(no subject)

[little_words]

Noir awoke with a jolt, and for a few confusing seconds he was unsure of where he was. This wasn't his rundown studio in the city, or Deucalion's bed; nor was this the small cots they sometimes left in the club for staff and patrons who couldn't make their way home that night. No, the sheets under him were soft and smelled worn, but fresh, and the window overlooked clear skies devoid of towering skyscrapers.

But then everything came back to him, and with it so too did a bruising sensation around his neck. Noir's breath left him all at once and he immediately lifted his hands to his throat as though to claw at whatever had took him, only to find nothing. That didn't make breathing any easier, no, if anything it made it worse, and his heart was palpitating at an alarming rate as his eyes burned with unshed tears and--

"Noir."

Firm arms wrapped around him, pulling him into an even firmer chest. Instead of being comforted, though, and feeling secure in this he instead felt the exact opposite. It felt like he were being smothered, being pinned down, and he struggled violently in the hold with a yell and his arms shoving at whatever had grabbed a hold of him. He hit broad shoulders and immediately felt hands on his face, turning his head to peer blindly into familiar blue eyes. His lips parted to gasp a name, but no sound came out, and as the pain blossomed up from his lower half he felt the unshed tears in his eyes spill at the recollection of what had happened to him.

With Deucalion, though the man was forceful he had always given Noir a choice. At the flower shop he would only layer on his advances until Noir slapped him away, and then he would back off without a word. Even their first time, Deucalion knew - he knew if Noir didn't want it, he would say so. He made him want it that time, and every time thereafter - but no matter how much Deucalion wanted, or obsessed, he would never have forced Noir into something like this. He would never broke what he owned.

Deucalion was saying something, and Noir snapped back into clarity and noticed for the first time that the man was not wearing a suit. In all their months together he'd only known the other to be well-dressed, his hair slicked back and that tantalizing cologne already sprayed on before Noir opened his eyes. Seeing him in different clothes was.... strange, to say the least, but he wore them very well. The grey sweater and black jeans looked like something pulled out of a high end fashion catalogue, and Deucalion's tousled hair fell over his eyes in a way that made Noir want to brush them away with his fingers. The sleeves were rolled up over his elbows, exposing an intricate web of black and color tattoos that started at his wrist and disappeared under the fabric.

Like this, Deucalion looked... younger. Less threatening than he normally did, and Noir couldn't help the way his body relaxed in increments at the sight of the seemingly docile man. This didn't go unnoticed, and a look of surprise crossed those pale blue eyes before Deucalion's lips curved in a rakish half-smile. Noir watched as the man took a hand away to run it through his hair, as though to try and slick back the messy strands without gel so he looked a bit like his old self. This obviously did not work, and when Deucalion's hair fell right back into place Noir's laugh escaped him in a hiccuping sob that immediately drew a concerned look from the man.

"I'm fine--- I'm fine," Noir managed to get out, though even now he felt himself curling inward like he were trying to hide himself away in Deucalion's chest. He tried hard not to think about the way he ached inside or the way he still wanted to run despite knowing who this was, and knowing that Deucalion would never, ever do anything to hurt him or force him against his will. To his credit, the man didn't do anything aside from drape his arms around Noir's shoulders and pull him in close, murmuring sweet nothings into the crown of Noir's hair and laying them both back against the pillows.

**********************

Noir didn't want to know what had happened to Remy in the end, and Deucalion wasn't the sort to boast about business. When the staff arrived later in the day, they were surprised to see that Noir had taken in a houseguest but served him dutifully all the same, with some of the elder women remarking in hushed tones how such a handsome man had made Noir's acquaintance and whispering about the tattoos on his forearms.

The events that had transpired last night went unmentioned, and Noir tried his hardest to put it out of his mind as he settled back into the life he'd claimed for himself - though now, there was the ever-present, watchful eye of Deucalion at his side. In the mornings he would accompany Noir as he made his way from room to room, hovering in the doorway with his arms folded over his chest as Noir perused his relatives' things. He joined him for meals and on his walks through the garden (which became a frequent thing, once Noir had finally managed to make it outside), and at night he would smoke a cigarette outside before joining Noir in bed.

Deucalion was smart enough not to touch him, waiting instead until Noir tucked his head under the man's arm in half-sleep for warmth before pulling him close. And when the inevitable night terrors would claim him and Noir would jolt awake in bed in a cold sweat, clawing at invisible hands at his throat, Deucalion was always there. The first few nights Noir had nearly gouged out the man's eyes in his terror, but Deucalion soon learned how to move and where to hold and what to say to calm the other down.

