Author's Note: I'd like to extend my apologies to all those of you whose reviews I have yet to answer. I promise to get to them as soon as I can.

Supplementary Dedication: I'd like to dedicate this chapter to ashlia, whose comments about the difference between loving someone intensely and loving them well were very helpful in writing it. Thank you very much for the inspiration, ashlia!

Chapter 4: True Colours

"Do you have everything?"

Florian looked back at Solomon, and chuckled. "I didn't exactly arrive with a complete set of luggage," he said as he tucked his own clothes, which were now rolled up into a convenient package, under his arm. "Thank you for everything, Solomon. I promise to send these clothes back once I've had them washed." He gestured to the loose-fitting shirt and pants that he now wore in their place.

Solomon shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I'm just glad we could find something that fit." He grinned. "Either you're way too thin, or I need to lose a few pounds."

"It's probably the former: the tailors are always shocked when they take my measurements." Florian's smile dimmed slightly. "Ray tries to get me to eat more, but..." He shrugged. "I'm sorry. Here I am, going on about something perfectly irrelevant, and taking up even more of your time."

"Not at all." Solomon's grin melted into an expression that was almost, but not quite, warm. "In fact, Florian... I wanted to let you know that, if you need anything else, and I can help out, I really don't mind." His gaze slid away from Florian's, with almost unconscious ease. "I mean, I can't offer much, obviously, but if you need someone to talk to, or just to get away for an hour or two, I'd be happy to be of assistance."

Florian's face passed through surprise on its way to cautious curiosity. "Why are you saying this, Solomon?" he asked quietly.

Solomon swallowed. "Well, I mean... I know it's a bit forward, especially given our recent history, but..." He sighed. "You want the truth?"

"Always."

"I think you could use a friend."

Florian's expression became unreadable, and Solomon fought the urge to fill the silence that followed with any number of moronic words until, finally, Florian said, "Thank you."

Solomon exhaled, only just becoming aware that he had been holding his breath. "You don't need to thank me. It's really nothing--"

"No," Florian interrupted. "I'm not thanking you for the offer, though I do appreciate it. I'm thanking you for paying enough attention to me to realize that it might be necessary." A sparkle passed through his eyes, and Solomon was terrified by how quickly he believed he could become used to observing it. "I promise to come by again soon... though hopefully not because I need something." He grinned. "I wouldn't, after all, want you to think that my association with you is entirely pragmatic."

"'Association', huh?" Solomon echoed.

"Of the most congenial nature, of course." Florian glanced at his watch, and frowned. "It's already eight-thirty?"

"Looks like it," Solomon replied, without checking his own watch.

"I really should be going, then. Ray must be frantic by now..." Fine lines spread across Florian's brow. "Do you think it was remiss of me not to send him a note, at least, just so he knew I was alright?"

"I think he'll be happy to have you home again." Solomon hoped his evasion didn't sound as obviously transparent to Florian as it did to himself, and realized that it must.

If Florian did notice, however, he let it pass. "You're probably right." He turned toward the door, almost hesitantly, and only looked back once he was over the threshold. "Thank you again, Solomon."

"My pleasure," was Solomon's automatic reply. He was shocked to discover how completely he meant it.

---

By the time that Florian arrived home, Noir was indeed frantic. In fact, the first thing that Florian heard when one of the cleaning maids answered the door was Noir's sharp voice, presumably directed at another servant. "If Monsieur du Rochefort returns while I'm out, you're to keep him here until I return. Under no circumstances is he to leave the house. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Count Courland," an infinitely softer female voice answered as Florian hesitated outside the open door of Noir's study, from where the voices seemed to be issuing.

"Alright, then. I'll be going." A scuffling, presumably the sound of Noir rising from his chair. "If anyone should call for me, make some excuse. You should be more than experienced enough at that by now, after all the..."

He trailed off as Florian stepped into the doorframe, and his worry evaporated into an emotion that Florian didn't quite care to define. "Good morning," he said sheepishly when it became clear that Noir wasn't inclined to speak first. "I'm back."

