“There is a saying amongst my people. The brightest flowers grow atop rotting bodies.” Alaric shot back dryly. This was....comforting in a way. Much more so then Laurence ould know, the cat reckoned. Much more so then the fucking prick could be allowed to ever know all told. This was....consistent. This was normal. It was almost as if their world wasn’t about to be totally changed.<br/><br/>Just about now it seemed like an unwillingness to embrace that change was the only thing they had at all in common.<br/><br/>“You’ve always been a bit slow. This is what most people call a metaphor. It means that great beauty can conceal a stunning amount of ugliness.” The cat purred out the last sentence, satisfied at the blow he had landed. And....thoroughly enjoying the sparring with his husband to be. He would do his duty and marry this man. Bed him. But nothing said he would have to enjoy it.<br/><br/>And nothing said Laurence had to enjoy it either,<br/><br/>The bastard.