DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
FAMOUS FIRST WORDS
EIGHT
ARTHUR
SUNDAY
Six-thousand credits," said Arthur, dropping a blank envelope onto Ivan's crowded desk. "Loan payments for this month and last. It's all there," he added, irked, yet knowing the loan-shark would count it despite his word. Even though Arthur had never before failed to pay the monthly debt he had inherited, first from his dead step-uncle, then from his dead aunt; even though he had proven himself an honest client; even though he had sacrificed his own comfort—food, heat, transit fare, even electricity once—to pay when money was scarce, Ivan regarded Arthur like he did every other penniless beggar who came to his door. Never-mind that Arthur had known Ivan for nearly a decade, since he was fifteen-years-old; that he was the Russian's oldest client; that he and Yao had watched the impoverished and orphaned cousins grow-up. Never-mind any of it, because Ivan Braginsky did not play favourites. He was a cold and calculating businessman, who would not be rushed as he meticulously counted the banknotes in the envelope. Arthur waited impatiently as Ivan referenced his accounts book, taking his time to record the numbers by hand—no digital files to hack—leaving the Englishman to wait anxiously with Yao at his side.
"New hairpins?" Arthur asked, trying to mask his discomfort. He nodded to the Chinaman's head, where two glass hairpins secured the bulk of his hair in a bun, leaving the rest to hang down in a silky jet-black braid to his waist. Why, Arthur thought, did everyone—even criminal bodyguards—have beautiful hair, except for him? Maybe I should grow mine long, too? So many of the most beautiful people he knew had long hair: Yao, Matthew, Francis...
Yao's dark eyes revealed annoyance, but his expression remained impassive.
Arthur had secretly been trying to guess the Chinaman's age for years. Sometimes Yao's regal, unlined face betrayed wisdom—experience—that weighted his youth; other times, he looked younger than Matthew.
"You owe me interest," said Ivan, regaining Arthur's attention. He regarded Arthur with cold bemusement as he folded his large hands in front of him.
"Yes," Arthur acknowledged, still angry about his own careless mistake.
Ivan's smile curled into a teasing leer. "And how," he asked, standing and circling his desk, "do you intend to pay it?"
Arthur felt Ivan's hand even before it touched his face; a chill ran down his spine. Ivan's caress was as gentle as a lover's, slowly dragging his fingers across the Englishman's jaw to his throat, down his neck to his clavicle, teasing the collar of his shirt. But Arthur didn't flinch. His gaze held a challenge as he reached into the pocket of his overcoat and removed a second, smaller envelope, which he dropped inelegantly onto Ivan's desk, never breaking eye-contact.
"One-thousand credits in interest," he said evenly.
Ivan withdrew his hand. "I hope you haven't sold an organ," he teased, still grinning.
Both of them knew that Arthur had lived in fear of Ivan's interest rate—thirty-three percent—since he had inherited the debt.
"No, I did not. Thank-you for your concern," Arthur said.
Ivan's grin twitched. He liked teasing but hated being teased. "How then?" he asked. "Selling yourself would hardly fetch a thousand credits. Did you finally sell little Matvey?"
Arthur's jaw clenched. Don't you dare speak of him, he thought, feeling defensive. Not after what you did to him. You're supposed to deal with me, not him. We agreed that you would only deal with me!
"You have your money," he said tensely, fingernails biting his palms. "What does it matter how I obtained it?"
EARLIER
A thousand credits?" Mikkel laughed. He leant over a billiards table, angling his body like a cat about to pounce, a cue resting on his knuckles. A moment later, half-a-dozen pool balls rolled across the baize with a crack. He righted his posture, his broad shoulders and biceps straining the fabric of a faded red band t-shirt, and faced Arthur. "Are you out of your fucking mind?" he asked, delighted by the Englishman's gall. "Did you hear that, Porsche? Lexus wants a one-thousand-credit loan!"
Porsche was perched on the edge of the billiards table, swinging his legs childishly as he played a handheld video-game. The bubbly soundtrack was loud and distracting, and Arthur would have grabbed it and hurled it at the wall if he and the young Icelander had been alone.
"Porsche?" Mikkel repeated, nudging his pet.
In reflex, Porsche turned his head to press a habitual kiss to Mikkel's cheek, keeping one eye on his game.
Mikkel rolled his eyes, but indulged the boy, who obviously hadn't been listening. The word spoiled surfaced in Arthur's mind. The perks of being a favourite, he thought in disgust—disgusted by how jealous he was of the boy's easy lifestyle.
"Tell me," Mikkel continued, affectionately ruffling Porsche's hair; Porsche frowned, "what the fuck do you need a thousand credits for?"
It's none of your business, Arthur thought, but didn't dare say. It was one thing to challenge Ivan's authority, but Mikkel was too unpredictable and he liked playing games too much. The club had witnessed the Dane's temper on many occasions, which was as explosive as it was unprejudiced. Be it an underling or business partner, Mikkel didn't care. He liked to be provoked. Give me a reason, his royal-blue eyes seemed to taunt. Give me a reason to knock you down. The only people safe from Mikkel's physical anger—as far as Arthur could tell—were Club 69's dancers and wait staff. It might have been chivalry, since the dancers and waiters were smaller and weaker than he; or maybe he didn't think violence was necessary, since a verbal threat worked just as well to frighten them—so many of them had already been broken by fear and abuse; or maybe it had something to do with Jaguar, who's whispered requests never went unheard by the impulsive Dane.
Arthur watched Jaguar, now, as he floated across the floor. There was no other way to describe the way the Norwegian moved, like he was sleepwalking; like a pale-eyed fey stalking its prey, dangerous yet beautiful. Jaguar's penetrating gaze was the reason Arthur didn't lie to Mikkel.
"I need the money to pay a debt," he revealed, making it sound like a single, isolated circumstance.
"A debt?" Mikkel's eyes raked Arthur from head-to-toe, guessing at the sultry nature of the actor's debt.
"Yes," he said, feeling angry and ashamed, but not correcting the misconception. If Mikkel wanted to think of Lexus as an insatiable addict, then fine. Arthur would swallow his pride and let him think it, because Mikkel's opinion of him wasn't what mattered. The money was. The money is what he needed. Besides, the lie was safer than the truth.
Mikkel leant on his pool cue and regarded Arthur with lazy indifference. Finally, he sighed in mock-pity, and started to say: "I'm afraid you're too risky a financial gamble—" but Jaguar interrupted.
He slipped fluidly beneath the Dane's arm, looking like a mid-20th century film star with a mink coat draped over his shoulders. For a moment Arthur wondered if he was wearing anything under it before deciding that he would rather not know. Mikkel had odd taste, and the Norwegian was his favourite plaything. The luxury he showered upon Jaguar made spoiled Porsche look positively cute by comparison. Again, Arthur was seized by envy as he watched the Norwegian lean up and whisper into Mikkel's ear, not because he wished their positions were switched—he had no desire to be Mikkel's lover—but because of Jaguar's obvious influence over the powerful club owner.
"—but I'm feeling generous," Mikkel changed his mind, grinning slyly as he pulled Jaguar snuggly against his side. "I'll lend you the money, Lexus, and I won't even charge you interest on the return."
"Why?" Arthur asked before he could stop himself. He was looking at Jaguar, who's cold gaze unnerved him.
"Because I'm such a nice guy," Mikkel smiled, kissing his pet's head. "All I ask in return is that you remember this," he added, looking directly at Arthur. His tone changed, warning Arthur that he would repay the debt with more than money someday. "Remember," he repeated, fanning through a leather wallet swollen with banknotes, "just how generous I can be."
Arthur nodded and mutely extended his hand.
Mikkel paused, holding the loan out of reach. "Say it," he ordered. "Say you'll remember, Arthur Kirkland."
"I'll remember your generosity," Arthur promised, closing his hand around the desperately needed money; the money that would spare his bones if not his pride. But it came at a price—more than a debt, more than a promise.