"Evidently." Noir's tone held an unmistakable chill, and it was all Florian could do to hold his ground. "Leave us," he said to the maid, and Florian was grateful for the sympathy in her face as she brushed past him on her way out.

Once they were alone, Florian drew a deep breath. "Noir--"

"Close the door." The absolute neutrality of Noir's tone was nearly more terrifying than his ire, but Florian obeyed nonetheless. Once it was done, he turned his back to the door, and waited for whatever was coming.

On the way over, Florian had prepared himself for every eventuality he could think of, most of which could be summed up quite nicely as a continuation of their previous argument. He had certainly not prepared himself for this, the cold, empty silence that now stretched out between them, like an impossible ravine. He waited, doing his best to calm his nerves, while Noir examined him, seeming to pay particular attention to his borrowed clothes and, he only now realized, unwashed hair. He watched Noir lean back in his chair, carefully select a cigar, light it, and inhale deeply before his impatience finally overcame his apprehension.

"Would you just say something?" His voice was quieter than he had anticipated. "I don't care if you shout, or if you're angry... just, please, talk to me."

"And what would you have me say?" The words were carefully paced, almost to the point of recitation. "Do you want me to apologize, perhaps, for driving you away? Do you want me to demand that you account for your whereabouts, and how they precluded your notifying me that nothing grievous had happened to you?" Here, Noir's voice accrued some intensity, but Florian was powerless to define its source. "Do you want me to confess how sick I've been, worrying about you, possibly against a backdrop of relieved tears?" He exhaled a puff of smoke and set the cigar down before clasping his hands on the desk. "Because, to be perfectly honest, Florian... I feel myself quite capable of any one of those reactions at this moment."

"I don't care what you say." This wasn't quite the truth, but it was close enough for Florian's purposes. "I just... I missed you, Noir."

Something flickered through Noir's eyes, almost too quickly to be apprehended, and though Florian could not classify it, it did not escape him. "Really? I never would have guessed." Despite the lack of venom in these words, they wounded Florian, perhaps because they struck perilously close to one of his own concerns: why did I never try to contact him? Why, even today, did part of me not want to come back?

"I'm sorry," he said.

Noir sniffed. "Whatever. You're back now. Just forget about it."

Florian would, quite possibly, never know what aspect of this reply caused what felt like the entirety of his inner being to shift, roil, and align itself against Noir. Perhaps it was the dismissive tone, which made him feel insignificant, beneath notice. Perhaps it was the words themselves, which underscored just how immature Noir was. Perhaps it was the similarity between this conversation and their last one, and what that seemed to say about their relationship as a whole.

Perhaps it was the realization that Solomon, who was barely an acquaintance, had made more of an effort to understand him than Noir seemed capable of putting forward.

Whatever it was, it was powerful to make Florian say: "You're such a spoiled brat."

A shallow spasm passed through Noir's shoulders, and he sat up in his chair, almost impossibly straight. "Take that back," he snarled.

"No." Florian licked his lips, but entertained no thought of backing down. "Why should I always be the one apologizing? Why is it always me who has to watch his tongue, and cower when you're in a bad mood? Why am I making all the effort?"

"Shut up," Noir said warningly.

"No!" Florian jabbed his left index finger at Noir, almost mechanically. "I've spent my life biting my tongue; I did it for my mother, and now I'm doing it for you. And it makes me sick!" He inhaled shallowly, shakily. "I know you've had a hard life. I know nothing's been easy for you. I've tried to be understanding, and supportive, because I believe that you're worth it." Compassion softened his stance, very slightly. "I wish you thought me worth that much."

"You have no idea how much you're worth to me." Noir's voice was weak, and it was an effort for Florian to quell the instinct to comfort him.

"No, you're right. I don't." Florian folded his arms.

"I love you." Even now, after all that had passed between them, the words were an obvious effort.

"I've never doubted that." Florian closed his eyes, and turned away. "I just wonder if that's enough."

Noir said nothing, and eventually, Florian left.