It had been several days after the incident, and the night terrors were lessening marginally. The bruises that had been around his neck at the beginning of the month were only just now fading (though not enough, if the way Deucalion's gaze turned hateful when he passed over them was any indication) but to Noir, there were still moments where he felt as though there were hands clutching at his throat and holding him down, and it was in those moments that the pain between his legs would flare up. He knew, to some extent, that this was purely psychological; after the first night he had lain with Deuce it hadn't taken nearly as long for him to heal, and the man had been particularly aggressive and demanding those first few times. He knew it was all in his head, and yet he couldn't persuade himself out of it.

Noir decided on this day that he wanted to take a bath. There were several rooms set aside specifically for that purpose, including one in his own bedroom, which was where he retreated to now. The bathroom was beautifully tiled and spacious, and the garden tub was seated in between two sinks and overlooked the window and one of the more colorful gardens planted by his great-grandmother (this he'd discovered in a journal he'd stumbled upon). During his first few weeks of living here he'd discovered how much he enjoyed simply sitting in the hot waters, letting the heat soak through to his bones and feeling his worries wash away.

Deucalion left him to his own devices when Noir started the water, though his gaze lingered on Noir's frame appreciatively, that familiar, dark hunger in his eyes. Noir felt himself flush under the attention, but Deucalion didn't pursue anything and left him alone when given an awkward look. If the man was at all offended by this he didn't show it - instead, the barest of smiles curved his lips before he ducked out, and half-shut the door behind him. Noir didn't move to shut it completely, knowing that Deucalion would be right outside anyway and the notion that he was there if anything went wrong was comforting enough that he could enjoy his bath in peace.

He sank into the hot waters, feeling his limbs grow loose and his mind drift off to somewhere calm and peaceful. The tub was big enough he could submerge himself to his collarbones, which is what he did, gratefully, until the sounds of the mansion began to fade away.

For a long while he simply lay there, drifting in his thoughts - and then he heard the door creak, and glanced over. He half-expected to see Deucalion in the entryway - he wouldn't put it past him - but instead he saw it was now almost all the way closed, with just a small sliver left to see through. He heard the low murmur of a voice, hushed as though trying to be purposefully quiet, and Noir strained to listen to what was being said. Unfortunately he was not close enough, nor was Deucalion being loud enough, but his curiosity was quickly winning out.

There were towels laid out on the counter nearby and Noir carefully took one as he stood, trying to minimize the sound of the water dripping from his form. Deuce's murmuring did not stop, though, and he quickly wrapped himself up before taking measured steps towards the door.

As he got closer, Deucalion's words took on more clarity, and he could see him standing with his back towards the bathroom, one hand in his pocket and his feet set apart. It was the stance he took when he was trying to intimidate Noir's handsy clients, when he was collecting debts, or when he was taking one last look before leaving Noir to his bed as he left for work.

"---daughter. Find her, and take care of it." It was the same tone he'd used when he was threatening Remy, before Noir had fallen asleep. "All loose ends. Mother, daughter, son, uncle, I don't care - take care of them." The last was said in such a low, threatening growl that Noir could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, even though he knew it wasn't directed towards him. He couldn't help the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as his brain tried to come up with potential identities for the other person on the phone.

"Buona notte."

And then Deucalion was sliding the phone back into his pocket and turning, and Noir gasped sharply enough that it drew the other man's attention. Immediately the Italian strode forward and shoved the door open, giving Noir little time to back away lest he risk being smacked in the face with it, and then Deucalion was standing there, before him, peering into the bathroom with narrowed, searching eyes before his gaze returned to Noir before him. Noir noticed, with breathless realization, that Deucalion already had a hand to his waist as though to draw some hidden firearm that he couldn't see; but when Deucalion's gaze fell upon delicate collarbones and wet skin, the tension in the man's shoulders immediately relaxed, and he straightened to tower over the boy in the bath with confidence oozing off of him in waves.

Noir wished he wouldn't look at him like that. Little had changed from the beginnings of their relationship, and the hungry, dark look in Deucalion's eyes was a familiar, telling sign for when he was getting aroused. In the past Noir had weathered it enough times that he could ignore it if he tried really hard, but in this instance he was naked, wet, and there was only a towel standing in the way of the Italian and himself. And he knew for a fact that Deucalion had been left wanting for weeks, because Deucalion had made it abundantly clear time and time again that he would have no one else.

The few times Noir had been wracked with insecurity - and this was mostly Deucalion's fault, since he had gone and kissed and touched women when he was most frustrated, if only to get a rise out of Noir - the Italian had been all too happy to drop whatever held his attention immediately and put Noir's fears to rest in the most intimate way he could.