The moment he accepted Mikkel's money, he ceased being Arthur Kirkland for real and finally became what he had managed to avoid for seven long years:
Lexus, another slave indebted to Club 69.
IVAN
PRESENT
Ivan considered Arthur for a minute, then ceded.
"You're right. I don't care how you got the money," he smiled. "I only care about you, Arthur. I care about all of my clients' well-being, and whether or not they can continue making their monthly payments. It's illegal to leave a debt unpaid, you know. I'd hate to see you behind bars. So, let's not make a habit of missing payments, yes? Better for you. Better for little Matvey," he threatened, knowing it would fuel Arthur's ire. And loyalty. The Englishman would never risk his cousin's safety again. Violence, Ivan knew, was a better—faster—instructor than mercy. It's how he had been taught, too.
Arthur nodded curtly and left.
Ivan waited until the front doorbell signalled Arthur's departure before speaking:
"I know what you're going to say—"
"Too little too late," Yao interrupted, turning his back.
Ivan sighed, reading more than meager disappointment in his bodyguard's—his lover's—tense posture. "I'm doing everything I can," he promised.
"Do more," was Yao's cold reply.
"I would if I could, solnyshko," he said, gently placing his hands on Yao's shoulders, which were arched like a cat's. He leant down to kiss the Chinaman's cheek, but Yao turned his face away, so Ivan's lips dipped to his slender neck instead. "He won't fail to pay again," he said in appeasement. "Not after what we did to Matvey—"
Yao's hand flew up and slapped Ivan away. "Yong Soo is gone!" he spat , losing his temper. It was testament to his frustration, for Yao rarely lost self-control. He whirled and faced Ivan, unafraid of the size difference between them; that the top of his head barely cleared Ivan's shoulder. His brown eyes blazed with anger, grief, and fear. "We nearly had him. We could have bought his freedom, but we were short—three-thousand credits short," he emphasized darkly. "Now he's gone. I spent years trying to find him and now my little brother is gone!"
Impulsively, Yao gabbed the closest thing to him—a jade paperweight—and hurled it at the wall, causing the drywall to crack.
"We found Li..." Ivan began, but he stopped when Yao covered his face with a slender hand. His whole frame shuddered.
Ivan wanted to comfort his distraught lover, but the words got stuck in his throat, choked by guilt. It was just as well, though. Empty words would not soothe Yao; the facts were what mattered to him. And the fact was, Ivan had had the opportunity to buy Yong Soo's freedom from slavery, and he had failed. He couldn't blame Yao for being upset with him, even if it was just bad-luck. You chose a hell of a month to pay late, Kirkland, he thought bitterly. Now, he would be lucky to get eye-contact from Yao let alone sex. Not that Ivan didn't sympathize with his lover's predicament. Yao might have escaped the slave traffickers who had abducted him as a child, but his siblings had not, which is why he had spent the last twenty years searching for them; and why Ivan's business had become steeped in illegal activity, all to get the money needed to buy Yao's siblings' freedom. But it was difficult to find children who were no longer children; teenagers, now, with no names or addresses; who were nothing but slaves in an underground trade that was operated with maximum stealth. In twenty years they had only managed to liberate one sibling.
One down, five more to go, Ivan thought, feeling the weight of responsibility. And disappointment.
Yong Soo had been so close, just three-thousand credits out-of-reach.
Ivan knew that a simple "I'm sorry" would never suffice.
"I'll do better next time," he swore instead, gathering Yao into his arms.
The tender embrace seemed to break Yao's defense and he crumbled, letting Ivan take his full weight. It was a rare thing, but Ivan loved when he could hold Yao like this. Private. Intimate. He liked being able to lend comfort to his lover in moments of vulnerability, as if their positions had been switched and it was he who needed to protect Yao, instead of Yao always taking care of him. He liked being needed.
"I'll find them, all of them," he promised, rubbing Yao's back. Yao grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and buried his face. The hairpins he had given Yao winked like crystals in sunlight. "I won't let anything happen to them. Or to you."
Yao tipped his head up, chin resting on Ivan's chest. His eyes looked big and wounded, but no longer unkind. "It's my job to protect you, not the opposite," he said in apology.
Ivan smiled. "And I trust you with my life, solnyshko."
Yao cupped Ivan's face and stood up on his toes; Ivan bowed his head to meet his lips for a feather-soft kiss.
"Trust me," said the Russian. "I will find and liberate your siblings, lyubov moya. I will not see you suffer anymore. If I have to wring Arthur Kirkland for every credit he has—if I have to break every bone in his body—I will."
ARTHUR
LATER
Arthur grimaced at his backside in the mirror, hidden before in trousers that fit him perfectly well before Lovino had taken a needle to the seams; now, they were so tight that the shape of his buttocks was on wanton display.
"Leave something to the imagination, would you?" he complained, shifting edgily from foot-to-foot and then flinching from a pin-prick.
"Hold still," Lovino mumbled around the pins in his mouth, dark fabric pinched between his deft fingers.
The Italian rarely concentrated on anything so intently, but tailoring was one of his great talents and he took it seriously. He was good at it. He may have been a gifted dancer, but it was something he didn't need to think about; it came naturally, much to his roommates' incredulity. But Lovino never looked more professional than when he was tailoring someone's appearance, using his friends like human canvases for his favourite art. And art, it was. He had an unrivalled eye for fashion that would not be disputed. If Lovino told you that you looked good in something, there was no use arguing with him; he wouldn't listen, and you'd be a fool not to take his advice. Arthur knew this, and secretly trusted Lovino's taste, but he still felt unlike himself when he looked in the mirror.
"Stop clenching," Lovino said, annoyed. He removed the pins and straightened the Englishman's waist. "And don't be such a prude. You should be thanking me, I just gave you a figure."
"I already had a figure," Arthur argued, trying to tug down his shirt. "It just wasn't on display before."
Lovino rolled his eyes. "What are you so afraid of? That someone might actually see you as something sexy in real life? You've got a great ass, Art"—he slapped him playfully—"show it off."
Arthur jumped in surprise, going red, but was saved from replying when Matthew appeared, dressed in blue-jeans and a hockey jersey over a long-sleeve t-shirt.
Lovino shook his head. "I can't even look at you right now."
Matthew shrugged. "I'm going to a hockey game," he said, grabbing a pair of gloves; searching for the ones with the least amount of holes. "Believe it or not, I'm actually wearing the appropriate attire for once."
"I officially hate hockey," Lovino deadpanned. "At least put on jeans without tears in them," he insisted.
"I thought tears were in fashion?" Matthew asked without looking up.
Arthur privately chuckled at the despairing look on Lovino's face.
"Tears in designer jeans!" he corrected. "Jeans that look new, that say style! not I-lost-a-fight-with-a-chain-link-fence, which is what yours say."
Again, Matthew shrugged. He headed for the door, but reflexively caught a bottle that Lovino suddenly threw at him.
"At least fix your hair," he begged. "It's still a date, Matt. Technically, it's your and Gil's first date. You want him to think you look nice, don't you?"
"Pft,he could grow horns and a tail and Gilbert would still think he looked nice," Arthur dismissed.
"Just use it," Lovino pointed to the bottle, ignoring Arthur. "It'll only take a minute and it'll make your curls even softer. It'll make them bounce."
Matthew read the label, then looked suspiciously at Lovino's relatively straight hair. "Where did you get it?"
"I saw it at Francis' place when Toni and I were there."
"You stole it from Francis?" Matthew gaped, dismissing the possibility that Lovino had legally purchased the same product for himself.
"What? No... I don't do that..." Lovino said with shifty eyes that proved he did. "Oh, it's fine!" he huffed when the Canadian stared at him, horrified. "He won't care, Matt. He'd probably have given it to you if you'd asked."
"But I didn't—"
"Just use it," Lovino interrupted. "You and Francis have the same curly hair and his always looks good."
