Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fauntleroy doesn’t realise where they are right away when they wake and in their disorientation they startle themself fully awake. Only when the worn blanket slides off them and they see their boots on the floor beside them do they remember. Babet’s house,  right.

Quietly they get to their feet. The house is completely still and silent. Fauntleroy doesn’t want to go digging around for their phone, but it feels like the very early morning. They hesitate for a moment, but they’re wide awake and thirsty, so they take a gamble and sneak out of the room on bare feet. Babet leaves odd stuff lying around sometimes, but by now they think they pretty much know where it’s safe to walk.

Carefully they make their way towards the kitchen. When they’ve nearly reached the door, Fauntleroy slows their step. There’s a voice coming from inside, but it’s not talking. For a moment they think someone must have left on the ancient radio, but then–

Fauntleroy stands on the doorstep of Babet’s kitchen, holding their breath just a little.

There’s just enough vague light coming through the window to fill the room with a grey twilight. Enough to see Claquesous, standing over the sink, and singing to himself.

Fauntleroy’s heart stutters. His voice is very low and Fauntleroy would hardly have recognised it as his if they hadn’t known. They have heard Sous twist his voice in all manner of ways, but they have never heard him sing.

They take in an involuntary breath and Claquesous stops abruptly. He freezes in place and before he moves Fauntleroy says softly:

“You sing?”

Claquesous turns towards them. Something glints in his hands and they see that he has been slicing an apple. Between his hair falling forward and his cloth mask, Fauntleroy really can’t see his expression, but he looks at them for a moment. “No,” he says finally. “I don’t. And if you tell anyone I do, I’ll take the toes off your left foot.”

He turns back to the sink and Fauntleroy swallows the laugh they feel twisting inside them. They can keep a secret.

“Couldn’t you take my fingers instead?” they ask casually, keeping their voice low. “I’d miss dancing.”

“I’ll consider it,” Claquesous replies coolly, but they can hear just a hint of a grin in his voice.

Fauntleroy smiles cautiously at him, softly closing the kitchen door behind them. They slant their head and after a long moment they take one more gamble:

“But would you consider finishing your song?”

Claquesous doesn’t answer. He continues peeling his apple.

Fauntleroy swallows a sigh and tiptoes past him. They can take a hint.

Quietly they fill a glass of water from the bottle in the fridge and instead of lingering like part of them wants to, they move directly towards the door again. The sudden waking is catching up to them, they’re starting to feel tired. “Goodnight, Sous,” they murmur.

He nods silently and Fauntleroy carefully slips outside, opening the door only partially.

They have hardly set a foot in the hallway before Claquesous’ voice follows them. Even softer than before, but this time more familiar. Fauntleroy stands in the empty hallway, one hand holding their glass, the other pressed against the flutters in their middle. He’s not singing the same song as before. This sounds awfully like a lullaby…

Chapter Text

“You won’t fit them. Not properly anyway.”

Fauntleroy starts. They hadn’t heard Sous come in. “That’s not—” they protest, stepping away from the open display case full of masks. “I didn’t want to—

“Your face is slighter than mine,” Claquesous continues, as if they weren’t stammering awkwardly at him.

“I know,” Fauntleroy swallows. “I was only looking because they’re pretty.”

Claquesous smiles, very faintly, but Fauntleroy still notices. It comes with most of his face being obscured, when there’s only his mouth and eyes to read, every minute change becomes noticeable.

That is the only reason.

By now Claquesous is looking thoughtful, slanting his head slightly. “Would you want to try them if I had some that might fit you?”

Fauntleroy blinks up at him in surprise. “I— Yes, I’d love to. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t offer it otherwise,” he says with a mildly amused tone that is doing something to Fauntleroy’s insides.

They sit down, biting their lip slightly as they watch Claquesous take an old box out of a cupboard.

“I wasn’t always as careful with buying the correct fit,” he hums, taking off the lid and looking through the contents.

They hear the rustling of tissue paper.

“This one might fit you,” Claquesous muses, taking out a soft grey mask that looks frightfully delicate to Fauntleroy.

Claquesous holds it out to them, but they hesitate to take it. Claquesous is so very particular about his masks, they really weren’t expecting him to offer them to wear any.

“You don’t have to,” he says, drawing back a little and Fauntleroy feels a pang.

“No!” they say hastily. “I just, I don’t want to break it. What’s it made of? It looks so fragile.”

Claquesous’ posture relaxes. “Gauze and paper,” he says, putting the box aside. “It’s stronger than it looks.” He sits down beside them and something sparks in his eyes as he looks at them. “Rather fitting, isn’t it?”

Fauntleroy almost smirks at that, but suddenly Claquesous leans towards them and Fauntleroy’s heart stutters.

“Shall I, then?” he asks and Fauntleroy nods, but it’s strange. This feels so oddly intimate, so very different to the way he normally touches them.

Claquesous brings the mask to their face very carefully. When he put sit in place he does it so carefully Fauntleroy does not even feel the need to close their eyes. They gaze up at him studying the quiet concentration written on his face. He’s looking at them so attentively. His fingers are softly pressing to Fauntleroy’s temples now and they feel hot. They feel the pressure of ribbons being tied and as Claquesous adjusts the mask just a little his hand brushes past their cheek.

“That looks beautiful on you.” Claquesous leans away from them and Fauntleroy swallows.

“Really?”

They raise their hands to touch where the mask covers their face. It reaches just past their mouth.

Claquesous is still looking at them. His lips forming the mere ghost of a smirk, but the look in his eyes so warm.

“I think…” Fauntleroy murmurs. “I think I want to take it off again.”

Claquesous has barely lifted the mask away from their face before they throw their arms around his neck and kiss him with the full intention of taking his breath away.

Chapter Text

Sleeping next to Claquesous is as nice as it is new. Fauntleroy has never been used to sleeping with someone before. Not that they feel they can really call it sleeping with him, because he’s always still awake when they fall asleep and he’s already up when they wake. But it’s nice to be aware of his presence in their bed, even when they’re not awake enough to fully appreciate it.

Because even though Bizarro likes to joke at them that they’d never even know if he went to bed at all, Fauntleroy does know. They sleep rather light and sometimes, when they almost wake up, they reach out to feel him next to them. He never stirs when they do that, but it’s comforting to feel he’s there, no matter how very still in his sleep.

That is exactly the reason, however, why the sudden movement in their bed wakes Fauntleroy up almost immediately.

“Sous?” they mutter drowsily. They’re pretty sure they can feel him sitting up.

It’s not quite dark in the room, Fauntleroy’s curtains aren’t thick enough for that and there is always light from outside, but they can’t really see him either. They reach for the light on the bedside table.

“Sous, what’s—?” A hand catches them by their shoulder and before Fauntleroy can actually turn on the light, Claquesous is pulling them upright.

For a second they tense, expecting some kind of threat. But if there had been a threat, Sous would be out of bed already. He hasn’t said a word though and Fauntleroy has worried themselves fully awake by now. They look into Claquesous’ face and he’s definitely looking back at them, but even in the dim light the expression in his eyes doesn’t seem fully awake. His movements aren’t clumsy or sleepy, but they have something nearly robotic to them. He isn’t looking into their eyes, but he’s looking them over intently, both hands now gripping either of their arms just below their shoulder.

Fauntleroy blink up at him. “Sous?” they whisper. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” he replies immediately, but it’s an automatic reply and the way he suddenly touches their face takes Fauntleroy by surprise. They immediately know what he’s doing though. Checking for injuries.

Fauntleroy doesn’t protest, willingly turning their head side to side, but they’re very surprised. They can’t really imagine Claquesous as someone who has nightmares. And…he seems so calm. So oddly, eerily calm.

They’ve nearly resolved to try and shake him awake – if he really is still asleep, his movements are so controlled – when Sous suddenly sighs and mutters something indistinguishable. The only sound they can just about recognise is their own name. Then, without warning, he abruptly lays back down again. And to Fauntleroy’s bewilderment, he pulls them down with them. Instead of letting go, he resolutely wraps his arms around them, holding them close against his chest.

