Everything had changed and yet some things remained constant. The mansion was a sprawling monument to excess; the gardens were always lush and verdant; every being harbored together in self-exile was hot as fuck...
The fridge was always full. The baths were always stocked with clean towels. The pools were always clear and sparkling. The bars were always stocked. There was always plenty of lube.
Always.
In isolation, everything blurred into a wash of colors generally ignored until something tilted sideways, and Pothos startled a bit, coming back to himself after gods knew how long he'd stood there watching Sebastian molest a statue. A statue. Of their mother.
"Huh." Turning on his heel, Pothos began the hunt. Every inch of the house, every acre of the garden. Attendants scurried like roaches at the flick of a light switch as he passed, desperate to avoid being dragged into an argument between the Erotes, but even in pain, Pothos moved faster than most. That it would have been faster had he been at full strength galled and with every second that passed, the pain grew until it eclipsed reason and by the time he stood under the gazebo Eros was perched atop like a fucking weather vane, Pothos was cranky.