Arthur gasped and pressed a hand theatrically to his heart, pretending to be scandalized. "Did you just pay Francis Bonnefoi a compliment?"
"Fuck off," said Lovino, already squeezing a dollop of product into Matthew's hand.
Matthew sighed in resignation and quickly fluffed the product through his curls, then grabbed his wallet—his fake I.D.—and hurried out the door.
"Where's your coat?" Arthur hollered after him, but Matthew's dismissive reply went unheard, as he was already leaping down the stairs.
Lovino rolled his eyes. "Stop mothering him, Art. He's not a fucking duckling."
Arthur bristled as he re-buttoned the shirt Lovino had lent to him. "It's December," he argued pragmatically. "And Matthew notoriously fails to plan for the weather. He refuses to acknowledge that it's cold outside."
"I honestly don't think he even feels it. But come on, you don't think Gilbert will keep him warm—?" Lovino asked, mock-innocent.
Arthur threw a glare at him.
"Oh, lighten up!" Lovino huffed. "You've been tense all day, Art. Do you not want to go out with Francis?" he asked, his tone softening into a query.
"Of course I do," Arthur replied too fast.
"Are you sure?" The laughter had fled Lovino's face, leaving suspicion—maybe pity. "Preparing for a date is supposed to be fun. It's supposed to make you nervous in a good way. You're supposed to look happy about it, Art, not like you're about to throw-up."
"Thank-you, Lovino," Arthur snapped curtly, "but I really don't need your advice. I have dated before."
Lovino stared at Arthur's back for a moment—Arthur could see his reflection—then surrendered his hands in defeat. "Fine," he said defensively. "I was only trying to help. Have fun."
Arthur's stomach twisted when Lovino's bedroom door closed—more forcefully than necessary. He stared at his pale, freckled face in the mirror, and silently asked: Why do you do that, Arthur? Why do you push people away?
The truth was, Lovino was right. A part of him really did feel like he was going to vomit, and he was afraid he knew the reason why.
He's right, he knew, feeling ashamed of himself. This isn't how you're supposed to feel before a date.
Not like Matthew, who was excited to see Gilbert again, his eyes reflecting an infatuated heart full of hope.
Or Lovino, who was practically vibrating with the anticipation of seeing Antonio, and hiding it just barely better than the impatient teenager.
So, why not me? Why can't I feel that same happiness—that confidence—knowing that I'll be with Francis?
He liked Francis, he really did. He felt connected to Francis in a way he never had before, not just because of the sex, but on a personal level, too. He trusted Francis.
But trust was dangerous when every day was a fight to survive, and love was a distraction he couldn't afford.
Wait—love?
Arthur shook the unwanted thought from his head and straightened his cuffs.
He smoothed down his trousers, which hugged his legs tight.
He fussed over the state of his defiant hair, nervous about the date, and frustrated with himself for being so.
I can't believe I'm doing this, he thought, fidgeting with his locks. I swore to myself I'd never put effort into pleasing a man—not in real life—and now look at me!
Lovino had once said that putting effort into yourself showed your partner how much you cared about him. "It lets him know he's worth it," he had said.
Nonsense, Arthur thought, buttoning and re-buttoning his shirt. We're going to The Royal—an invisible fist squeezed his heart—they have a strict dress-code. That's all.
Spontaneously, Arthur reached for the bottle Matthew had left, but the product only caused his hair to stand on-end. Fuck, he cursed, hurrying to the kitchen sink to wash it out.
It didn't matter if he used products or not, Arthur had always hated his hair, and had always envied Matthew his beautiful curls; curls he now saw on Francis whenever they met. He had always hated his figure, too—skinny and shapeless, and bony in places that shouldn't be—and had always wondered why an adult film director had approached him in the first place.
"Because you've got the look I've been searching for, the kind of helplessness men can get-off on," he had said, which had done little for Arthur's fragile self-esteem. "But get rid of the freckles," he had ordered, without giving a reason aside from: "They make you look too young." (I am young! he had thought, only eighteen-years-old at the time.)
His fingers itched to grab for the concealer, now, to hide the freckles he had been taught to hate, but Lovino had hidden it, telling Arthur he looked better without it. Well—almost. Lovino's exact words had been: "Stop it! You look like a fucking Tim Burton character with that crap caked on your face!"
"Besides," he had added, calming down, "it's Arthur who's going out with Francis tonight, not Lexus."
Arthur, he thought, staring at himself as the clock ticked down the minutes until Francis arrived.
Did he look okay? Had Lovino's craft disguised his flaws? Would Francis think he was trying too hard?
It had been a long time since anyone had wanted Arthur. Lexus had been his shield for six years.
I really do feel like I'm going to be sick, he worried, thinking he might feel better if he just forced himself to vomit. But he never got the chance.
Francis arrived right on time, dressed in a smartly-cut suit that accentuated his height, and holding a long-stem red rose in his hand. "Bonjour, chéri," he said in greeting.
And just like that, Arthur's anxiety settled. The Frenchman's unassuming nature and easy smile relaxed him. His body-language was open, but not intimidating; and his hands didn't grab or grope when he offered the gift. Arthur accepted the rose mutely as his eyes abashedly lingered on his kind, handsome date. He's so gorgeous, he thought, privately reflecting upon the intimacy they had shared; the look and feel and taste of Francis' beautiful body, and the sweet honesty of his worshipful words. A single glance from Francis Bonnefoi could make you feel like you were the most precious thing in the world—or, that's how he made Arthur feel, anyway. If it was a role he was playing, it was a good one; one Arthur would gladly stay lost in if he could. But he didn't think it was. Since their introduction, Francis had never lied to him, never cheated him, and never hurt him, and something told Arthur he never would. Despite his talent for role-playing, the Frenchman's eyes were trustworthy.
And that was the difference between them: You may promise never to hurt me, Francis, but I can't promise never to hurt you.
Those blue eyes sparked, now, as they roved over Arthur's figure; not with greed or lust, but in pleasure, as if the Englishman was something truly lovely to look upon. It made Arthur's heart flutter.
When their eyes finally met again—each one having indulged himself in the other—Francis merely shook his head as if he couldn't believe his good-fortune. "You really are beautiful, Arthur," he said easily, like a couple who had been together forever; as if his statement was simply fact, "but tonight you look especially so."
Arthur felt himself blush as he reached for Francis' offered hand. "Thank-you," he said politely, breaking eye-contact lest he lose himself in those blue eyes. "You look very nice, as well. Shall we go?"
He started down the corridor, but stopped when Francis didn't move; the tether of their connected hands holding him back. Curious, he turned and found the Frenchman's gaze appreciating the subtle curve of his backside, a less innocent curl to his lips.
"If you're finished," Arthur said, piercing Francis with a look of mock-disapproval.
Francis chuckled and pulled Arthur back against his chest, his free hand dropping to cup Arthur's buttocks. "I'll never be finished with you," he whispered, then kissed Arthur's lips.
The words were a tease, but Arthur felt them in his heart. The touch was a jest, but there was more affection than want in Francis' hand. When their lips parted, their gazes lingered for a moment, and Arthur realized that he was looking into the eyes of a man he could easily love—if only he would let himself fall.
"Come on," he said, stepping back; stepping out of temptation's reach. "We don't want to be late."
LOVINO
Antonio rapped jauntily on the door and it swung open, surprising him. He lifted an eyebrow at Lovino. "Still haven't gotten this door fixed, huh?"
Lovino shrugged. He was standing at the stovetop, stirring tomato sauce.
Antonio kicked off his shoes, tossed his coat over the back of a chair, and wrapped his arms around Lovino from behind. "Hola, cariño," he said, kissing the Italian's cheek. Lovino smiled and turned his head, kissing Antonio properly, their noses brushing and faces lingering close together after their lips parted. "Everything smells delicious," Antonio praised, playfully burying his nose behind Lovino's ear, implying the Italian's inclusion.