Fauntleroy blows out a surprised breath and they feel their face flush hot for a moment. They try cuddle up to him a bit sometimes in the evenings or early mornings, but he’s usually doing something, reading, listening to music, or on his phone, and they don’t want to disturb him. He’ll stroke them when they ask, he lets them lie against him when they’re watching something or traveling somewhere in the back of a car, but he’s never held them like this. Ever.

They lie listening in silence for a moment, but Claquesous’ breathing has evened out again. He’s fast asleep and his arms are heavy around them. It’s not entirely comfortable, but…it feels safe. Like they’re hidden from the world and safely tethered to it at the same time. Slowly, Fauntleroy closes their eyes. They move against him until they can lean their head comfortably against Claquesous’ shoulder and listen to the rhythm of his breathing blending with the beating of his heart.

Fauntleroy doesn’t even realise they drifted off until they wake again. Underneath them, Claquesous is beginning to stir.  

They blink open their eyes and raise their head a little, looking straight into his face. This is the first time they’ve seen him wake up…

Sous’ lashes flutter a couple of times before his eyes open with sudden clarity. He looks back at them where they are lying close against his chest, and stays extremely still for a moment. “Faun?” he says slowly and he seems so taken by surprise that Fauntleroy is sure he can’t remember what happened that night.

“Yes,” they mumble. “Good morning.”

He looks at them silently for a moment. “Good morning…” his voice is soft and Fauntleroy smiles because of it.

They can feel Claquesous’ body is no longer relaxed beneath them and when he moves they’re suddenly so unwilling to get out of his arms they say shyly:

“Can we stay like this? Just for a while?”

They put their head back against his chest demonstratively. “I like this…”

Claqueous doesn’t answer, but he shifts a little underneath them and a moment later they feel the hand that was resting on their hip come up to stroke the hair at the nape of their neck. Fauntleroy hums appreciatively and his touches become a little less cautious, the tension and hesitance leaving his body.

When they peek at him through their lashes they see he has closed his eyes again. He’s clearly awake, but he looks more at rest than they have ever seen him.

They smile against his chest and spread their fingers against the fabric of his shirt. The nightmare – if that is what it was – is a little worrying…but, apart from that, they could get used to this.

Chapter Text

It’s late, so late that Fauntleroy no longer has any defences against the drowsiness tugging on their mind, but they don’t want to sleep. Sous is lying beside them in their bed, doing some kind of logic puzzle on his phone and he’s so wonderfully unguarded.

Being with someone like him is nearly intimidating to them sometimes, but they know for a fact that they are the only one that gets to see him like his.

He’s half-covered by their sheets, but he’s wearing nothing but boxers and his long hair is still damp. He’s freshly showered and soft around the edges, lying on his stomach, propped up on a pillow he has unthinkingly started to refer to as his.

As they look at him, Fauntleroy suddenly doesn’t know what to do with themselves for the happiness swelling in their chest. They reach out, putting a hand on his back and the most wondrous thing is that he merely shifts contently and stays where he is. They no longer need to ask permission, he no longer looks at them presuming they want something when they do this. They can just touch him.

Fauntleroy runs their hand over his skin, up to the base of his neck, down to the edge of his waistband. He’s so warm. They keep lightly touching him, just because they can. By the time they’ve started to carefully trace his spine with their fingertips Sous is clearly losing interest in his game. He lets his phone slip out of his grip and slowly puts his head down, making a low sort of animal noise as he lies down flat with his arms above his head. As the muscles in his shoulders shift, Faun’s eye suddenly catches a pattern in the lines of ink on his back.

Claquesous has only two tattoos. A single letter on the sole of his right foot and a large elaborate shoulder piece. It stretches all across his shoulder blades and down his back and to Fauntleroy it has always looked like a woven structure. Like a piece of rough fabric clinging to his skin perhaps. With ragged edges. But now, turning their head, there is a pattern in the lines that does not look either regular or random. They lean a little closer fingertips grazing the spot.

“Sous?”

“Mm?”

“Can I…” They hesitate.

Claquesous turns his head to look at them. His black eyes search their face for a moment and then he smirks. “When’s the last time I told you no, Bouquetière?”

They huff softly and continue boldly: “Can I ask about your tattoo?”

His expression is neutral. “What about it?”

“Does it— Is it meant to be something?” Even with them Sous rarely shares things about his past, and he has had that tattoo for as long as they’ve known him. Longer than he’s been part of the Patron-Minette even, they believe.

He hums thoughtfully, rolling partway onto his side to look at them more fully. “What I asked for,” he says, with faint amusement around his mouth. “Is a pattern as if there is a woven fabric visible underneath my skin.”

Fauntleroy glances at the ragged edge they can see on his shoulder. They suppose that could be the ragged edge of torn skin instead of a scrap of clinging fabric. It’s not a very nice image though.

They wrinkle their nose without realising and Sous laughs softly. Fauntleroy’s eyes dart to his, caught, but they still feel that odd spark of wonder in their midriff. Hearing him laugh out loud has not yet stopped becoming a novelty.

“What made you ask?”

Fauntleroy makes a soft noise. “I thought I saw a pattern,” they answer. “In one of the…strings, I guess, one of the threads.”

Claquesous gives them an odd sort of nearly smiling look. “Mm. And did you read it?”

They blink at him. “Read it? What do you mean read it?”

He smirks. “Oh never mind, then,” he hums and moves to roll onto his back.

“No!” Fauntleroy protests and they grab him by the shoulder, trying to force him to lie back down on his stomach again so they can see.

Sous struggles, but only barely, so Fauntleroy throws in their weight. They force his shoulder back down, climbing on top of him to sit down straddling his hips, with two hands planted flat under his shoulder blades. Claquesous makes an amused, pleased sound and Fauntleroy feels a spark of heat glow on their cheeks.

“If you wanted a fight you could have asked,” they say sweetly, quickly lifting the pressure of their hands.

“Not nearly as fun,” he says unconcernedly, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow.

Fauntleroy sniffs at him and they softly stroke his skin again as they try to find the irregularity in the lines of ink that caught their eye. They don’t find it. But they find a completely different one. And then another. And another. There is a pattern of thickenings in threads of the woven fabric. Not easily seen from a distance, but this close up it’s clear that the ink is thicker in some places, the lines not as delicate. Almost as if whoever spun the thread was careless in doing it. Except… Fauntleroy traces down one horizontal ink-drawn thread with their index finger. It thickens and thins, thickens and thins.

“…is that Morse code?”

Claquesous makes an approving sound. “Guessing you don’t read it?” he hums.

“Who does?” they demand. “Why would—” Now they know what they’re looking for they can see the pattern of dots and stripes quite clearly. Scattered here and there across the strands, distributed just well enough to blend into the illusion of a woven fabric. There aren’t too many threads that have the code in it. They count no more than thirteen. Maybe fourteen. “Why did you make them put Morse code on you back?”

Claquesous folds his hands under his chin, the movements of his shoulder blades making the tattoo shift. “Because it’s the fabric of my existence.”

Fauntleroy slants their head. The fabric of his existence… “What do they say then?” they ask curiously, their fingers lingering on a cluster of dots. “There can be only a few words here.”

“Not words, dates,” he says. “I don’t really keep stuff, you know. No pictures, mementos— This is something I can’t lose.” His carefully neutral tone of voice wavers for just a second. “I had it done when I left home.”

“Oh, Sous…” Fauntleroy doesn’t quite know what to say. That’s… They smile widely and reach up to squeeze his shoulder.

He makes a half-grumbling, half-fond noise and dislodges a hand from under his chin to tap his spine at the base of his neck. “That’s my birth date.”

Fauntleroy leans in closer. “So that’s one…nine…” That’s a lot of symbols for one number. Their eyes dance over his skin, taking in pattern after pattern and in an impulse they let themself slide off Sous to grab their phone from the nightstand.

Claquesous pushes himself up to turn his head towards them. “What are you doing?”

“No,” they whine. “Keep still.” They sit back down, playfully pushing against his back. “I want to decipher them.”