This was not one of those times; Noir's eyes slid sideways for an entirely different reason, one which Deucalion didn't immediately notice as he encroached into the bathroom, the tips of his fingers trailing along the dip of bare collarbones. The room suddenly became much more stifling and, with a sharp intake of breath, Noir lifted his eyes to meet the Italian's intense gaze as the man stepped in until they were practically chest to chest. The fingers resting against his naked skin lifted and now ran along Noir's jawline to cup his cheek, tilting his head up to peer into his eyes.

It was a mistake to look at him. Noir's knees weakened at that pale blue gaze, and Deucalion honed in on that weakness and immediately slipped an arm around his waist, enveloping him effortlessly. It was to help Noir keep on his feet, but more than that - it was to bring Noir closer so that they were chest to chest, so that he could lower his head and--

"W-who was that on the phone?" Noir's voice was shaking even to his own ears, but he swallowed and pressed his hand firmly against Deucalion's mouth; a stupid gesture, he realized, when one had just asked a question, but one that was necessary to deter the man. Deucalion blinked, and his eyes half-lidded, but he showed no signs of pulling away to answer, and Noir didn't remove his hand. He was very, very aware of how wet he was, how naked he was, and the heat in the bathroom was quickly beginning to dissipate the longer the door remained open.

It wasn't until Noir shivered, goosebumps raising along his skin, that Deucalion finally pulled away to answer. Or at least, Noir thought he would answer, but instead he found his feet suddenly swept off the ground without difficulty and he was carried back over to the bath. The towel fell to pool on the floor along the way, and he made a feeble attempt to cover himself, but Deucalion let out a husky laugh and Noir flushed darkly.

The waters enveloped him swiftly and he sank gratefully into the warmth with a sigh. Deucalion, for his part, wasn't as.... aggressive as he normally was, which was both a relief and an oddity. Given how Deucalion had spent the entirety of their relationship with his hands on Noir as much as he could, it was strange seeing the man so.... reserved. But, as Deucalion retreated, his fingers lingered on Noir's arms long enough to draw the boy's attention and Noir was surprised to see that there were bruises on his pale skin in the form of fingers. He knew of the ones around his neck, of course, had felt them on occasion when he took a breath. But these...

He suddenly felt an even more intense wave of admiration for Deucalion. How hard was the Italian fighting against his instincts not to claim Noir after seeing all the marks on him? Gentility was only rarely to the man's tastes, especially when it came to rebranding Noir as his own; not literally, of course, but in other ways. Seeing these bruises and markings all over his pale skin must be torture for Deucalion, especially with the knowledge they were from another man. It was probably enough to make him want to kill someone---

Noir gave a start and suddenly reached out, snatching Deucalion's sleeve before he could get too far. His throat suddenly felt very dry and he turned unwavering eyes to the man's face, searching it for the answers he needed.

Deucalion said nothing, only arched a brow and seated himself at the edge of the tub. His arm, caught in Noir's hold, remained folded in his lap.

"Deucalion." This time when Noir spoke, it was clear. "Who was that on the phone?"

"Business." The Italian responded smoothly, and chased away his closed off expression with a curve of his lips. "What's the matter, caro? You think I'm talking to some bambina on the side?"

"No-- what kind of business?" Noir shook off the initial trappings of embarrassment he felt at the pet names - something he could never get over - and pressed on, expression determined. "It sounded..." He trailed off. To ask further would be to admit to eavesdropping, which he was pretty sure Deucalion knew he'd been doing. He'd been more or less caught red-handed, after all. But...

"It... it sounded pretty serious."

"As is the nature of business." Deucalion lifted a shoulder. "You're well aware, the nature of my work makes it a bad idea to play around when you're giving orders. If I wanted to crack jokes while speaking with my associates, I would go and join a comedy club. Unfortunately, my jokes aren't that funny. Or at least, that's what they say behind my back."

Noir was struggling to find a way to voice what he was thinking without actually having to do it. He knew that it was a moot point with Deucalion, though; somehow, the man always knew how to slip out at just the last second and play dumb, preferring instead to hear Noir speak what he wanted to openly and bluntly. In a way, he was forcing the closeness between them by drawing Noir out of his comfort zone over and over again.

That's probably what he was doing now. Noir squared his shoulders and narrowed his gaze, knowing that it combined with the wet look he was sporting and made him look like the most non-lethal thing on the planet. Deucalion's gaze was still more appreciative than anything, which Noir supposed was a better thing than mocking or, even worse, condescending.

"Were you ordering a hit?"

Silence. Deucalion's expression had closed off again, but his eyes were quietly regarding the boy before him - and, briefly, his gaze travelled to the bruises around Noir's neck. That was practically answer enough.

"No."

