AN: Another ficlet prompted by tumblr. This time the sentence was "let me love you" to inspire/feature in the fic. Enjoy a little Daroga for the summer. ;D
Unedited.
Ismael had a terrible habit of catching Erik off-guard. Though, to be fair, it has always been rather difficult to find the masked gentleman in a pleasant mood, much less a stable one.
It was the middle of June, and Paris was intolerably hot for most people. Even a man of Persia such as Ismael found it to be unreasonable, and thus by the time their game of cards had been coming to a close (Erik winning perhaps too conveniently at times) they were both down to their shirt sleeves in Daroga's apartment on the Rue de Rivoli.
Erik's lanky body stretched flat in his chair, his legs bone straight and crossed at the ankle. Ismael had been watching as sweat poured down the sinews of his throat, been quite attentive to the flexing of his wrist as it shifted the paper fan back and forth through the air. He was the picture of nonchalance, and Ismael couldn't give a damn about the cards in his hand.
"I fold," he said, letting them fall carelessly to the table.
"Fold? What's the matter with you, fool? You have the best hand you've had all night!"
Ismael was silent as he leaned back in his seat, hands clasped between his legs. He tried to avoid Erik's accusatory gaze, but the yellow was magnetic. He was just begging to be looked at.
Erik stood abruptly, pecking at the gold and silver pieces they'd laid out as bets, and stuffing them in his pocket. The movement was hardly comforting, as Ismael had only to tilt his head to see the space behind Erik's ear, which was slick with sweat.
"You're the worst opponent I've ever had, Daroga. Can't you even pretend to want to win?"
"Why should I?" he responded, hands inching across the table as though to reach out. An entreaty. "I've won perhaps twice in all our years of knowing each other. I know it's nearly impossible."
His companion leaned over the table, long hands gathering the cards back into the deck. The clicking of the cardstock into place was not as harsh as Erik's words. "Then why do we play at all?"
One hand flew up to his face - the mask had been slipping due to the heat, and now he turned his head and pulled out his handkerchief from his pocket. Out came a sliver of white with it, which clattered silently to the floor behind Erik as he walked toward the door.
Ismael left his seat and dove for the card. Straightening up was a challenge when he was accosted by the perspiration now clinging to his back. He hadn't realized how deeply he'd sunken into that chair as the game had progressed…
Erik was heading for the door, already plucking his light, yet decidedly black jacket from the coat rack. "Can you not let a man enjoy your company without it being a contest, Erik?" he called.
The masked man scoffed, sliding one arm into a hole, then another. His palm circled the back of his neck to wipe away the bodily fluids it found there. "Erik can tell when he is merely being tolerated." Regrettably, he began to button up his dress shirt. "Don't be coy, Ismael. I know you have grown tired of me. That is why you no longer try."
His voice was as uncaring as ever, but his body grew slack with disappointment. As though he was only just realizing that what he said might be true.
Ismael's face seemed to burn more from this regret than it did from a hot Parisian day. His eyes fluttered down as he swallowed the rock in his throat. He turned the card over in his hand and found the courage he needed: the ace of hearts.
'Don't be coy,' Erik had said.
Well.
By God, he wouldn't be coy anymore!
He threw the card as hard as his heavy, heat-soaked limbs would allow. It shot about as far as a foot from Erik's body before it fluttered to the ground. Astonished, the taller man looked down as his shoe tipped it over, so that the face side was up.
"Why can't you just let me love you?"
The word "love" must have startled Erik so greatly that he backed into the coat rack and jammed his shoulder blades into one of the pegs. He gave an unseemly yelp and his hands flew up to his mouth, the spray of his fingers clumsily covering any bit of himself which might offend.
Ismael stepped forward, picking up the card again from underneath Erik's foot. He tucked the card gently into Erik's breast pocket, closest to his heart. "You don't have to cheat to get my attention, Erik. You've always had my attention."
Their heads were so close that their shared body heat could bake bread. Erik's frantic, uncertain eyes travelled all over Ismael's calm, assured visage.
"And my love."
His companion's dry, yellowed lips snapped open, sucking in a stale breath. His fingers curled down, stopping at his throat where they joined together in a nervous rub.
"You… don't find me insufferable?"
Bushy brows rose in laughter, and the grin was inescapably infectious. His hands unthinkingly wrapped around Erik's waist (which did nothing if not tense that skeletal body more).
"You are the most incorrigible, haughty, defiant man I've ever known." Gently, he placed bronze palms against either side of Erik's neck, drawing his forehead to his.
He could tolerate the heat if Erik was the one he shared it with. "Why wouldn't I love you?"
Erik caught Ismael's smile and didn't give it back.
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