“Oh I see, and I’m supposed to stay put while you learn a code that has existed for nearly two hundred years.”

“You’re the one that had someone write outdated cyphers on your back,” they chide, scrolling on their phone until they’ve found the list of numbers.

The grumbly noise he makes sounds far too much like a chuckle for them to listen to it.

“You don’t have to tell me what they belong to,” they say, teasingly dragging a finger down his spine. “But I’m gonna read them!”

They do wonder what they refer to, these dates. And also in what order they’re supposed to be. But they do feel like it might be pushing their luck to demand to know. Only, they’ve just seen something that can’t be right. They check again their finger resting under the line on his skin and their eyes darting to their screen and back again.

“This one’s from the beginning of this year?”

Sous doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t move either. They trace the line back. To the month. The day. That’s—

Fauntleroy slides off Claquesous, landing seated sideways on the mattress. “…you still add dates?”

Claquesous turns around and sits up, his hair tumbles forward in a partially dried mess. “Yeah.”

They look at him with the strangest lump in their throat. “And you added the day I asked you out?”

The softness in his eyes is masked immediately with a smirk. “I added the date you crawled into my lap and tried to kiss me.”

Their cheeks burn with heat. “Same thing!” Their heart does a wild beat. “When— when did you—?”

This time his expression is steady and warm. “When I last went home to Toulouse.”

When he last… Fauntleroy tugs at their sleeves, far too full of feelings to still know what to do with their hands. “But that’s months ago.” Their voice comes out very small. “That’s…only a month after?”

He’s smiling, they can only tell because they know what to look for, but he is. “What exactly is your point, Bouquetière?” He doesn’t even manage to keep his voice free of fondness. “As far as I’m aware dates don’t change with the passing of time.”

“Oh shut your mouth,” Fauntleroy protests, all their happiness dancing electric on their skin. And since they really don’t have the words right now to stop him from smirking like that, they do what they have long thought is the best way to deal with any Sous-related situation where words fail them: they crawl into his lap and kiss him.

Chapter Text

Babet is talking and talking and talking and Fauntleroy honestly isn’t very interested anymore. They already know what they need to do, what he brought them in for. Wear someone else’s face, tweak the perception of reality a bit… They’ve gotten better at that by now. It’s not perfect yet, not like transforming themself, but they’re a lot better nowadays. And with Sous there to make everyone feel at ease and unsuspicious of the situation it really shouldn’t be a problem.

Fauntleroy doesn’t quite realise what they’re doing until they can feel curls tumbling down the back of their neck. Their hair has grown longer with their drifting thoughts. Sous likes their hair a little on the longer side. Long enough to wind around his fingers…

There’s a slight shift somewhere in the space of their awareness and Fauntleroy lifts up their eyes.

Claquesous is looking at them.

Just before they look down again, they can feel their eyes change. They wonder what colour they are now. The involuntary changes are hard to determine like that, they just are. They could change their eyes themself now, make sure they know what they look like, but they want to know what colour they became of their own accord. What colour they were when they met Sous’ just now.

Sous hasn’t moved and under cover of Gueulemer interrupting Babet to argue yet another point, they glance up again.

He’s looking at them. Still looking at them. Slowly, Fauntleroy smiles at him and his expression takes on an edge of something soft for just a second.

“Why are we even talking about this?” Montparnasse groans in the background. In Fauntleroy’s background anyway. The conversation at the table has faded a bit in favour of Sous and their own thoughts. “You’re getting hung up on details again.”

Fauntleroy is certain Claquesous isn’t listening either. He’s not quite looking at them anymore, but they can feel his attention still fixed on them. It’s a lovely feeling. Nothing magical about it. Just. Sous.

He looks more put together than he did this morning when they arrived, more like his usual awake, alert self. They always admire the way he holds himself, it’s attractive. But they like him better when he’s not quite so composed.

Slyly, Fauntleroy glances at the open living room door.

Gueulemer is refusing to budge on whatever point he’s trying to make and to Fauntleroy this really doesn’t feel like a conversation they have to be involved in. They silently move away from the table, and no one tries to stop them. They glance at Sous as they do so, but do not meet his eyes. If Mer, Babet or Parnasse notice them slipping away they can’t care much, because they keep on quarrelling. Fauntleroy walks away from the noise, through the hallway and the kitchen, and into the little utility room. A familiar hiding place. 

They bite their lip expectantly, looking at the indifferently whitewashed walls, and try to remember the details of the last time they hid here. It was—

Soft footsteps halt outside the door and the handle turns with admirable finesse.

A grin flashes on Faun's face in time with the somersault in their stomach. That was hardly two minutes. Not very subtle of him.

They don’t care though. They really don’t. Because a moment later Sous is closing the door behind him and the next they are already pressed close against him, hands spreading on his chest. They look up at him. Their heart thumping, wavering between joy and triumph that he came after them so fast. Because they never know. They hope. But they never know. Only now his arms are around them and they don’t have to think about that anymore.

Fauntleroy smiles up at him. “I missed you.”

Claquesous doesn’t answer “welcome back”. He kisses them.

It sends a flash of energy right through them, their hair curling up wildly and heat burning on their face. Fauntleroy eagerly grabs the back of his neck and pulls him in more, kissing him hard. They’ve wanted this so badly. They missed this, missed him, so badly. Because when they kiss him they can feel it, they can tell, that he wants them too. That he needs them too.

He holds them so close, kisses them so deeply. And their head is swimming and their mind singing and they just want more.

Sous moves, backing them into a corner and breaking out of the kiss with a heavy, almost hungry sound just to press them up against the wall. Fauntleroy squirms for the sake of pressing closer to him and tilts their head back to meet his gaze.

“My eyes-” they pant, hands grasping at his shirt. “What colour are they?”

Sous’ breathing is uneven too, and he looks into their face with a distracted, flushed expression that Fauntleroy always secretly hopes is just for them and no one else.

“Violet,” he breathes, his right hand reaching for their face in a mesmerised caress. “Almost purple- Gorgeous.”

That last word is hardly more than a sigh, and Fauntleroy only has time to smile before his lips are on theirs again. They have been away for far too long. It is good to be back.

And tonight will be even better.

---

Fauntleroy has never been to this particular Maison Minette before, but it doesn’t matter. Wherever their friends decided to settle, the household is always the same. Roughly anyway.

The house has gone mostly quiet about half an hour ago, but Fauntleroy still listens carefully before getting up from the narrow bed in the guest room. It has a lot of their belongings strewn across it already, they’ve managed to turn it into a mess in record time, but they won’t actually be sleeping in here. Not if they can help it.

Very quietly, on well-practised feet, Fauntleroy slips out into the hallway.

They sneak around the corner with self-assured decisiveness. Babet only gave them a very hasty tour, but they wouldn’t have gotten far in their particular chosen life if they didn’t have a good memory for the layout of places. They know the door they stop at is the right one.

What they don’t know is if they’ll be welcome. Not for sure.

They knock. Very softly, barely audible, but it’s still a knock, and then they wait.

To the beating of their heart in the quiet corridor they are standing there for an eternity, getting cold in the midnight chill. And then they get their answer, just as subdued as their knock.

“Come in.”

Fauntleroy slips inside, moving straight through the twist of relief in their chest, stepping out of the dark corridor and into the softly lit bedroom.

Claquesous is sitting up in bed, looking at them, and the sight is so comfortingly familiar that Fauntleroy feels wobbly for a moment.

Quietly, they close the door behind them, making sure the latch slides home. Then they turn and face him again. His expression seems thoughtful more than anything else and for a second Fauntleroy hesitates. This is different from stolen kisses. This is more.

“Can I?” they ask.

Claquesous makes an odd noise at the back of his throat and throws back one corner of the duvet.

Fauntleroy lets the spark of joy they feel show unabashedly in their smile and translate it into a quick, light-footed hurrying to the bed. They can feel their hair curling and they do nothing to stop it. They happily slide in beside him, leaning into him instantly. Claquesous moves in the same familiar way, as if he’s operating on the same muscle memory they are and Fauntleroy feels the relief of their world slotting into place as he draws his arm around them as soon as they rest their head against his shoulder.

