Mac considered himself to be an aficionado of culture. But when the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra took to early morning rehearsals on the street outside his apartment, enough was enough. Especially if the kettle drums had to keep pounding like that, over and over and over…

"What about some Mozart?" he muttered.

"Sorry man, only got stuff that isn’t like, 1000 years old."

A male voice in his ear. This didn’t usually happen when he woke up. Mac opened one eye cautiously. This was not his room, this was not his bed, and the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra would have been a welcome intrusion. The kettle drums, though, they kept up a merciless assault behind his one closed eyelid, as his other eye glanced sideways in the direction of the male voice.

His first impression was of hair, lots of it, and hands busily pulling it back and trying to wrestle it into some sort of order. Beautiful hands. Familiar hands. His heart started to pound, keeping time with the drums in his head. Yep. Definitely a man.

"Mozart is not 1000 years old." OK, so he usually had better morning after lines, but desperation was starting to sing in his veins.

It must have come out as a squeak. Blair abandoned his hair and turned to look at him, caution evident in his eyes. "Oh man, it’s secret agent time."

Blair. His name was Blair. Oh shit. He had slept with the cop boyfriend’s roommate. The whole hideous evening came flooding back, adding a layer of nausea to his already overloaded system. So much for not doing hangovers – or men, for that matter.

Surely he hadn’t. Had he? He remembered the dinner, the chicken sitting inside him like a lead weight, the whiskey bottle his truest friend, and Blair’s magical hands. But what had happened when they got back to Jim’s place? He remembered sensations, touching, someone holding his hand. And dancing. Had there been dancing?

Blair was edging away from him, which was not easy in such a small bed. His hands were spread as though in surrender. "Oh man," he moaned, "I knew this would happen."

"I didn’t," said Mac. Was that desperate, pitiable whine really coming from him? Mac closed his eyes and lay back with a groan. This is what defeat feels like, he thought. Defeat after defeat. And now this.

"Don’t freak out," came Blair’s voice. It was a soft whisper, the shorter man leaning close to his ear, as though fearing to be overheard. Mac wondered what it would be like to have that soft mouth closer to his ear, grazing it with his lips, fucking it with his tongue.

Shit. Mac sat bolt upright. Where were these things coming from? It was Vic, wasn’t it, that motherfucking asshole. He had some sort of link with Vic, something that he couldn’t explain, straight out of a Hong Kong mystical martial arts nightmare. Or was that a Hong Kong porno shop? He had certainly seen the inside of plenty of those. Vic had developed a taste for gentleman callers, and he had passed it on to Mac. His buddy. His partner. Closer than brothers.

"Oh shit oh shit oh shit." If he held his head in his hands and continued this mantra for long enough, would it all go away?

Mac felt the sudden movement as Blair pulled away, heard the thud of his feet landing loudly on the floor.

"I’m sorry, man. Look I can explain. It’s not what you think. Just listen, okay?"

The voice was backing away. Mac tracked it automatically, his reflexes always alert for possible danger. Why hadn’t they kept him out of this one?

There was another thud. Blair had collided with something.

"Everything alright in here chief?"

Just to prove that things can in fact get worse. Alert to a new source of danger, his reflexes forced his eyes open, his body to swivel towards the new voice. His mind would much rather have gone back to sleep.

Jim was standing in the doorway, looking over Blair’s shoulder and surveying the room with a baleful eye. It looked almost as if Blair was in the bigger man’s arms, his ass at groin level, ready to dance. Ready to fuck.

I hate myself, Mac thought firmly. What he said was, "Good morning."

Jim looked a little taken aback, as though a pleasant greeting was the last thing that he had expected. Good. Always keep them off balance. Always keep one step ahead. On a roll, Mac added, "What’s for breakfast?"

Blair’s eyes had widened in disbelief. "Jim," he said, moving away from his roommate and turning to face him, so that his ass was now pointed at Mac’s groin. Un-fucking-believable. Jim and Blair were close enough to kiss. The thought did a dance with the drums in his head.

"Jim," Blair repeated when the bigger man didn’t move. "We need a moment here, okay."

"Anyone for aspirin?" a new voice added to the mix. Mac’s head returned to his hands. Just what this little party needed – Vic.

"I thought you might need these," said Vic. "I’ll put them on the bedside table," he added when Mac didn’t look up, didn’t take his head out of his hands. Perhaps this could be his new look. Mac Ramsey, the man whose face is so sexy that even his own hands can’t get enough of it. Vic must have wondered why he had started to laugh. Let him.

"Come on Jim, let’s go and get breakfast."