Lovino laughed and lowered the stovetop to a simmer. Then he stepped out of Antonio's arms, pretending to survey the set table, but secretly wanting to survey Antonio. He was dressed casually today in blue-jeans, a t-shirt, and a simple, cosy cardigan. On anyone else it would have looked domestic, an outfit that screamed movie-night not date-night, but on Antonio it looked good. Everything did. The man oozed effortless sex-appeal. And it's all because of that smile, Lovino thought, smitten. It's definitely his best feature.
He felt a pull in his heart as he stared at Antonio, who was leaning casually against the counter, his hands in his pockets, his legs crossed at the ankles. He looked like a lazy college student, and yet—That smile. When Antonio realized he was being ogled, his lips turned impishly up at the corners and his green eyes twinkled seductively. Lovino felt that look; first in his stomach, then in his groin.
"So, Chef," Antonio teased, sauntering over. "What's on the menu?"
"Pizza margherita."
"Oh yeah?" Antonio rested his hands on Lovino's hips. "With San Marzano tomatoes?" he asked, kissing the Italian's neck.
"Obviously," Lovino said, trying—and failing—to sound blasé. His heart was pounding.
"And mozzarella cheese?" the Spaniard murmured, sucking Lovino's collarbone and slipping his warm hands up under his shirt.
"Yes."
"And basil?"
"Mm hmm..."
"And extra-virgin olive oil?" Antonio purred, somehow making an ordinary cooking lubricant sound like something pornographic.
"Lovinito?" he queried, pushing his leg snugly between Lovino's.
"Y-yes," Lovino gasped, clutching Antonio. "Yes."
He opened his eyes—when had he closed them?—and saw Antonio staring down at him. He looked hungry, but not for food.
"Sounds good," he said, gently brushing noses with Lovino, his lips parted. "But you know what really works up my appetite?"
Lovino couldn't help the bubble of laugher that escaped him. "You really need to work on your pick-up lines, Green Eyes. They're so bad," he said, wrapping his arms around the Spaniard's neck.
"Oh—?" Antonio pouted, but it didn't last. His lips—those full, soft, smiling lips—revealed a challenge. "Then what does that say about you?"
Antonio's hands dropped to Lovino's upper-thighs and lifted him off his feet. "Come on, what do you say to a little appetizer?"
Lovino snorted. "I thought you were dessert?"
Antonio wiggled his eyebrows. "I'm everything, cariño."
ANTONIO
Lovino had Antonio half-undressed by the time they reached the Italian's tiny bedroom. It was the first time Antonio had ever been in Lovino's room, but he didn't pause to survey it, too preoccupied by his boyfriend's exploratory hands.
He loved Lovino's artful hands, soft and delicate and greedy. He loved the fragile strength in them, and the way they clutched him when the Italian was afraid, seeking the Spaniard's protection. Antonio liked it because it was instinctive, a sign that Lovino felt safe with him, he trusted him. He loved the tenderness in Lovino's hands when they held him, massaging his skin or combing through his hair, whispering an intimacy the Spaniard had never felt before. And he loved the playful seduction of Lovino's hands, the gentle touches that teased his basest desires; the way the Italian squeezed him, and stroked him...
"Ah," Antonio groaned, bowing his head to Lovino's shoulder.
"What's wrong, Tonio?" Lovino grinned wickedly. He rubbed the back of Antonio's neck with one hand, and squeezed his cock with the other, his delicate hand buried to the wrist inside Antonio's boxers. "All out of lines, baby?"
Antonio nipped Lovino in reply, tugging his shirt off his shoulders.
They fell onto the bed together; Antonio sitting on the edge, and Lovino sitting on Antonio. He's so beautiful, Antonio thought, admiring the Italian's modelesque figure as he stretched his arms overhead, angled to let Antonio pull off his shirt. Then he arched forward, resting his weight on Antonio's upper-body while the Spaniard slid each slender leg out of his trousers. He wasn't wearing anything underneath and his skin glowed soft in the bedroom light, a cocoa colour bereft of tan-lines; perfect except for a pale scar on his hipbone. Antonio's mouth practically watered at the sight of his boyfriend's naked body: narrow hips that dipped gently into the curve of his backside, which Antonio had seen many times on-stage, but had never touched skin-to-skin; and the length of his cock, stiffening with desire. So beautiful, he thought, knowing the sight would never fail to arouse him.
Antonio had seen Lovino nude before—all the club patrons had—but here, in the Italian's small, windowless bedroom, the sight was different. It was a safe, intimate space; a private place for a private act that wasn't a show. The club was a tease, but Lovino's bedroom was not. The dancer may have entertained countless men out there in the club, but Antonio got the feeling he did not entertain them in here. The apprehension in Lovino's golden eyes told him as much. It told him that this was different, something that Lovino hadn't done in a long time, and it was scaring him despite his desire, because it really meant something to him.
It means something to me, too, Antonio thought, privileged to share the intimate experience. That you trust me like this means more than you could ever know.
"Lovino," he whispered, kissing the Italian passionately, "you're so beautiful."
Lovino purred in reply and shifted closer so that Antonio's liberated cock touched his. Then he took both in his hand.
I love you, Antonio thought, his mind going foggy with lust. He lifted Lovino up enough to plunge his fingers inside of him, encouraged by the Italian's soft mewl: half-gasp and half-sigh. A flood of possessiveness surged through him then, making his heart race faster with carnal greed. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears; he could feel it hardening his cock. His hands squeezed Lovino, petting him, groping him. He wanted the man so badly. He wanted to take him and mark him like a beast, some primal part of him wanting to claim Lovino as his so no one else could ever have him. Mine, growled that animal instinct; that aggressive voice that urged lust and violence.
God, I love you so much, he thought, laying Lovino down on the bed and crawling eagerly over him. I never want to be without you. I never want to let you go.
"Tonio?" said Lovino.
He looked ravaged already, his hair tousled, his skin flushed, his lips swollen—but his eyes were focused and big with fright.
It broke the possessive spell and pulled Antonio back to the surface of self-awareness. He blinked and looked down at Lovino, who was staring meekly up at him.
"Tonio... don't hit me, okay?"
And just like that, the hunt ended. Antonio was himself again, staring down at his beautiful boyfriend with a mix of shock and shame on his face.
"Oh, Lovi..." he said as guilt replaced lust. "I... I would never hit you. I..." He sat up, distancing himself from Lovino, removing his hands. "I'm so sorry you think I would..."
"No, it's not that." Lovino sat up, too. He reached out to touch Antonio's hand. "I'm not accusing you, Toni. I just... I know that some guys like to play those kind of games, and you... well, you strike me as one of them. And that's fine," he added, trying to be non-judgemental. "It's just... I don't, okay? I don't like those games."
Antonio squeezed Lovino's hand. "I scared you, before..."
"No," Lovino lied, shaking his head too ardently in overcompensation. "It's not you, Toni. It was never you. It's just that I..." He paused, pursing his lips. "It's not you, okay?"
Antonio saw the fear in Lovino's gold eyes and it cut him. The Italian was trying to be strong, trying to forget something that obviously frightened him, something that had left a—literal—scar.
"Who's SA?" he asked, cautiously touching the scarred initials on Lovino's hip; not entirely certain he wanted to know.
As expected, Lovino shivered. "It's nothing—" he started, but Antonio shook his head.
"He's not nothing," he guessed, trying to keep the fury out of his voice. "He was something. A big something. And he hurt you."
Lovino was quiet for what felt like a long time, his gaze downcast as he struggled to find the right words. But Antonio exercised patience. He lifted the bed-sheet and draped it over Lovino, so the Italian wouldn't feel so exposed. Then he sat back and waited.
"My ex-boyfriend," Lovino said slowly, hugging the sheet to himself, "liked to play games like that. He liked to tie me up, and hit me, and use toys to..."