Now they are sure they are back.

“Your guest bedroom still sucks,” they sigh contentedly.

“Hmm,” Claquesous hums warmly, and he pulls them in a little more.

Fauntleroy lets themself relax against him. Why would they ever want to sleep alone in a cold bed when they could stay here?

“Were you reading?” they ask, shifting their weight so they can glance up at him.

“Not anymore.”

They smilingly place their hand over his where his arm is now hugging them around their waist. Their hands are small compared to his, but just as strong. They feel the skin-warm metal of one of his heavy iron rings, the shape of it is just as familiar as the touch of his skin. Fauntleroy doesn’t think they’ve ever seen him without these rings. Outside of work, that is. It’s a matched set, one on each hand. They’re pretty sure they help him regulate his magic. He doesn’t wear them when he’s working. But then the masks come on, of course. They love his masks.

Hopefully Babet can get this thing rolling pretty quickly. They're so eager to be working alongside Sous again. So eager to walk back to where they were, pick up where they left off.

But they can never do that straight away. It doesn’t work like that.

For now, lying here with their head against his shoulder with the silent promise that they can sleep here is enough.

They sigh slightly, growing heavy enough to sink into the cushions a little further. “It’s good to be back.”

Claquesous makes a soft noise in response. The kind of noise that could mean any number of things and therefore conveys very little. But then he adds, in one of his softer voices: “Always good to have you here.”

And Fauntleroy can close their eyes with a smile.

-

Fauntleroy always falls asleep so fast. Claquesous doesn’t know how they do it. He watches them in the soft light of the bedside lamp and watches their freckles disappear as they sink deeper into their slumber. Their indigo curls grow darker, more purple, but the wisps of hair at the nape of their neck seem to pale until they’re almost blond. He always feels a little intrusive, watching them like this. But it’s incredibly hard not to.

He ends up doing this every time they visit. Every first night. They always come to sleep with him. Everyone knows. Everyone pretends not to know.

He used to like that, pretended it was a privacy thing. But by now he doesn't know anymore. 

One of Faun’s purple curls has tumbled down in front of their face and he very gently reaches out to stroke it back. Their hair grows finer, silkier, under his touch and he resists the urge to comb his fingers through their locks.

He missed them. He missed them so much.

He can feel the feeling pressing on his chest, just like he can feel how heavy the rings on his hands are.

They stayed away so long this time. He really hopes they won’t leave again right away when this job is done.

-

Sous has gotten up already by the time they wake up. Fauntleroy is used to waking up in his bed alone, but that doesn’t mean they like it.

They don’t exactly go looking for him, but they find him anyway, messing about in the kitchen with something that smells way too spicy to be breakfast.

“Put some milk on for me?” Fauntleroy asks softly.

He hums in agreement and does as he’s asked.

Fauntleroy climbs up on the counter and sits there, their feet dangling slightly. There’s a short silence, only filled with soft kitchen sounds, before Claquesous tips whatever he had been stirring in the frying pan into a bowl, and silently takes out two spoons and a mug. He sets the mug down next to Fauntleroy.

“Thanks,” they murmur, reaching above their head to open a cupboard and feel around in the selection of Babet’s less dangerous ingredients. They find the bottle of anise seed and hold it out to Claquesous.

“Would you?”

He nods, shaking some of the pale brown seeds into the milk as it heats up and adding a couple spoonfuls of sugar. He hesitates at the second one before Fauntleroy prompts with a smile:

“Three please.”

He adds the third one and stirs it a little absentmindedly. "Why do you drink this in the morning?” he mutters. “Isn’t it meant to put you to sleep?”

“Why do you drink coffee late at night?” they retort pleasantly.

Sous makes a vague noise, takes his bowl of questionable breakfast and sticks the second spoon in it.

“Are those scrambled eggs?” Fauntelroy asks.

“Hm,” he hums with his mouth full.

“With chili?”

“Hm.”

Fauntleroy pulls a face, but Claquesous merely hands them the saucepan with sweetened anise milk with a meaningful glance.

He watches them strain it into the cup and for a moment Fauntleroy wonders if Claquesous misses the time they actually still lived in the same place, permanently. They do.

As they cradle their cup, they can see their skin tone darkening and they stare at their nails until they’ve coloured bright blue. Claquesous is leaning against the kitchen table, silently eating his weird eggs and occasionally glancing over at them, but without making it look like he expects them to speak. It’s nice. In an uncertain sort of way.

Fauntleroy hasn’t finished their milk yet when Claquesous clears his bowl away, but they still put down their mug. They can hear the others making noise in the rest of the house and they’re not willing to give up this quiet moment yet.

“C’mere,” they coax, reaching out for him.

Claquesous raises an eyebrow. “What for?”

“Give me your hand,” they insist. “Let me read your palm.”

“What,” he snorts. “Did you acquire second sight since your last visit?”

“No,” they say. “But I reckon I’ll have more luck with this than trying to read your face.”

Predictably his expression barely changes, but he comes towards them even so.

Fauntleroy puts out both their hands and Claquesous holds up his left palm for them, allowing them to cradle it in theirs.

For some reason this feels different than crawling against him in bed or kissing behind a closed door. It’s morning now, daylight, and they’re in the kitchen. This is different.

-

Claquesous is not sure if he’ll ever fully understand why Fauntleroy does the things they do, but it doesn’t matter. Whenever they ask for something, he is always deplorably bad at denying them. As soon as they touch his hand he can feel the magic of his rings pressing on him.

He ignores it, focussing on them instead. They’re pretending to read his palm, drawing patterns on his hand with the tips of their fingers and he can feel the echoes of their soft touches shuddering down his back. It’s too early in the morning for this. They have a whole day ahead of them. He—

Faun’s magic is stealthy, only extremely powerful empaths can feel it, but he sees it immediately. Colour is spreading across his skin. Like purple ink flowing from their touch. It follows the grooves and texture of his skin with remarkable accuracy. Claquesous stares at it.

“Mer always says your magic looks like colours flowing out of you…” Fauntleroy muses. “Into other people.”

Claquesous’ lips part, halfway to pointing out that the colour should be flowing from his touch into them then, but he stops himself just in time. He doesn’t need that visual imprinted in his brain. His hands leaving stains on Fauntleroy’s skin, traces on every place he’s touched them. No.

“I don’t usually touch people,” he says instead and Fauntleroy hums.

“Like this, then,” they say and Claquesous feels his eyes lose focus in confusion for a second as the purple ink detaches from his skin and starts spreading freely through the air. He waves at it instinctually with his free hand and of course nothing happens, the colour doesn’t disperse like smoke or dust, like it should do. It isn’t real. And yet, when he looks at Faun it’s through a haze of purple. So thick that it takes him a moment to see that their hair has taken on the exact same colour.

Heavy steps come slowly down the stairs and Fauntleroy retracts their hand. They try to keep their illusions to a minimum when Gueulemer’s around. It's a deal they've had ever since they first met, when Gueulemer found them practicing minor reality altering illusions in a park, incidentally giving him an absolutely splitting headache by forcing his second sight to show him two different realities at once.

The swirling purple fades, only Faun’s hair remaining a reminder, and Claquesous turns away from them before Gueulemer enters.

Montparnasse and Babet have the decency to pretend not to notice what goes on between them, but Claquesous has given up on expecting such courtesy from Gueulemer.

So he draws back, responding to Mer’s gruff “morning” with a nod, and leaving the kitchen soon after. Fauntleroy watches him go over the brim of their mug as he looks back and he offers them the same, vaguely smiling expression he always does when they’re around others. Like they’re a badly kept secret. Which they are.

---

Claquesous grins when he hears the door open that night. They’re here again, and early too. They seem more eager, even, than the previous night, burying against him with barely a hello.

He holds them tight, revelling in the privilege, and wondering if this is a night they want to be kissed or just held.

Faun’s hands are cupping his face and pulling him in before he gets the chance to ask.

