Eons of schooling to be doing some rich bastard’s (well, not the bastard’s) taxes. It was humiliating. Degrading. Below him.
But not even these bullshit taxes could get him down. Zechariah Meijer, Esquire, was a father now – and he had needed not even fuck the broad! And rich. The rich part only helped.

(Yet.)

There was an unusually cheery knock outside the door of Darius’ bedroom, bright and early.

There was an unusually cheery knock outside the door of Darius’ bedroom, bright and early. Though he had stubble for the first time since Tony knew when, he looked in the best spirits his employer had ever seen him in.

There was nothing at first before the door opened. His room was usually bright this time of day from the windows but there was curtains drawn, casting it into darkness and the man looked practically I'll.

"Oh.. Zechariah." His mood seemed to elude Darius who turned and waved him in. He winced as he moved a curtain to let in enough light to see, also lighting up an empty easel.

"Why are you here? I don't remember calling you.." he said before rubbing his face. He reached for a wine bottle but found it empty and dropped it in disappointment. His head moved to rest on the table as he closed his eyes.

Darius looked and smelled to be in a terrible state! Could Zechariah’s life get any better?

He made sure to plaster a look of concern on his face – not that he needed to. He was rich, too, now! And with no complicated entanglements of an insane father at that! Oh, he could jack himself off to that thought alone. But wait! Why was he in such a terrible state? Was it because Darius’ illicit, off-limits lover had married Zechariah?

His eyes slid to the empty bottle and back to Darius, stepping back so the dropped bottle failed to make contact with the gleaming toe of Zechariah’s shoe. If he had an iota less of self-controlled, he might have moaned right then and there.

That settled it. He was hiring a ghost writer to turn Darius’ life into a trashy pulp.

“I brought your taxes,” he said, in the gentle voice he usually saved for Darius’ mother. “Are you unwell?”

Darius rose a brow as if the other man had said he'd brought his magic potion for how much sense it seemed to make. Finally, realization came and he nodded a bit. "Oh, yeah.. leave it..anywhere." He slumped back into a chair.

"I made a terrible mistake." He sighed heavily as if he'd taken all the problems of the world onto his shoulders. "Oh, my friend. What do I do? I slept with my model." He rest his head back on the table and buried his face in hid arms. "Life is dismal and unnecessary."

Zechariah’s eyes raised to the giant, nude portrait of his wife not far from them, and then back to Darius.

Called it. And now he called him ‘friend’ because he thought that they had putted in the same hole.

“It is difficult to resist beauty,” he said, ‘sympathetically’.

This was a weird reaction for having boned his apparent lover. Especially when they both had seemed so into each other – Sonia had been touching his face, and Darius … Darius had fled.

Ah. Maybe not that into her. Zechariah helped himself to a seat across from Darius.

“Or is that not the case here?”

He needed to know for his novel, after all.

Darius sat up sharply and stared at him, maybe he still had a flair for the dramatic even as his world plummeted in a spiral. "It's not like that at all. I.. just did it because Calliope said that's what they wanted. I wanted to make my models happy."

He frowned and dropped his head back on the table. "I never had done it before. I only wanted to before with someone but not my models. They are supposed to be pristine from me. To keep them as something to be wa Ted and beyond me on a pedestal. It breeds artistic creativity. Now..." he covered his head and started to cry.

"It's ruined."

Calliope? She was a new one. Darius said ‘they’ instead of ‘she’, though, and Zechariah’s brows furrowed in rather open speculation. Multiple Calliopes? Was he forgetting an English pronoun? ‘They’ … they, they, they.

Mysterious.

But more importantly: God damn it. Zechariah stole his girl and he never even wanted to fuck her?

A reserved look shifted to an outright frown. Wait. Darius was his age and just had sex for the first time? With … someone he sounded rather, uh, unenthused about?

“Is this … heartbreak?” Zechariah ventured, more uncertain than he ever liked to be.

He glanced, briefly, to the empty bottle on the floor but looked back intently to Darius.

Darius lifted his head enough to glare at Zechariah. He didn't understand, no one who wasn't an artist couldn't understand. "I wasn't supposed to. Acting like that has ruined my abilities and my outlook. It's fine to look, that's how I could put beauty on canvas. But I lowered myself and Calliope to nothing more than animals." He covered his face again. Had Calliope had sex before? Almost definitely, they seemed quite confident in their skills, but that didn't matter.

"It is like.." He was quiet a moment as his mind searched up anything that could explain it. "Like having a present. It is wrapped up as the most beautiful present in the world and your mind can delight on opening it. And when you do, inside is like.. a new pair of trousers. Sure, it's nice. But it ruined the anticipation and now the box has been opened andyou can never relive that moment again. But it's worse."

He started to cry again. "The sex wasn't good. I don't know what good sex is supposed to be like. But that wasn't it. And it was my fault, it had to be. I am sure I disappointed Calliope. They acted like everything was fine, but they are a professional." He sighed sadly. "I ruined my talent and joy and it wasn't even something to write a symphony over."