"Did you tell him you didn't like it?" Antonio asked. "Did you ask him to stop?"
Lovino pierced him with a defensive look. "What do you think I am? Of course I did."
"Then why didn't you leave?"
Lovino pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them. "I don't know," he said, looking away. "Because I was too proud and stupid to admit I was wrong?
"I was in University when I met Sadik. I used to go to the art school uptown. One day I saw him on the street, and he was handsome and funny and charming and when he smiled at me I smiled back..." He shrugged, though his body-language was tense. "My parents despised him. They thought he was a worthless nobody, which, of course, only made me more attracted to him. I started to spend a lot of time away from home, away from school. I failed classes and rowed with my family. Sadik dragged me into a lot of trouble... and I let him."
"That doesn't sound like you," Antonio said honestly. Lovino had a catty tongue and a passionate temper, but he was not what society would call a bad kid.
"It wasn't me," Lovino admitted, "but I wanted it to be, because that's what Sadik wanted. He wanted to be with someone just as wild as he was, to have an ally in his fight against the world.
"I dropped-out of school in my second year and spent a lot of money on things I shouldn't have. I did a lot of things I wish I hadn't. I... I had to have my little brother bail me out of jail once. He promised not to tell my parents, but..." Lovino shook his head, trying to shake the tears from his eyes, "I felt so ashamed of myself. I never wanted Feli to see me like that. It wasn't my proudest moment," he understated. "Eventually my father gave me an ultimatum: I had to break-up with Sadik and promise never to see him again, or be disowned."
Antonio felt that sad word—disowned—in his heart. "You left," he said; a statement, not a question.
Lovino nodded. A tear rolled down his cheek.
"I packed my bags and I left my family and I haven't been back since."
"That's how you ended up here?"
Lovino sighed deeply, like he thought: Might as well tell the whole story.
He didn't look at Antonio as he talked:
"At first it was exciting slumming it like two rebels, but it wasn't so fun when the money ran out, and I had to pawn all my stuff just so we could eat. Sadik and I started fighting. God, we fought all the time. We screamed at each other so much the neighbours called the cops. He wanted me to get a job, so I did. I got a job at a night club—not Club 69, a different one—and he hated me for it. Actually, in retrospect, I think I did it just to spite him. That's how much our relationship had deteriorated. Then one night he hit me, and..." another tear fell, though this one went unnoticed, "...it was like something in him changed, like something woke up. I think all the drugs had fucked-up his head. He had an undiagnosed mental illness. It could've been treated—I'm sure of it—but he refused to acknowledge it, and all of the recreational drugs didn't help. He was paranoid and possessive and his moods could change in a heartbeat. He could go from happy to angry in the same breath. It was scary. Eventually nothing made him happy. I couldn't keep him happy. And it just kept getting worse."
"So, what happened? What made you finally leave?" Antonio prompted.
Lovino took a deep breath before answering.
"He broke my arm," he said, almost casually, "so I left. I told him if he ever came near me again I'd testify in court and he'd go to prison."
"Was there—?"
"Evidence?" Lovino supplied. "Oh yeah, evidence aplenty. To be honest, I'd been collecting it for a while, just in case I needed a court order to help me escape him."
Antonio frowned. He didn't like Lovino's word-chose: he used escape when he could have simply said leave.
"So, why didn't you use it?" he asked. "Why didn't you testify?"
"I don't know. Because I'm stubborn?" Lovino asked rhetorically. He wiped his face, trying to put up a brave front as he spoke; trying to regain a shred of control. "I know it sounds stupid, but if my ex-boyfriend goes to prison, then my father was right."
"Is that really such a bad thing?" Antonio asked gently.
As someone who had lived in an overcrowded, underfunded orphanage until the age of sixteen—when they practically threw him out and told him never to come back—he couldn't imagine any disagreement being worth the loss of one's family, even if the price of reconciliation was pride. But Lovino's reply was definitive:
"Yes," he said, without hesitance. "It would be bad. You don't know my father. He might let me come back home—if I begged—but he'd hold it against me for the rest of my life. It wouldn't matter what else I did in life. I could achieve sainthood and my father would still look at me in disdain. He would still talk about me like I was a jailbird on parole. He would never, ever let me forget my mistake.
"I don't want to live in Sadik's shadow like that," he said quietly. "That's why I can't go home."
"But you hate it here," Antonio knew. (He didn't need Lovino to tell him; he knew.) "You hate your job, and your flat, and everything about your life—"
"Art and Matt are okay."
Antonio's face softened in sympathy. "Lovi," he said, retrieving Lovino's hand and kissing it, "you can't keep living like this, hating everything. It's not good for you. It's going to hurt you one day," he preached, revealing a pinch of personal experience. "You can't let the bad stuff eat away all the good."
"I know," Lovino replied, his voice small.
"Then what are you going to do?"
Lovino's gold-flecked eyes swept the room, as if searching for the answer, before coming to rest on Antonio. Then his body relaxed with a hopeless sigh and he smiled.
"Find a sexy Spaniard to take care of me—?"
Antonio chuckled and kissed Lovino's knuckles, then his wrist. It wasn't an answer, but it tickled Antonio's heart nonetheless.
He leant forward to kiss Lovino, but just as their lips touched, Lovino stiffened. Antonio pulled back quickly, afraid he had misjudged the situation; thinking that he had scared his boyfriend. He just admitted to being sexually abused, and you lurch forward to kiss him? Yeah, good one, he berated himself. Then he saw the look on Lovino's face and realized that it was more quizzical than upset.
"Do you..." He inhaled deeply. "Do you smell something burning?" he asked.
The answer hit Antonio at the same time it did Lovino.
The Italian leapt out of bed, wearing the bed-sheet like a toga, and dashed into the kitchen, yelling: "I left the fucking stove on! Fuck!"
Laughing, Antonio followed him.
GILBERT
Did you see that play? It was perfect! And in overtime! I love when games go into overtime! I know that's kind of odd, but it's true. It gets so tense, so—climactic! It makes my heart pound, you know? And that final goal?" Matthew made an indefinable noise, something between a strangled peep and a groan. "That play was timed to perfection! Though, I wouldn't have minded it lasting longer. The more hockey, the better!"
"You love it that much?" Gilbert asked, placing a hand on Matthew's back to guide his direction. They walked across the large parking-lot, caught in a teeming throng of aggressive ice-hockey enthusiasts, all of whom were talking about the results of the game, though none as animatedly as Matthew. Gilbert was afraid the boy would walk into a lamppost if not for his steering, such was his fixation with the sport. His violet eyes sparkled joyfully, for once not focused on the ground. "Do you even care who won tonight?" Gilbert asked, only half-joking.
"No, not really," Matthew admitted. "I just love the game. I wish I still played."
"Why don't you?" Gilbert asked, fishing his keys one-handed from his pocket. He had intentionally parked at the back of the lot to protect his car from angry fans and flying projectiles.
"Hockey costs money." Matthew shrugged, but the gesture was weighty. "I don't have money."
"Or the ability to shoplift," Gilbert teased. "That's why you stole ice-skates, wasn't it?"
"I told you, I've done a lot of stupid things," Matthew confessed. "And I used to think a lot of stupid things, too. Like, when I was a kid, I used to think that someone would see me playing one day, see how good I was, and want to pay me for it—draft me to play professionally. Stupid," he said, shaking his head.
Gilbert didn't like Matthew's self-deprecating humour, which revealed the boy's lacking self-confidence, but he couldn't think of anything contrary to say. The mental-picture of a young, smiling Matthew tirelessly practicing his favourite sport in the hopes of achieving fame and fortune was—admittedly—fucking adorable. He, himself, had once harboured hopes of representing Germany in the World Cup someday, a dream fuelled by nothing but the unshakable optimism of childhood and the fact that he was the best footballer in his family. It was a little sad that something that had been so important to him back then was nothing more than a joke, now. He was about to say so to Matthew, but thought better of it when he saw the sad look on the boy's face; not nostalgia, but regret. At least I had a chance at my dream, foolish as it was,he thought, having playing football from ages four to eighteen. But Matthew had never even gotten to try.