---

Fauntleroy’s hair is oddly nondescript tonight. They’re curled up in a chair, reading what looks like a children’s book, with its colourful cover. Claquesous is trying not to stare as he passes through the living room, but, they look…insignificant. Like they want to fade into the background, go unnoticed, be passed over at a glance.

It’s jarring. He doesn’t like it.

Maybe this is just what they feel like today. Maybe they want to be left alone. After all, what does he know? Perhaps it is restful for them, looking like this.

Except he’s only ever seen them like this once before. While on a job where they wanted to not only blend in but be instantly forgotten. Even when they sleep they’re vibrant. It’s one of the things he l—

On the couch Gueulemer drops his walkman, grabs for it, and abruptly gets up. Claquesous quickens his pace, but Mer still manages to catch him in the hallway.

“Sous, for the love of fuck,” he hisses. “Will you please, talk to them before they try to leave again.”

Claquesous feels a jolt in his midriff. Faun hadn’t told him they were thinking of leaving already. “Mind your own damn business,” he snaps, only keeping his voice down so there’s no risk of Faun overhearing.

“Do you know how fucking loud unspoken words can get.” Gueulemer scowls, blocking the hallway like a looming giant. “You are driving me insane.”

“Then stop listening.” Fauntleroy has never told him they want anything more than what they have now. What right does he have to make them stay? 

“Coward.”

Claquesous sneers, his anger pulsing against the cold metal on his hands. “Piss off,” he hisses and he pushes past Gueul towards the stairs.

Gueulemer’s hand lands on his shoulder like a vice and for just a moment his friend uses genuine force to keep him from moving away. “I’m only going to say this once,” he growls. “You're both driving me insane. You with your goddamn self-denial and Faun with their bloody yearning.”

For a moment Claquesous stares at him in complete disbelief. And then his feelings expand so explosively that he feels the magic in his rings nearly break.

---

“Perhaps I’ll go stay with Bizarro for a while.”

Fauntleroy is lying draped across the foot of his bed, on their stomach with their head resting on their folded arms and their legs bent to leave their feet in the air. Claquesous’ watches them, and doesn’t know what to say.

“I never like being alone immediately after I’ve had to leave here.”

“What do you mean?” What do they mean they have to leave? What do they mean they don’t want to be alone. Why can’t they—

“It’s a shock to the system, you know,” they say lightly, pushing themself up a bit and rolling onto their side to look at him. “Living alone, after all this.”

Claquesous looks back at them, but doesn’t say a word.

Fauntleroy looks at him for a long while and then they sit up. Their face is very fair today, and their hair short, but full. “Sous?”

They nearly sound sad.

He wishes he was wearing one of his masks.

“Hm?” he hums, and then, he quickly adds, in as relaxed a tone as he can manage: “It’s dull here when you’ve just left. Don’t stay away so long this time, will you?”

A pink sheen creeps into the short locks of hair on Fauntleroy’s forehead. “I’d stay, you know, if you wanted me to.”

Claquesous’ mind falters. They would?

They could stay. Stay longer. Long enough for him to figure this out.

“I’d hate to get Biz against me,” he said lightly. “Just don’t disappear again.”

In the silence that follows, broken only by the self-directed anger in his own mind, Fauntleroy moves towards him, just a little, almost close enough to touch him.

He lets them. He has never prevented them from touching him. His self-control simply isn’t strong enough for that.

“I miss you too when I’m away,” they say earnestly.

Claquesous swallows.

-

“Faun, I—”

Fauntleroy blinks at him. His expression is so tense, like a grimace he’s fighting down. He has never told them he doesn’t like them going. They’ve seen it in his looks, thought they saw it anyway, but he has never said.

When he speaks it’s almost as if the words reach them half a heartbeat too late. “I want to ask you to stay, but…”

Fauntleroy nearly closes their eyes. No, no. They don’t want to hear. Don’t want to know his explanations. To be confronted with his doubts about them, about the two of them. They want to stay in this moment, where he just admitted that he does want them to stay. 

He’s trying to meet their eyes and Fauntleroy avoids to look at him. He wants to ask them to stay.

“I know-” His voice sounds so different, so hesitant. “I know I don’t talk a lot about how I—”

“Wait.”

They didn’t mean to be quite so abrupt, but Fauntleroy can’t bear to hear this now. Not already. They want-

“We can talk, Sous,” they say. “Just—” They grab his hands.

Montparnasse has told them so many times that Sous doesn’t need to say anything to make himself understood, because he can make you feel it. They wish he would do that now. They look at him pleadingly. They do want to understand him, so badly. They want to understand everything.

“I know these help you control your magic,” they say, running their fingers past one of the rings. They are nearly cold to the touch. Strange, when he’s been wearing them all day. They should be as warm as he is. “They keep your feelings from wandering.”

Sous looks at them, silently.

“…would you take them off, for me?” They meet his eyes again. “Even if just for a moment. I’d…I’d just like to…”

They trail off.

“I’d just like to know, Sous.”

-

The feeling of Faun’s fingers pressed to the iron of the amulet rings is making something twist in his chest. Claquesous looks down at their hands, today they look very small and slender in his. And soft, soft where he is rough and tense.

They don’t know what they’re asking of him. They have no idea just how much those rings have to hold back when he’s around them.

He could just tell them no.

“…okay.”

Faun’s eyes widen and he sees only surprise. No joy or apprehension. “Really?”

“If you want.”

They clasp his hands a little tighter. “Please.”

He wants to ask them why. But he might not like the answer. He probably won’t. So he doesn’t. Instead, he gently pulls his hands out of theirs and clears his throat. He needs to gain at least some semblance of control back. Calm himself down. The feelings coursing through him right now are no good to him.

He looks at Faun, their attentive expression, the slight nerves in the involuntary movement of their lips... They have freckles today. And beauty marks down their neck.

Claquesous nearly shivers as he can feel the colours of his feelings change their tone. He has learned to rely on Babet, has had appreciation turn to affection for Gueulemer, has craved and cared for Montparnasse. But he has never met anyone, anywhere, that stirred up the kind of adoration he feels for Fauntleroy.

“They’re strong enough to work on their own,” he breaks the silence with what he hopes is a conversational tone, drowning out his own second thoughts. He twists the ring on his left hand. “Or they should. Seems they don’t quite cover the full spectrum of my magic though.”

He pulls the first ring off with a detached sort of determination, letting it drop between the folds of the bedding.

“How did you test them?” Fauntleroy asks quietly and Claquesous nearly lets through a desperate smile.

How sweet of them to play along.

“Mer got me to lose my temper.”

Their mouth pulls into a smirk and Claquesous doesn’t fight the wave of affection he feels in response. Let them feel. Why the hell not. Let him burn.

Faun’s posture changes. They sit up, as if they’ve heard something and need to listen hard not to lose the sound of it.

They look up at him, a distracted look on their face. “Is that…”

“Almost—”

He twists on the second ring. He should back out now.

-

There is something warm filling the air. Fauntleroy can feel it reaching out to them. It feels… They nearly close their eyes in an attempt to grasp the feeling more fully.

This doesn’t feel anything like the glimpses of Sous’ magic that they’ve felt before. The flashes of feelings that skirt just past them when he is working on a target and they’re close by enough to just feel the edge of it.

Those emotions are focussed, polished, immediately comprehensible.

Parnasse had told them, sworn to them in drowsy, drunken moments of comfort, that Sous' own feelings bleed out into the world when he is easy. But…does this feel like Claquesous? It feels wild. Ragged. Like firelight flickering in a breeze.

Perhaps it’s the rings. He hasn’t taken the second one off yet.

As they look up at him, he finally stops twisting it, and pulls.

Once. When they were very young, Fauntleroy wandered into the sea while the tide was just coming in. They stood gazing unsuspectingly until a wave crashed over them and drenched them through and through.

They were shivering cold then.

This time they are glowing hot.

-

He doesn’t put the second ring down. He doesn’t dare. He can feel his magic coursing around it furiously, like it is capable of being indignant at being caged in iron for so long.