He looked up in time to see Vic steering the cop out of the room, those baleful eyes still looking over his shoulder, still fixed on Mac. Blair was standing to one side, looking as if his world was ending and he didn’t know what to do about it. The look that he was giving Jim could have powered the city of Cascade. He never looked at me like that, was Mac’s first thought. You don’t fucking want him to, was his second.

Mac got a grip. He wondered if it was obvious to Blair, now the only other person in the room, as he fixed his trademark smirk in place and prepared to charm his way out of another tight fix. You can do this, he told himself. Just another girl, just another meaningless fuck, just another morning after.

"I’m sorry," were the first words out of his mouth. This was not a good start.

"Look, man, it’s not what you think," said Blair, remaining by the door, as though Mac were more dangerous than he felt. "You don’t look so good," he added. "Why don’t you take those aspirin?"

I must look awful, thought Mac. He reached for the pills and water that Vic had so thoughtfully brought him. Asshole. Sure, he did the little things, the things that didn’t matter.

"So what is it, if it’s not what I think?" He tried to look like the sort of man who might be thinking something.

"Nothing happened," said Blair. "Nothing at all." He looked ashamed, unhappy, defeated. Mac wanted to stroke that beautiful hair and promise him that it was going to be alright. But it wouldn’t mean anything. And besides, Blair was too far away. He couldn’t reach him, even if he wanted to, needed to. He didn’t need to, did he? The capacity to give comfort, to need it in return, hadn’t the Tangs beaten that out of him? Hadn’t Li Ann?

"Come over here Blair," he whispered. It had come out more sultry than he intended. Blair looked at him as if he were the director in leathers. That’s better. I like it when he looks at me like that. Shouldn’t but I do.

"Come and sit next to me."

Blair moved cautiously towards the bed, his eyes half closed, part in desire, part in fear. This man’s afraid of me, thought Mac. Afraid of yet another macho asshole who’s gonna screw him and then screw his life.

"Do you like morning sex?" he inquired with a caress in his grin.

Blair started to laugh, long loud bursts of laughter. "I’m trying to reassure you that nothing happened, and you proposition me?" he demanded, looking almost relaxed for the first time that morning. "You really are something, you know that?"

Mac’s grin broadened. He liked Blair. That made this easier somehow, when really he thought that it should have made it harder.

"Have you seen ‘Spartacus’?" asked the anthropologist.

"Yes," said Mac cautiously, as the smaller man settled next to him on the bed. He was surprised by the sudden change of mood and direction. Perhaps he had finally met someone as quicksilver as himself. Their legs were almost touching, their hands only inches apart.

"Let’s do a little role play," said Blair. "We won’t be ourselves, we’ll be other people. The kind of people who tell the truth, OK?"

"OK," said Mac, still cautious.

"I’m gonna be Laurence Olivier, you get to be Tony Curtis."

Blair deepened his voice, as though slipping into character: "Well, little slave. Some men like to eat oysters. Some men like to eat snails. I like to eat both. What do you like?"

Mac grinned. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be so difficult after all.

"Well," he said, "I guess that I like to eat snails. All kinds of snails, a different snail for every day of the week. I tried oysters once. Actually, the oyster kinda tried me. I didn’t like it. The oyster’s dead now." Mac paused. What was he doing?? Had he really just said that?

"Are you sure that you couldn’t try oysters again, maybe if there wasn’t much else on the menu, or if there was a particularly fine oyster available?"

Mac wondered if this was the most ridiculous conversation he had ever had. But Blair was right about one thing. It was easier to tell the truth when you weren’t being Mac Ramsey.

"I think to change my diet like that might…might make me sick?" Somehow it had come out as a question. Yes. He turned to face Blair. He had finally asked a question of someone, a question that really mattered, something he desperately wanted to know the answer to. Something that was starting to burn in his gut like a fever, making him sweat, making him wonder if his life would ever be whole again. Or was it the hangover?

"I think it might too," whispered Blair. He squeezed Mac’s arm briefly.

But then his lips ghosted over Mac’s, just a touch, feather-light, before whispering, "On the other hand, it might not."

Mac closed his eyes. The aspirin must be kicking in, he thought, there was only one kettle drum now, beating out a slow, sad rhythm.

"Let’s get some breakfast," said Blair, as though the conversation was over.

What more was there to say?

"Are we still in character?" Mac managed a grin. "Do I have to get your breakfast, master?"

"Actually, I’m gonna get yours," said Blair. "Don’t tell the Romans at the Colonnade Room."

Mac groaned as memories of the dinner from hell flooded back, even as Blair disappeared out the door. His life was getting stranger and stranger. He wondered if Blair would bring him breakfast in bed, so that he didn’t have to face Jim and Vic. He also wondered whether Cascade had any decent snails. It sure had mighty fine oysters.