[The look on the marquis's face as he stares at Dean's back, as Dean rustles around in the fridge, is a look almost never seen passing across his features at all. It's not a look of tenderness. It's not softness. It's just a quiet sort of respect. He is only undramatic when he feels truly accessed, when his self is seen, and so few people are capable of seeing him behind the masks and the dance and the costume and the posturing . . .]
[Until now, until here, until people like Dean who chipped away at him until he realized that, although he is mostly right, there have been one or two instances in his life in which he was not.]
[Dean turns back and grins at him and offers him a bottle of water. The marquis, reasserting his flamboyance, turns his nose up at it and rolls his eyes.]
[ Spam ]
[Until now, until here, until people like Dean who chipped away at him until he realized that, although he is mostly right, there have been one or two instances in his life in which he was not.]
[Dean turns back and grins at him and offers him a bottle of water. The marquis, reasserting his flamboyance, turns his nose up at it and rolls his eyes.]
Since when did you drink water? Give me a beer.