Faun stares at him, their eyes wide and surprised, and Claquesous sees colours flashing in their irises. Brighter and brighter, warmer and warmer, until flecks of gold circle their pupils amongst the swirl of changing colours. Their skin tone pales and darkens, warms and blanches, while freckles and birthmarks blink in and out of existence on their face like stars on a cloudy night. Movement ripples through their unbound hair, changing its texture and colour alike, framing their face with coiling curls one moment, only to have it sticking up in wild tufts the next.

Even the very structure of their face, the numerous details that together shape their entire form, are changing like shadows around a flickering candle and Claquesous forgets himself in looking at them.

Faun is so… They’re incredible.

They are unparalleled. In their magic, in their person, in their being.

Without meaning to he reaches out, the ring still clasped in his left hand, and Faun rocks forward to welcome his touch. Before he can stop himself, his fingers graze their cheek.

Faun's breath stutters.

Claquesous nearly snatches his hand back but they're already leaning into his touch, their eyes closing and the fluidity of their appearance slowing down. When they open them there is a shine to them that Claquesous has never seen before and for a moment he thinks that the colours are leaking from their eyes before he realises with a start that they're crying. He hastily retracts his hand, but Faun grabs at it, clutching it to their chest, to their heart, with their crying eyes fixed on him brilliantly.

When their lips move their voice is full of tears and liquid gold. "You love me."

Those words on their tongue, filled with happiness and conviction, shakes something loose in Claquesous' mind. His lips part, but nothing comes out but a helpless, wordless sound of agreement.

Faun is smiling, beaming, through their tear-filled eyes. They're laughing. "You liar."

And before Claquesous can respond they throw themself forward, wrapping their arms around his neck with enough violence that the second ring goes skittering out of his hand as he catches them. The last strand of protection snaps and Faun gasps, their breath faltering as Claquesous feels the full force of his feelings pour directly into them.

For a second he panics, and then Faun's mouth is on his. Their kiss is wild and triumphant and he kisses them back without room for second thoughts. The lack of control he has over his magic in this moment is distressing, even with Faun thoroughly distracting him, but it's beyond him to fight it. His fingers tangle in Faun's hair and a heartbeat later they're in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist. For a moment they break out of the kiss and look at each other. Faun is no longer crying. Their eyes are still glowing amber and gold and they are fixed on him with a look that is just as bright as the feeling Claquesous feels pulsing through his own chest. How did he never see that before? His surprise- joyful, kind surprise, burns through every last impulse of holding back. Because yes, he loves them. But Fauntleroy loves him back.

That is just for a moment though, a second later Faun writhes gleefully in his arm, like they don't know how to handle their own body now it’s so full up with joy and affection, and then they're kissing him again. Claquesous holds them tighter, rocks forward and tips them over. They make an eager sound and pull him down on top of them. He does not take much pulling.

For the first time since he met Fauntleroy, his actions are in perfect accordance with his feelings.

-

Fauntleroy doesn't even know how much time has passed. All they know is that they have been given unequivocal proof that you can get drunk on feelings. They're lying in Sous' arms, tucked against his bare chest, and it's absolutely wondrous how they can feel his feelings flowing into them. It's gentler now than it was before, now his breathing has evened out and his heart no longer beats frantically. Now they've stopped kissing him like they'd never get to do it again. That had been a bit of a vicious circle to be honest. But they couldn't not kiss him with that proof of his feelings flowing through their own.

Through the now soft trickle of Claquesous’ feelings, they can also feel his fingers stroking down their back. They don’t quite remember at what point they decided to take most of their clothes off, but they fully agree with their past selves’ decision.

With their entire body pressed against his as it is, the touch of his hand should really make no difference, but a part of them is convinced that they can feel trails of affection seeping into their skin where his fingers have been. They close their eyes again for a moment, sinking into the feeling of Sous’ love washing gently around their own.

They open their eyes. “…Sous?”

“Mm?” he hums. He moves his head when they prop their chin up on his chest, tipping it forward a bit so he can look at them.

“How come I can feel the difference between your feelings and my feelings?” They peer up at him curiously. “If you are literally putting your feelings in me.” The whole point of his magic is to influence others. That’s how he uses it at least.

Claqueous doesn’t answer right away he looks at them for a while first, and Fauntleroy isn’t sure if he’s thinking or just distracted. Regardless of what it is, the way his eyes are fixed on them makes them smile.

“When I try to manipulate others,” he says finally. “I also manipulate my own feelings.” He languidly starts drawing lines on their back again, but he keeps talking. “I make sure the feelings are ‘clean’, straightforward. Something my targets have felt themselves, so they take it as their own.”

Fauntleroy looks at him as he talks, at the way his lips move and his lashes rise and fall.

“So this feels different because it’s really you?” They smile. “Your unedited feelings?”

“Mm, that’s part of it,” he smirks.

“What’s the other part?” they press. They know they can press because there is no discomfort or apprehension bleeding through Sous’ contentment and affection. They can feel he is okay with this. What a wonderful thing.

“Well,” he says, looking at them. “The other part is, could you even confuse these feelings with your own? Do they resemble them enough?” He nearly smiles and Faun feels the glow of affection heat up for a second. “Do you love yourself like this?”

The tugging on the corners of their mouth is irresistible. “Not like this I don’t,” they say warmly. They drop their head down again, pressing a clumsy kiss to his chest right over his heart. “I love you like this.”

They giggle when his affection flares up wildly again and they laugh when he scolds them for laughing and threatens to put on the rings again. They present their apology in kisses and by the time they’re lying beside him with their head resting against his shoulder, Sous has promised he has forgiven them.

Fauntleroy rolls onto their side so they can stroke his chest, their fingernails shimmering wildly for a moment and freckles swirling onto the back of their hand. 

“So…" they smile, glancing up at him. "Does this mean you’d like me to stay?”

The burst of exasperated affection swirling all around him is so strong that Fauntleroy is sure the whole house must be able to feel it.

Well, the others will just have to get used that. Because they're not leaving here anymore. Not a chance.

Chapter Text

Claquesous is hovering behind them like a disapproving shadow, never straying further than a step or two away as they move from door to door and window to window. He’s not making this any easier, but they know he means well.

Fauntleroy sighs as their blood stops flowing. Their skin has healed. But they’re not done yet. This place has too many windows. They take out their athame again.

Sous makes a sharp sound at the back of his mind. “Surely you-”

“We need to be safe,” they interrupt and their voice comes out sharper than they meant to. They need to keep them all safe. Parnasse is still recovering, the sun is about to rise, and this is a strange place. They glance at Claquesous, gentling their voice. “I don’t want to take any more risks tonight.”

He bares his fangs in a grimace of disagreement, but doesn’t argue.

Fauntleroy does their best to turn out of his line of sight when they put the knife to their skin.

-

Faun uses their magic so often – far too often – that he should be used to the scent of their blood by now. But he isn’t. It never gets easier. He stops breathing, struggling against the desire to inhale as deeply as possible. He’s not hungry. Not even close. It’s just—

Fauntleroy lifts their hand, blood dripping down their fingers, and puts them to the window frame. They carefully draw sigils all around it.

Claquesous knows they’re being hypervigilant. Usually they only place one sigil above every entrance, perhaps one in every corner if they’re being careful, this is overkill.

Overkill that is beginning to take its toll. They move their head as they reach over and Claquesous catches a glimpse of their silhouette. Their usually bright eyes are duller than they were before, their cheeks are getting a hollow look. He’s seen them like this before. He knows what it can lead to.

He doesn’t want them to do this to themself.

-

“There,” they sigh, retracting their hand with a slight wince. “All safe.”

The building is humming softly with their magic now, they can feel it even without trying. The power of their blood is enclosing it fully, keeping everyone within it safe and sound. Hidden away from any harm.

Sous makes a soft sound of acknowledgement and immediately tries to steer them back inside. They follow willingly and the moment they step over the threshold their shoulders sag with a release of tension.

Safe.