".... are you lying to me?" It was hard not to feel hurt by the thought, and Noir - despite himself, couldn't help but recall all the times he'd seen Deucalion kiss another woman despite his proclaimation that Noir was the only one for him. He knew why the Italian did it, of course; it was in the period of their relationship that Noir had outright refused and rejected him even though Deucalion had immediately taken care of his family's debt. He had thought at the time that the Italian wanted to fulfill some kind of sick slave-master fantasy he'd had stashed away and had worked hard to avoid him at all costs. But since then, Deucalion had been nothing but a perfect, attentive....

Boyfriend? Was that what he was? Somehow, the word didn't fit. But then, what else would he call him?

Deucalion met Noir's stare unflinchingly. Unsurprising, given what he did for a living. But Noir was determined, and wouldn't look away, not even when Deucalion parted his lips to speak.

"No." And it was said with such confidence that Noir found it hard to believe otherwise.

"Then... who was..."

"Is it that hard to trust me, my moon?" Deucalion turned his wrist over, one hand offered to Noir in gesture. "You think I'm ordering a hit on the guy who touched you - a guy I already tore apart with my bare hands? That I'm killing the rest of his family, tying up the loose ends so it doesn't get out? His daughter's barely out of middle school. His son, elementary. And his wife? That brings me no joy."

If Deucalion is at all offended by Noir's assumptions, he doesn't show it. Noir, suddenly pink-faced with embarrassment and shame, keeps his gaze trained on Deucalion's hands as the man continues speaking.

"For my anger, I thought it fitting to take care of them - monetarily. For my mistake in letting you out of my sight - for my foolishness in thinking you would return to me." The hand clenched into a fist and Deucalion's voice took on a hard edge. Noir lifted his gaze then, unwavering, and their eyes met for one hot, tense second. The Italian's was full of raw possessiveness, hunger and anger, and Noir's was calm and even, almost challenging. Deucalion's gaze became electric at the sight, and he drew in a shuddering breath. His hand unclenched and he was reaching out, down into the water to touch what lay hidden beneath the steamy surface -

- only to be met with a resounding slap that echoed through the bathroom like a sharp clap. Deucalion's gaze only intensified over the reddening mark on his cheek, but he didn't continue further and Noir - despite the fact that his hand still stung and his gaze was still held fast by Deucalion's eyes - reached over with both hands, grasping a hold of the fabric of the Italian's shirt and yanking him in.

Noir felt a brief moment of satisfaction when he saw Deucalion's gaze go wide and saw his hand shoot out to grip something, anything to keep from falling into the bath - realizing with a pang of guilt that Deucalion probably had his phone still in his pocket - but to no avail. Everything around the tub was slippery with soap and steam, and Deucalion's grip wouldn't catch. The larger man fell in with a heavy splash that sent water spilling over the edges of the tub to spatter across the floor, and as the Italian sputtered and moved to an upright position Noir wasted no time in immediately hoisting himself up and over the man's lap, seating himself over his hips in a position that was as familiar as breathing.

Like this, Deucalion looked even more younger than he had the entire time he had been in the mansion. Fortunate, because the heated look Deucalion levelled at him would have affected him much more intensely. Noir lifted his chin, draping his arms over Deucalion's shoulders and grimacing at the way the fabric felt under his touch. Even like this, he could feel the man's careful restraint and how he was nearly trembling with holding himself back. Noir knew he was playing a dangerous game trying to see how much he could push him, but... it was enough of a distraction he wasn't grimacing at the feeling of skin against himself, or the way his legs spread wide like they'd spread around --

No. He was thinking too much. Hadn't Deucalion proved by now he wasn't going to hurt him? For Noir, who had spent practically the entirety of his relationship not trusting the man who'd pledged heart and loyalty to him, the idea of accepting Deucalion at face value was simultaneously hard to swallow and the simplest thing in the world.

Pale blue eyes watched him from underneath the wet fringe of black hair, and Noir licked at his lips. That gaze immediately darted down to his mouth, and Noir swore he could feel a fresh wave of heat roll off the Italian, threatening to consume. He waited - took a breath, settled bare skin across wet denim - and when it became apparent that Deucalion was not going to touch him, he curled his fingers in the man's hair and tugged his head back.

Deucalion went easily, the heat in his eyes practically fire, and Noir lifted himself up in one sinuous, easy roll of his hips before dipping his head and pressing their lips together sweetly. The Italian made a noise in his throat that sounded like the growl of a wild animal and Noir responded with a murmur of his own, licking along Deucalion's lower lip before running his fingers through the man's dark, wet locks as though in praise.

And when Deucalion finally gave in to his instincts and all the pent up urges over the past few weeks and molded his hands to Noir's spine? Noir felt himself be consumed, and trusted Deucalion not to let him fall.

Needless to say, the water went cold long before they'd finished.