As Gilbert unlocked the Mercedes and opened the passenger's door for his date, he made a mental-note to take Matthew ice-skating on the canal when it froze.
"Thank-you," Matthew said softly.
At first, Gilbert thought he was referring to the German's act of chivalry—yes, holding and opening doors was his specialty (requiring no physical-contact)—but the boy's smile was too tender to be merely polite.
"This was just... perfect," he elaborated, implying The Ice Garden. "Thank-you so much, Gil."
Gilbert felt a—now familiar—flutter in his stomach. He smiled, and said: "You're welcome.
"Where to?" he asked once they were both inside. His fingers drummed on the steering-wheel as he schemed how best to extend the date. It was only eleven o'clock. "Want to go for a drink?"
"Or, we could go to that observation point you took me to on our first date—?" Matthew suggested. Shyly, but deliberately, he placed his hand over Gilbert's on the gearshift, then lifted his violet eyes to meet the German's reds; a seductive look steeped in sweet, angel innocence. "You've still got that blanket in the back, right?"
For a moment, Gilbert stared at Matthew, dumbfounded, his head full of nothing but white-noise. Then his heart began to race.
"Yeah," he said, squeezing Matthew's hand.
Without breaking eye-contact, he started the engine and put the car into gear.
ARTHUR
Arthur was washing his hands in the restroom when two young, tipsy men walked in.
"Did you see the blonde?" the redhead asked the brunette, leering as he set down his champaign glass. "The one with the long hair and the gorgeous blue eyes?"
"Oh, yeah," his friend replied approvingly. "A man like that one is hard to miss. He's probably a total player, though. Men like him always are."
"Mmm," the redhead licked his lips. "I'd play with that."
The brunette laughed and playfully shoved him. He shoved the redhead right into Arthur, who was trying to get around them to dry his hands.
"Oh, sorry," said the redhead dismissively, as if he hadn't noticed Arthur until then. Then he faced the mirror and began preening like a cockatoo, readjusting his designer clothes.
"Who do you think he's here with?" asked the brunette, fixing his fringe with a delicate, manicured hand. The bracelet on his wrist would have paid Ivan for three months. (Arthur knew, because he had nicked that brand before.)
"Pft, probably some rich model or big-shot actor," the redhead replied.
Well, Arthur considered in self-pity, you're half-right.
The night had been going well, all things considered. The way Francis had taken Arthur's hand to assist him from the taxi-cab brought to mind a red-carpet debut, as did all the people who stared at them (at Francis, not me, Arthur corrected). A pinch of trepidation had seized Arthur when he saw the resplendent theatre, the waiters and valets and well-dressed guests. He had feared being rejected as they reached the doors; afraid the ticket-taker would tell Francis he had brought an unsuitable date to the show, but—obviously—he didn't. They had been welcomed into The Royal as if they belonged, and it was all because of Francis.
He really does look like a gentleman, Arthur had thought, glad to be the Frenchman's date.
Francis moved through the corridors as if he had been born to gilded furnishings and Dom Perignon, not in an arrogant way, but in a blasé way that suggested he had seen it all before. He was a much better actor than Arthur, who couldn't help gaping at his surroundings, his eyes skirting from left-to-right in admiration, his brain working fast to calculate the cost of each item. How much is that worth? How long could it feed us for? he wondered, his fingers itching to slip secretly into pockets and handbags. Matthew wouldn't have to be scared if we had this kind of wealth. His mind repeated a pattern as they explored the theatre: awe, then admiration, then audacity. He looked at the other patrons with bitter jealousy, wondering why they should be so fortunate when he was not? What had they done to deserve this easy lifestyle when Arthur's family lived in poverty? It's not fair, he thought, seeing boys Matthew's age looking sullen and bored, playing on devices instead of respecting the show—the luxury—they were being treated to. It churned Arthur's stomach knowing instinctively that they had never gone hungry or been hit. And then, of course, he felt guilty for thinking it, because no one should ever be hit.
We're all just products of our environments, he knew, forgiving the teenagers their ungratefulness. They've been raised spoiled; they've never seen the dark side of life. And me—? Arthur was a spitting, snarling, spiteful street-urchin and he knew it.
But he didn't feel like it with Francis by his side.
Francis, who proffered his arm to Arthur and held him closely as they strolled, waiting for the show to begin; who carried a conversation that was both engaging and entertaining and made Arthur laugh; who paid attention only to Arthur, despite the dozens of pretty boys milling about; who smiled at his green-eyed date as if there was nowhere else he would rather be.
Being with Francis made Arthur feel good. It made him feel like he was actually worth something.
Being alone in the restroom with two spoiled scions did not.
As he dried his hands, he caught his reflection in the mirror. And he deflated. He had thought he looked okay before, but now he realized that all of Lovino's time and effort had been for nothing. He looked at the two rich uptown boys and knew he was kidding himself, pretending that he belonged here with them. He was nothing compared to them and he knew it. They knew it, too, and they didn't give him a second-glance. Not until they exited the restroom after Arthur and gawked at the hand Francis placed on his waist. If their blatant disbelief wasn't telling enough, their judgemental eyes would have been. The redhead looked at the brunette, a sneer on his face that said: What a waste. And the brunette shrugged, like: What can you do? Then they pranced off to get more hors d'oeuvres, a confident set to their healthy bodies and an entitled spring in their two-thousand-credit shoes.
"Arthur?" said Francis, smiling at him—only him. He offered his arm in escort, and added: "The intermission will be over soon. We should return to our seats."
Mutely Arthur let Francis lead him back into the theatre, but his mind was not on the show. Suddenly, it felt like everyone was staring at him, wondering why a handsome, sophisticated gentleman like Francis was humouring a charity case like Arthur; wondering what he was paying for the Englishman's sultry company, and thinking that it was probably a bargain compared to the high-class escorts the city employed. He could practically hear the rich business tycoons teasing Francis: Slumming it tonight, friend? Does he do things the real escorts won't? Did you fuck him like a dog during the intermission? I bet you have to provide your own condoms and everything, ha ha!
Arthur knew it wasn't true, that no one—or, few of them anyway—was really looking at him that way; that no one cared about him enough to judge, but he couldn't silence the voice in his head that said: You shouldn't be here. He tried to concentrate on the actors, the orchestra, and the hand Francis rested on his knee, but he couldn't shake the poisonous feeling of crushing inadequacy.
Who am I kidding? he thought, looking around as the bright houselights flooded the audience and the hall thundered with applause. He felt small beneath it all, like the sound itself was beating him down. His body tensed, his shoulders arched, and his head ducked as his gaze darted anxiously, surveying the world through the eyes of a fearful animal; seeing all the patrons and their elegant companions and knowing that he was not the hunter here—he was the prey.
"Arthur?"
Arthur flinched when Francis touched his shoulder. He heard the note of concern in the Frenchman's voice.
"Oh, s-sorry," he said, trying to hide the panic brewing inside him.
"Are you okay, chéri? You look pale."
Arthur tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. "I... I need fresh air."
He didn't wait for Francis' reply before frantically leaving the claustrophobic pressure of the theatre. Nor did he pay attention to where he was going, too eager to find the closest exit. (The word fire-escape sounded in his head, and for a moment he wished that Matthew were there.) He shouldered his way ruthlessly through the milling crowd, ignoring the angry protests until he collided with someone and fell to the floor.
"Hey!" snapped the redhead.
