clair. "Do you want some? I know Gregory will."

"We're only staying until we're sure Damian is safe," Richard said.

He turned his lavender gaze to Clair. "Do you want a biscuit?"

She looked at Richard, sort of nervously, then nodded. "Yes, please." She patted his shoulder. "We didn't get breakfast."

Richard scowled.

I was willing to let the fight go. Nathaniel was right, without saying a word he was right, it hadn't been much of a fight. Of course, just as it takes two people to fight, it takes two sides to call a cease-fire.

"Why do you care what I say about him? He's nothing to you."

I sipped the last of my coffee, put the mug down carefully on the cabinet, and smiled. I knew without a mirror that it wasn't a good smile. It was the smile I got when I finally got to do something violent, when people had been making me behave. If I'd had any doubts about the smile, Fredo pushing himself upright, hands loose at his sides, clinched it. He knew it was trouble. The look on Micah's face said he knew it was trouble, too. Even Clair looked worried. Nathaniel had gone back to smoothing out biscuit dough. No matter what happened, we'd need breakfast, so he was going to make breakfast. In his own way, Nathaniel could be as practical as I was.

Richard scowled up at me, and I knew in that moment that he wanted to fight. And strangely, I didn't.

"Even if he was only my pomme de sang he wouldn't be nothing to me, Richard."

Micah had moved around to stand beside me. I don't think he was sure what I'd do, but, for once, I was okay. I took his hand, partly to reassure him, and partly because he was close enough to touch.

"If he's more than just food to you, why..." Again he seemed at a loss for words.

"Why aren't I fucking him?"

Micah moved me in against his body, so that he was spooning me and had his arms around me. Almost as if he thought he'd have to restrain me and give Richard time to get to a door. My temper wasn't that bad, honest. Well, most of the time. Well, some of the time. Oh, hell, I guess I couldn't blame him for being nervous.

I leaned in against Micah, let his body hold me like it was a favorite chair. I could feel tension I hadn't even known I was carrying seep out of my muscles.

"I thought you were screwing them both," Richard said.

"Such a nice turn of phrase," I said, and the tension just seeped right back in.

"You won't let me say sleep. I'm trying to avoid saying fuck. "