Claquesous locks the door, but it almost feels unnecessary now. Fauntleroy can feel the ache of exhaustion and hunger settle in their joints, but they don’t care. It doesn’t matter. It’s worth it.

“Let’s check on the others,” they murmur.

Sous moves faster than they can, holding the basement hatch open for them. That frame is also stained with their blood. It’s the first spell they laid.

Fauntleroy descents the stairs with silent steps, calling out gently as they go.

“To the right,” Jehan’s voice answers.

Fauntleroy might have followed the sound of their heartbeat, it’s still elevated, but no longer anxious. They are reclining in a nest of blankets on the floor, with Parnasse resting against them. He looks a lot better than he did, but still a far cry from well. He’ll get there though.

“The house is secure,” they say, smiling faintly. “We can all rest.”

Jehan’s eyes are large and full of feelings. “Thank you, Faun.” They glance down at Montparnasse, who hasn’t opened his eyes, but just muttered something indistinct. It sounded sarcastic though, so that’s alright.

“Get some sleep, Jehan,” Fauntleroy says gently and they nod.

When they turn, Claquesous is right behind them again, and Fauntleroy might have startled if they had not gotten used to this by now. His dark eyes are fixed on Montparnasse for a moment longer, before shifting to their face.

“Attic?”

“Yes,” they sigh.

-

The attic doesn’t have any windows to block off, it’s as safe as the basement. It is disconcerting how slowly Faun climbs the stairs though.

What’s even worse is how colourless they’ve gone. Fauntleroy is always vibrant, seemingly more alive than even most mortals manage to look. Right now they look…faded.

They look utterly drained and yet- And yet there is that triumphant little smile on their face. They don’t care what they did to themself. They’re pleased.

-

Being underground has never agreed with them much and Fauntleroy is grateful for the attic. They breathe out on a smile when they see the mattress and the pile of duvets.

“When did you do this?” they ask, turning around.

Claquesous is hovering in the doorway at the top of the stairs, nothing but a shadowy shape in the darkness. Not even their eyes can discern his face.

He does not answer them and Fauntleroy wonders with a pang of uncertainty if they could ask him to stay here with them, instead of going downstairs. The house is safe. He does not need to go down to stand guard. He could stay with them… He might… Would he?

They drop their gaze, turning around, and suddenly the world spins.

They have barely taken a single self-balancing step before Claquesous is at their side, hands catching their elbows.

“Steady-” His voice is a growl.

“I’m fine, Sous.”

The growl repeats, this time without words.

They smile weakly at the dark. “I’ve been worse.”

“I know-” Claquesous lets go of them, his movements as curt as his voice. “Because you keep doing this.”

Fauntleroy turns to face him and this time they do see his expression, no impenetrable shadow clinging to his form. His eyes are glittering with barely contained emotion and Fauntleroy makes an effort to square their sagging shoulders.

“My magic is important to me, Claquesous,” they say gravely. “I could not put up a show of force like you can-” They try not to picture the moment he put himself between Montparnasse and the attackers too vividly. “-but I can do this.”

Sous regards them silently for a moment. Then he draws breath to speak.

Fauntleroy bristles at the look in his eyes. “If you are going to say that me spilling my blood is any different to you taking a stake to the chest—”

He shuts his mouth, but only for a moment. “I didn’t, though.”

“But you would have.” They do not mean to sound accusatory, they only want to point out the two of them are on equal footing here. Sous will not let them sacrifice what he is willing to risk himself.

-

They’re not wrong. He’s clearheaded enough to see that. But the situation is still different. He is fine right now. The few scrapes and cuts he sustained healed in barely a moment, the blood of his adversaries coursing through his own undead veins as a great reward for a small risk. That’s the thing, risk. Yes, he puts himself in danger, but it’s a gamble. Claquesous knows what he is worth. He knows when the odds are on his side. Fauntleroy doesn’t gamble. They trade. They trade their own blood, their own well-being, for power to place outside of themself. They can do things Claquesous can barely comprehend, but it always costs them.

Claquesous does not doubt Fauntleroy’s capability to weigh their options and to know the repercussions of their choices. He would never underestimate them like that. Never insult their abilities in such a way.

But they never choose their own preservation. And now they are drained, weakened, vulnerable. In a strange place, in a strange house, with one of their friends trying to heal a hole in his chest downstairs.

Their blue eyes are fixed on him in defiance, but he can see the hurt in them. He should choose his words more carefully around them.

-

When Sous opens his mouth again his expression is different, more restrained, but also cautious.

“…I know you are keeping us safe.” His eyes meet theirs. “I value you for it.”

Fauntleroy feels a strange, wild emotion flare up deep inside their chest.

“But it is not unreasonable of me to dislike you nearly bleeding yourself dry,” he continues firmly.

No matter how many years of undeath they have behind them, Fauntleroy still feels emotions sting on their skin like warmth. They are too tired to be angry. “So you want me t-”

“I want you to feed,” Claquesous cuts them off and to their acute embarrassment he rolls up one of his sleeves. His eyes dart back up to theirs again. “We needed protection, now you need blood.”

Fauntleroy moves their lips in stunned silence, all their feelings jumbling together into a knot of flustered endearment. He’s offering to feed them. Himself.

“Take as much as you need to be well again.”

“I- Sous-” They look at his bared wrist. “I can’t-”

“I’m offering,” he reiterates and there is a very familiar, stubborn edge to his voice.

“No, Sous,” they fumble. “I mean- I can’t drink that much from you in one go. I’d have to keep biting you.” The words alone are making something jitter in their stomach, but they force themself to meet his gaze. “I don’t want to drug you up that badly. You might pass out.”

Of course Sous’ undead body will not react like a human’s would. But two bites are enough to make a human lose consciousness. It’d take a lot more than that to drink their fill from a wrist wound that keeps healing over.

Claquesous’ expression is unmoving and stoic for a long moment and then he drops his arm to his side. “Fine,” he says and then, to Fauntleroy’s alarm, he takes off his hoodie entirely. “Then pick a better spot.”

Fauntleroy stares at him. They’re not sure they’ve ever seen him in just a T-shirt. His brown skin does not have the undertone of bluish-grey they see in a lot of their fellows. Perhaps because he fed so much tonight. Is that why he is offering? He wouldn’t offer if he couldn’t spare it, right?

Their expression must not have been so obviously admiring as they feared it was, because Claquesous shifts a little and says: “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. But I think you need it.”

They do want to. They’re hungry, starving, and they’ve wondered—they’ve wondered what he tastes like since the first time they heard him laugh in the dark…

-

There is an expression shifting in Fauntleroy’s eyes that he has not seen before and Claquesous doesn’t know what it means. Suddenly their gaze drops and they look from his chest to his neck to his arms.

He did just invite them to do exactly that, but the thought of Fauntleroy imagining where to bite him is…confusing. He touches his tongue to his fangs involuntarily.

“Okay,” they murmur. “Will you sit down?”

Right. Okay. He looks around, but there’s nothing here except for the makeshift bed on the floor. Claquesous kicks off his shoes and sits down on the mattress, crossing his legs. Fauntleroy follows, first carefully putting their boots aside and then kneeling beside him.

The way they are looking at him is putting a strange pressure on his chest. Almost as if his heart is trying to remember how to beat.

Very gently, Fauntleroy reaches out and lifts up his arm. They’re touching him as if he’s something precious.

“Is this okay?”

“Mm.” He doesn’t dare to open his mouth. What he’s feeling right now is nothing compared to the agitated worry from before. It’s disconcerting. True, he doesn’t feed people often, but—

Fauntleroy’s eyes look searchingly up into his, pale and blue. “Are you sure?” There is a strained edge to the gentleness in their voice. Hunger.

“Yes-” He may not be sure about what he’s feeling, but he is sure about this. They can take what they need.

Fauntleroy drops their gaze and their head in one movement and suddenly, before he is quite prepared, their fangs sink into the soft inside of his elbow.