Many nearby patrons rushed to assist, not Arthur, but the petite brunette whom he had accidentally knocked down. The boy was offered a hand and asked if he was okay, while Arthur crawled meekly to his feet. "I-I—I'm sorry," he said, feeling small beneath the disdainful glares and muttered complaints, looking at him like he was a poorly bred dog someone had tactlessly set loose. His heart was pounding, now; his face flushing in embarrassment. He was about to make a quick escape when someone said:
"Hey, I know you. I've seen you before."
No, Arthur panicked. Oh, please no—
"You're in porn!" the youth said loudly, pointing and laughing. "You're Lexus, the porn-star!"
Arthur wanted to deny it, to tell the boy he had made a mistake, but everyone was looking at him now, and he felt the words get stuck in his throat.
A mature man in a broad-shouldered black suit glared critically down at him, and said very sternly: "This is a nice establishment."
Arthur felt his words like a blow, especially the ones left unsaid: This is no place for someone like you.
I know, he agreed.
And ran for the door.
FRANCIS
Francis caught sight of Arthur just as he slipped through the doors and hurried to follow him.
To say that Arthur's sudden escape had taken him by surprise was an understatement. Francis had no notion of what had happened to scare him—because that's precisely what he had seen on the Englishman's face. Fear. But not as if he had been threatened or hurt; it was fear in the form of panic, fuelled by a survival instinct to flee. Something had upset Arthur to the point of panic—but what?
Was it me? Francis wondered. Was it something I did or didn't do? Is Arthur upset with me?
He felt guilty as he excused his way toward the doors, guilty for not reading the warning signs of his date's—his lover's—distress.
He found Arthur in the botanical gardens across the street, standing by a Grecian fountain dressed in ivy. He was staring intently into the water, seeing his rippling reflection, perhaps, as he tried to relax. But it wasn't working. His posture was stiff and arched in self-defense, his hands balled into fists, and, though he wasn't a big man, nothing about him looked remotely approachable. He didn't even respond when Francis called to him from across the road. He just stared into the water, looking like stone, and yet—he shivered. Coatless, Arthur shivered in the cold and raised his arms to wrap around himself, as if a strong enough gust might blow him away.
I'm such a fool, Francis thought, his heart going out to the waif that was Arthur.
He knew Arthur suffered social anxiety—or, had suspected as much—but he had chosen to ignore it, thinking that he could cure it by coaxing the Englishman out. Now he realized it was more than that.
It's so much more, isn't it, Arthur? It's something eating you from the inside and out.
Reflecting on their time together, Francis realized that they had always met and stayed at his flat. They had spent the afternoons together, tucked safely away until the early-evening rush-hour, when there were hundreds of people out on the streets; hundreds of people to use as shields. Arthur rarely went anywhere after dark unless he was accompanied by Matthew or Lovino; he rarely diverged from his routine; and he rarely lifted his head to look anyone in the eye.
Something has beaten you, Francis thought, watching the small figure shiver, looking like so many cases he had seen before. Something has been beating you down for a long time.
But what?
Francis hated that Arthur safe-guarded his past so stubbornly, because it was bleeding into his present and starving his future. And he hated that he didn't know how to help.
Just tell me, he wanted to say—scream. Tell me what you need and I'll give it to you!
Was it money? Protection? Love?
I'd give it all to you, Arthur, if only you would ask.
But Arthur didn't ask. He would never ask. Instead, he turned around to meet Francis, and said: "I'm sorry."
Francis wanted to go to him, to wrap his overcoat around him and hug him and hold him and promise that everything would be okay, but he didn't. Something about Arthur stopped him.
"No, chéri," he said. "It's my fault, I shouldn't have—"
"I'm sorry," Arthur repeated, as if Francis hadn't spoken. His eyes were big in his delicate, freckled face, but there was more than apology lurking in their depths.
"I can't do this," he said.
Francis stiffened. "Do what?" he asked, playing dumb.
Arthur's stare hardened, like he hated Francis for making him say it aloud: "I can't pretend to be something I'm not."
"What are you talking about? Arthur, you can't seriously think—"
"I don't think, I know," Arthur countered. He shivered in the wind. "I know what I am, Francis. I know what my limitations are. I know I don't belong here. I don't belong—"
Don't say it. Please, don't say it.
"—with you."
"No, that's ridiculous!" Francis burst impulsively. It just slipped out, fueled by anger because Arthur couldn't see how important he was, how precious. "Of course you belong with me. Here—or anywhere! You are worth so much more than you think. Don't walk away from what we have just because other people don't like it. Don't let them tell you who to be. You can be anything you want—"
"Francis," said Arthur, and this time his voice was soft and sad. "I don't feel good about myself when I'm with you. I feel like you deserve better."
Francis shook his head in denial, in disbelief. "That's not for you to decide. It is my choice who I fall in love with—"
"It's not me," Arthur said, backing fearfully away. "It can't be me."
"Please wait," Francis begged, reaching out—offering Arthur his hand; hoping he would accept it. He hadn't realized how deeply he cared for the Englishman until now. He couldn't lose him to fear.
"Please, Arthur, don't do this. Don't go."
Arthur's green eyes shone in the lamplight. "I'm sorry," he said.
Then he ran.
MATTHEW
The wind caressed Matthew's naked skin as he fell back against the Mercedes' windshield, padded by the sleeping-bag Gilbert kept for emergencies. It was a cold December night, but the boy barely felt it. His heart was pounding and his skin was flushed, buried beneath the weight of a hot-blooded German body. A deliciously fit body, slicked with sweat, and as hard and white as marble. His fingers greedily traced the smooth bulges and deep indents of Gilbert's tall, lean figure, all rugged planes of tense, wiry muscle and heat. His skin tingled where Gilbert's hands touched him, kneading the soft, sensitive insides of his upper-thighs; pushing with his blunt fingers until he was knuckle-deep inside the boy, who moaned deeply into his boyfriend's hot kiss. Matthew pawed at Gilbert's back one-handed as he arched into the kisses and touches, squeezing the German's narrow hips between his thighs. The weeping friction of their stiff cocks in his other hand was making him ache.
"Gil..." he begged, saliva on his lips.
Gilbert grabbed Matthew's wrist, fingers slick, and pinned it to the windshield. Then he lifted up the boy's leg and repositioned himself; Matthew wrapped his leg around Gilbert's waist. A little lopsided, unbalanced on the hood of the car. Matthew felt himself slide sideways, but was soon anchored by Gilbert. He pushed his cock into Matthew in one forceful motion that drew a sharp gasp from the writhing boy.
"S-sorry," Gilbert panted, going still. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
Matthew replied by shifting lower, taking Gilbert's cock in deeper. "Gil," he whispered, pulling Gilbert's head down; nipping his earlobe. "I'm not going to break."
Gilbert's apologetic eyes regarded Matthew in surprise for a moment, reading the boy's desire, the consent of his words. Then they filled with wolfish hunger.
Yes, Matthew thought, closing his eyes; clenching his fists; calling-out his lover's name, this is what I've been waiting for.
Later, Matthew considered how reckless it had been to fuck on the hood of a car in the open, parked in what was, technically, a public place, empty or not. Indecent—not to mention, illegal. But the thrill of it had drowned the rational part of his brain and let lust reign. It had been too good not to indulge: the forceful, greedy way Gilbert had taken him was something right out of a novel. His whole body was still trembling in shock, but it was totally worth the new bruises and bites he had acquired.
"That was good," Gilbert said, breathless, staring vacantly up at the stars.
Matthew glanced at him, lying side-by-side, thinking it an oversimplified description for what they had just done, but—admittedly—a true one.
Good wasn't a big enough word for it, but, as his brain was also on temporary leave, he merely agreed:
"So good," he said, voice a bit hoarse.
Gilbert turned his head to face Matthew. His cheeks were flushed and his fine hair was a mess, silvery locks standing on-end like an eighties rock musician; his red eyes bright, but eyelids heavy; and his pale lips curled into a lazy grin. The taut muscles in his abdomen shook, and a second later a raspy chuckle rumbled up his throat and out of his mouth. Matthew laughed, too, though neither of them knew why.
