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Factors, factors, always factors. Had Gaultier's finger remained pressed as it was against his lips; had Cygnus imbibed twice as many glasses of champagne; had the party been thrown in someone else's house with someone else's wife the topic of choice of more than one knot of guests -- if any of these factors had been present, Cygnus would have parted his lips and sucked on that finger, the edges of his teeth pressed lightly against Gaultier's skin as his tongue encircled the top knuckle in a demonstration of what else it could do. They were not, however, and his mouth remained in that thin, pale line, almost as if frozen, even though he certainly had felt that faint touch Gaultier had deprived him of far too quickly.

Now, like Gaultier, Cygnus averted his gaze, letting it drift until it settled, again, on the other's shoes. It was suddenly unbearably hot, stuffy; the collar of his starched white shirt was strangling him, and he wanted nothing more than to tear open the top buttons and throw off the overlying dress-robes. Instead he raked a hand through his hair, palm sliding over his head and coming to a rest on the nape of his neck, where it remained as he said, "Does this make us even, do you think?"

Then, before Gaultier had even the chance to think about a reply, he closed the space between them, his words a low mutter as his eyes sought to hold the man's gaze. "I still will give you anything you want."