Claquesous does not feel them pierce his artery. What he feels is the intoxication of their bite. Their venom is spreading through his body faster than his blood is flowing out of it and his blood is flowing. Fauntleroy is drinking deeply, their tongue lapping at the wound to keep it from closing, and their fingers gripping his arm on either side in a strange grip that feels caressingly soft and yet impossible to break free from.

Not that he’s trying, he does not have a single desire to move. His eyes nearly close, but he won’t let them. He’s watching, he’s watching Fauntleroy drink.

-

It is more work, drinking from a vampire instead of a human. It is also so much stronger. It takes Fauntleroy several long draughts before they can even pull themself together enough to truly taste him. Claquesous’ blood is tepid in their mouth, but it is hot sliding down their throat.

Sous is keeping still, offering them his arm willingly and their hunger is getting terribly tangled up with something else. He’s so…so… He tastes good. He tastes just as good as they always thought he would. – Always thought? Have they spent so much time thinking about this? – His blood is better than the willing victims at Bizarro’s nightclub. Headier than the taste of fear they get to indulge in on their rare hunts. Better than— He’s taking care of them. Feeding them. He’s sweet to them, always so sweet. – As sweet as he tastes. They can feel the exhaustion being washed away, but the hunger, the hunger only grows. And there is less to still it. Less and less blood flowing into their mouth. Less and less to swallow down and drown themself in.

-

Fauntleroy throws their head back with a gasp, filling the air with the thick scent of blood. Their mouth is a dark, bloody red and the knowledge that it’s his blood does something to Claquesous’ insides he was not prepared for. He wants— What the fuck does he want?

Beside him Fauntleroy wobbles with the dazed feeling of drinking and blinks as if they try to wake themself. “Sorry,” they gasp.

As they loosen their grip on him, Claquesous instinctually reaches out to steady them and sees that underneath the stains of blood, his skin has healed.

“I wasn’t fast enough,” Fauntleroy murmurs breathily. They look up and Claquesous stares into two brilliant, ruby-red eyes. The hollow shadow on their eyes is gone, but their lips are parted and their entire being seems full of want.

“Can I—?” they ask, cutting themself off. “I mean, you don’t have—”

Claquesous swallows. The opiates in his system are playing his body, but his mind is too busy losing it over them. He has never seen them like this before. “Do you want more?”

“Yes,” they whine and suddenly they’re nearly on top of him.

He blinks at them, their faces suddenly dangerously close.

“S-sorry-” they whisper.

He shakes his head at them without even thinking. “I said drink your fill.” Their eyes are so wide and so large. “I meant it-”

-

They don’t mean to go for his neck, but they can’t help themself. And Sous gives way to them, tilts his head with barely a gasp and lets them. Their fangs sink into him deeper than they ever bite and instinctively they wrap their arms around him to keep him steady.

This time they know what it’s going to be like – they are waiting for it – and it is divine. They can drink even deeper now and they do. His blood is gorgeous and there is so much of it. Sous is propping himself up, trying to stay upright and support their weight. They can feel him doing it and it almost makes them smile. They do smile, inwardly, but their lips are busy. Supportive. He’s so sweet.

His blood is still flowing, the wound is still bleeding—but if they bit him again, there’d be more.

-

His head was already spinning, already filled with fuzz. When Faun’s teeth bite into his neck again, his vision starts swimming. His breath has been locked uselessly into his lungs since the moment they lunged at him, but now he can feel the air shudder past his lips with a weak, drawn-out sound.

Fauntleroy hums, as if in response, and they keep humming. Making soft, gentle noises as they drink and drink and drink.

As he begins to lose his balance, Claquesous suddenly feels their fingers combing through his hair. They lean their weight into him more and more, lips still pressed to his neck, one hand in his hair and one pressed to his back, until he’s lying down and they are straddling him.

He’s certain he can stay awake, when he tries he can call his senses mostly back to order, but what Faun is doing to him is impossible to fight. At least physically. His mind might push back, against the bliss and intoxication—but he doesn’t want to. God he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t even want them to stop drinking. He wants to feel this drunk, this ecstatic, forever. He wants to keep them on top of him, keep the steady flow of him straight into them, keep the touch of their teeth and the press of their fingers.

-

The hunger is sliding away, giving way to a sated satisfaction that feels deep enough to fill their very soul. Fauntleroy swallows one last time, keening slightly at the taste, and eases off the wound. To allow him to heal. They lap at the slow trickle of blood still left, unwilling to waste a drop, but they raise their head again immediately.

Sous is lying back onto the duvets and pillows, his eyes nearly closed and fangs bared in an overwhelmed sort of half-smile. He’s so much. So much and so beautiful. They smile drunkenly and stroke through his dark hair. Sighing before ducking their head down again and gently putting their lips back to his skin.

-

He knows what they’re doing. He does. But it feels like a kiss—

Fauntleroy murmurs by his ear and Claquesous struggles to make out the sounds of their voice through the swimming of his head.

“You’re so good…” Their lips brush his neck and they lap at his skin. “You’re so good to me.”

Are their fingers caressing his face? It feels like they are, but his mind is too divided to be sure. They are still whispering, he can feel their breath on his wet skin.

“I don’t know anyone like you…”

Faun’s face is suddenly above his, looking down at him with specs of blue shimmering in the red. “Are you okay?”

He looks up at them, his eyes unbothered by the lack of light. Their skin is fair and rosy again, their curls glossy in their multiple colours, no more shadows under their eyes.

“Never better.” He’s not lying. He has never felt this way. Certainly not after having so much of his blood drained away. Besides, Faun is smiling. A glorious, red-mouthed, drunken smile.

“That is not an answer,” they press their body tight against his for a moment, as if that might coerce him to speak the truth. Their face is incredibly close to his again. “It's me who feels never better,” they sigh.

“Good-” he manages.

“Good,” they sigh. “Good…” They slide to the side and roll off him, resting their head against his bicep for a moment.

Claquesous swallows around the feelings swelling in his throat, warm and unbearably fond. “You didn’t take too much.”

Their eyes dart back up to his face, more blue than red now. “No?”

“No.”

They sigh, but it sounds content rather than relieved. Suddenly they reach out and grab his hand, slowly bending his arm to bring it towards their face. “Thank you,” they murmur and they press a kiss, a genuine kiss, to the flat of his fingers.

Claquesous forgets he needs to breathe to be able to answer.

They let go, letting their arms slide away, and Claquesous finds himself hovering his hand over their face. He remembers the gentle touches to his hair and very cautiously, brushes through their coloured curls. Fauntleroy smiles, fangs bared and eyes drowsy.

“Stay?” they ask.

It’s flattering of them to ask. As if there was any doubt. “Yes, I’ll stay.”

Fauntleroy makes a soft, blissful sound and rolls into him, tucking against his side as if it’s something they do every day. He shifts on the odd pile of soft bedding. Will they do this again? Not all of it, obviously. But…this?

“I can’t tell,” Fauntleroy mutters into his shirt. “Whether you’re quiet because it’s you or because other things.”

Claquesous opens his eyes, unsure when he even closed them. “You’re quiet too.”

“Mm,” they sigh. “Drunk.”

God they sound so soft. “Mm. Same.”

They laugh, clinging to him a little as they press their forehead to his chest. They still smell like blood. His blood. And they feel almost warm, pressed against him like this.

He closes his eyes again.

Part of him feels Faun shift, but the does not move. His limbs are heavy. With the exertion of the night, the pull of the rising sun, the intoxication still flowing through his system.

“Hey, Sous?”

When he opens his eyes Faun has raised their head, just enough to look at him.

“Mm?”

“I like…that I get to see your face now.” Their eyes are fully blue again, sated instead of ravenous, but somehow not less wanting. “…I like your face.”

It’s too much. Too much for one night. He knows it’s his own blood he’s smelling, but he remembers the scent of Faun’s blood. Dripping down their slender fingers. And now they’re looking at him so gently, with red smearing their lips and their hands gently clinging to his shirt.

He wants all of it and he has no idea why.

“I like yours too, Bouquetière.”

They smile, and he gets to see a single spark dance in the pale blue before they close their eyes and hide their face against his chest to sleep.