"You okay, schatzi?" Gilbert asked, looping his arm beneath Matthew.
Matthew shivered and shifted closer, laying his head on Gilbert's chest. He could feel the cold acutely, now, drying the sweat on his skin, but he was too exhausted to move (or to care). He felt sleepy and satisfied now that his body was beginning to numb. "Yes," he replied, tracing the corded lines of Gilbert's torso; absently thinking that he made a bad pillow. (There was nothing physically soft about the German, that was for sure.) After a long moment of peaceful silence, he peeked up at his boyfriend, and said: "We should definitely do that again."
"Just like that?" Gilbert teased, combing his fingers through Matthew's curls.
"Mm hmm, just like that.
"Is that—okay?" he added, hearing Lovino's voice in his head—like it rough, do you, Mattie?—and suddenly feeling a bit shy.
But Gilbert's playful growl and rough lips perished the thought.
"Fuck. Yes," he said.
GILBERT
Matthew's sleepy weight leant heavily against Gilbert as he drove back downtown, his head resting on the German's shoulder. Gilbert drove one-handed, his other arm looped around the boy's waist to reach the gearshift, trapping him in a hug; their sides pressed together on the bench; Matthew's torso twisted and his legs flopped over the passenger's seat. It was cozy, he thought, with the heat blasting and the radio playing an old song. Matthew's long curls felt soft on his neck; he had taken every opportunity tonight to run his fingers through them.
He took the long route back to the flat, then circled the block twice just to extend the ride, telling himself it was the song he wanted to listen to, not the quiet sound of Matthew sleeping. Then, when he finally did park, he didn't move. He just sat back in the driver's seat, the heat toasty, the radio playing quietly, and the sweetest boy in the whole goddamn world tucked under his arm. He rubbed his thumb against Matthew's arm as he stared absently out the windshield. The windshield on which he had lost control of himself and fucked the boy until his cries had shattered the mountain silence; the boy he had grabbed and bitten and bruised, urged on by eager gasps and throaty moans and a begging voice that wanted it faster and harder; the boy he had fucked so shamelessly, it would make his ancestors blush; the boy who stirred reckless, carnal feelings within him, but tender feelings, too; the boy who was—finally—his beautiful young boyfriend.
There wasn't a molecule of regret in Gilbert for what he and Matthew had done, and yet doubt flooded him as he sat in the dark:
You shouldn't be doing this, said his age, his experience.
You'll be judged for it, said his fear.
It's so risky, said his pride.
It probably won't last, said distrust.
But it's what you want, said his heart, silencing all the rest. It's what you're falling in love with.
It was half-one in the morning when Matthew awoke. "Gil—?" he asked, pressing his forehead to Gilbert's shoulder to avoid the streetlights. "Are we home?"
"Yeah," he said, unfortunately.
"Okay," Matthew murmured, but he didn't sit up. Instead, he snuggled closer and wrapped his arms around Gilbert's neck, like a body-pillow.
Gilbert chuckled. "You've got to get up," he said, cupping the back of Matthew's head. "It's too cold to stay here all night."
"Shhh," Matthew whispered; Gilbert felt the brush of his lips, "I'm sleeping."
"You need to sleep in your bed, schatzi," he whispered back. Then he opened the door and slid out, dragging Matthew with him. In a single, fluid motion he pulled the boy from the car and into his arms, cradling him against his chest like a newlywed couple.
"Cheater." Matthew kissed Gilbert's neck, then his jaw. Then he said, somewhat timidly: "Don't hurt yourself, Gil. I'm not that light."
Gilbert exhaled dismissively, a snort of derision. "You do know that I could easily bench-press you, right?" he bragged.
"Well, now I do," Matthew replied. He placed another kiss on Gilbert's neck. "We should try that sometime."
Gilbert chuckled. "Were you always this flirty?"
"No," Matthew smiled; half-joking, half-serious. "I only flirt with my boyfriend."
Gilbert stumbled inside and up the stairs, distracted by Matthew's soft lips, teasing his. He gave the (broken) door a swift kick and entered the flat, groping in the darkness, tripping over Lovino's shoes. No, not Lovino's shoes—Toni's shoes, he realized, shoving them carelessly aside. Matthew was giggling in a charming, childish way as Gilbert manoeuvred, still wrapped around the German's neck. He pulled Gilbert's head down for a proper kiss just as Gilbert saw movement in his peripheral vision. He jerked his head up—not that Matthew noticed; eyes closed, he kissed his boyfriend's neck instead—and saw a silhouette sitting on the windowsill. The window was open, which explained the freezing temperature in the flat, and a skinny figure was sitting with one leg dangling down, one leg folded, one hand resting atop his knee holding a lit cigarette. Their eyes met for a second, then Arthur looked quickly away, pretending not to see the couple's clumsy arrival.
What happened? Gilbert wondered, watching Arthur's shoulders tense as he lifted the cigarette to his mouth. His green eyes had been bright and wet.
Gilbert took Matthew into the bedroom and dropped him gently onto the unmade bed.
"Don't go," Matthew begged, kissing him, his fingers coiled in Gilbert's shirt. "Stay with me."
Gilbert pulled back just enough to smile down at the dishevelled boy. "I would, Mattie, in a heartbeat. But I don't think there's room for you, me, and Arthur in this little bed."
Matthew's laugh was more of an amused sigh.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he promised. Then he kissed Matthew's head. "Sweet dreams, schatzi."
"Sweet dreams, love," Matthew parroted, already half-asleep.
ARTHUR
In the dead-silence, it wasn't hard for Arthur to eavesdrop on Gilbert and Matthew's hushed conversation. Not that he was trying to hear; in fact, he wished he couldn't. The sweet words passed between them, the smiles on their flushed faces, tousled hair, bedraggled clothes, the playful giggles in Matthew's voice—it wasn't hard to imagine what kind of night they had shared, and it just made Arthur feel worse. It sucker-punched him in the stomach, like the final blow in a boxing match against himself. It hurt his heart, because why couldn't he have that? Why couldn't he look at Francis with such unabashed devotion, like Matthew looked at Gilbert? Or the playful affection with which Lovino looked at Antonio? Why couldn't he admit to himself that he wanted to be with Francis? Why couldn't he let himself he happy?
He could, he knew. He could, but he wouldn't. And he knew exactly why.
It was Ivan. It was Mikkel. It was everyone who was waiting to tear them apart if they weren't careful. It was the world they belonged to: not a world of love and laughter, but of greed and lust and every-man-for-himself. He wouldn't let Francis become a part of that world. And he wouldn't let Francis distract him from it—not anymore.
Because if I don't protect us, who will?
He heard rather than saw Gilbert leave. The German didn't speak to him, and Arthur didn't look back. When the door was shut, he took one last drag on his cigarette and then flicked it into the street below. He didn't wash-up or change his clothes; he just gargled some mouthwash, pulled off his trousers, which were too tight to sleep in, and slumped miserably into the bed beside Matthew.
For a moment he just stared at the boy, snuggled contently beneath the duvet. He looked peaceful—but was he?
"Don't go," Matthew had said to Gilbert. "Stay with me."
Arthur knew there was more than flirtation in Matthew's plea, and it made him feel guilty. It made him wish that he had never laid eyes on Detective Francis Bonnefoi.
It's my fault he's afraid to be alone. It's my fault he needs Gilbert to chase away his fears, because I'm not enough anymore. I've never been enough.
"Art?" Matthew said as Arthur shimmied down. He didn't open his eyes, but needn't to know it was Arthur beside him. "How was your night?" he murmured.
"Fine," Arthur lied, hoping Matthew was too drowsy to hear it. "How was yours, pet?"
"So good," he sighed. "Gil's just... the best person I've ever met."
It hurt Arthur's heart to see Matthew's smile.
"Don't be so sure," he said softly. But Matthew was already asleep.
