It had been a while since he'd been to his studio…. Too long.
Fenrir had grown inherently restless after the incident at the opera house and had made it very clear that he wanted him in his sights at all times. It was almost as if he was scared that Tom would just appear out of nowhere and snatch him away and as much as he was frustrated by Fenrir's over protectiveness, he couldn't hate him or tell him to stop it. Because deep down he was twice as worried about Fenrir's well-being. Tom's threat had been anything but idle and he'd be damned if he allowed anything to happen to Fenrir because of him.
He was perfectly aware that having any kind of connection to a person was to have a weakness andabove all things, he needed to be unfathomable. A home, friends—these were luxuries he couldn't ever afford. For the most part, he'd stuck to those rules. But it was only natural that he be protective of Fenrir when that man had given him a place to call home…. when he'd laid every luxury that the world had to offer at his feet. He knew that Fenrir would never hesitate to offer up his life for him but he couldn't allow that because somehow as cold and cruel as he was….he couldn't fathom the thought of Fenrir gone. He couldn't afford his death…not on his conscience…not ever….
He had a small studio at the estate, but it wasn't as close to his heart as this one. Mainly because the music he played there always had an audience which somehow took away his ownership over it. He wanted the music he created to be his and his alone. The arrangements he'd set up to pay the rent for this place were ridiculously convoluted. The money tracked through half a dozen accounts before it finally reached the letting agency, and there was no identifying information available about the tenant. The buzzer was marked "D Smith," and there was no landline listed. All utilities and property charges were covered by the letting agency, a service for which he paid a substantial premium. The building had no CCTV. No security. No cleaners even.
What's more, when he came here, he was very careful. He didn't let down his guard until he was safely inside the studio with the door locked behind him—that was his cardinal rule. He never took a straight route to get here. This morning he left his flat in a dress and heels. Five hours and two changes of clothes later, he was climbing the stairs to the studio in the nondescript hoodie and jeans of an anonymous young male.
The studio was four floors up, but it was huge and airy. The view was terrible though… just a grey urban sea stretching in blocky waves as far as the eye can see. But the light was magnificent.
Today he felt particularly exhausted. Three months was a long time to be cut off from his work, and by the time he reach the front door, he was shaking with a mix of anticipation and relief. He couldn't wait to get inside and get his hands on his supplies. He had a half-formed idea for a melody in his head. Something beautiful yet emotionally and aggressively powerful. His fingers had been itching to execute it and, as he opened the door of the studio and crossed the threshold, he'd been debating whether to start with the piano or the guitar.
He dropped his rucksack to the floor and turned to lock the door behind him,
"I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever show."
He froze…
Tom.
He whirled around, and there he was… standing by his piano…
He stared at him, stunned. His gut was a knot of snakes, a twisting morass of exhiliration and excitement and something that felt crazily… stupidly… like happiness.
He looked tired. Good, but tired.
He smiled at him, his gaze a little curious,
"How've you been, James?"
The way he said it, it sounded so ordinary, so everyday. Not like a sarcastic question. It as was if he was really asking. Like he really wanted to know.
How had it come to this? That of all the billions of people in the world, he felt closest to this man…vampire… who had every reason to kill him?
He gave him his coolest smile and spoke,
"What a pleasant surprise."
"You look good,"
Tom continued conversationally, as though he hadn't spoken. He stepped closer, regarding him for a moment, his gaze taking him in thoroughly, head to foot and all the way back up again.
Give him nothing,
He reminded himself wearily. Tom murmured softly,
"Have I ever told you how exquisite you look when you dress up as a woman?"
He was about to reply when Tom spoke,
"Well I'm telling you now but… it is nothing compared to how you look when you dress up as yourself."
He reached out and slid his knit hat off his head before tossing it aside,
"You shouldn't cover up the hair, though."
He had no intention of indulging Tom's flirtations at the moment, so he inquired,
"How did you find me?"
Tom shrugged,
"I can be tenacious. I called in some favours, took some chances."
Tom grinned then,
"It was worth it for the look on your face. I imagine not many guys get the drop on you?"
He just stared at him, still struggling to take it in. Him. In his studio,
"Why are you here?"
He tipped his head to the side, watching him,
"Why do you think?"
He seemed honestly curious.
He said, equally honestly,
"I don't know. I'm guessing to remind me of my promise or to kill me…"
His blunt features tightened into an expression he couldn't quite read,
"That's what you think?"
He crossed his arms over his chest,
"You snuck in here…In my private space…What else should I think?"
He snorts and his mouth kicks up at one side,
"The only reason I came here unannounced was so that we could talk. I can't have you trying to take me down while I'm saying my piece."
He didn't know why, but he found that he wanted to laugh. He must be hysterical. He scowled at him instead,
"Can I at least sit down while we have this conversation?"
"Sure."
Tom gestured at the lumpy sofa bed,
"Take a seat."
He settled in and leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, gaze on him. Already he was looking for a chink in his armour, and he knew that Tom it. Finally, he sighed,
"Okay, then… You've got something to say. So, talk."
