**Interlude 13 - For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness

Fabien would have plenty of time to reflect on their encounter in the bath as Émile’s presence was quickly swallowed up once more by that dark house. In point of fact, Colombe was the only member of the household he was likely to see with any frequency over the course of the next two days.

It was the golden hours of twilight when he would be apt to stumble on their guest in the mostly neglected library. The outside world was beginning to settle into a hush in preparation for night - the crying of the birds subsiding to be replaced by the faint rustling of the trees - but the shadows inside the house seemed to be stirring to life. The library door was ajar and it bled a rich seam of light into the corridor beyond.

Émile was curled in a high-backed chair to take advantage of the last of the golden light streaming through the window, their long legs tucked up against their stomach. Their feet on the seat of the chair were bare.

A heavy leather bound book balanced on their knees and they pored over the pages with interest. The sea-glass green of their eyes was clear in the warm light of the dwindling sun. A discarded book lay open on the table beside them, and another pile on the unoccupied chair implied they had thoroughly combed the shelves for material.

They must have stolen time to groom and their dark hair fell fetchingly to the side of their face. Much of the bruising had faded, the worst of it a deep red instead of the angry blue-black it had been. One cheek was still raised with a welt and the persistence of the crookedness in the bridge of their nose suggested it had settled in permanently.

The cut on their lip stubbornly refused to heal, although it was no longer such a ghastly black. The imprint of the boy’s hands ringed their neck in a haunting hue that looked tender to the touch.

Engrossed as they were in their reading, it was clear they had no expectation of visitors.

In the hours after he had left Émile, Fabien launched into work. He kept time with Colombe, his long, empty days sectioned into the routine of daily tasks. Over time, the youth grew better acquainted with the vast choress needed to sustain such a large house.

While the girl was grateful for the assistance, she began to notice a change in her friend. Fabien was quiet, thoughtful, a smile rarely to be found on his lips. He had become more solitary, often found sitting in the courtyard at dusk, a haze of cigarette smoke around his hair, and his fingers caressing the flesh between his thumb and forefinger.

In quiet hours, when the silence of the house became too much, he often ventured to the library.

There were traces of his presence still in the room. A table in a corner was littered with pieces of paper written in a childish scrawl, and a pile of books designed to teach young children basic words and rhymes.

If Émile were not so distracted, they would have seen the boy lingering at the door like a ghost. He was frozen by indecision, his breath shallow in his throat and fingers clenching and unclenching at his side's

But he approached the chair quietly, as though with a clear intention not to disturb

Should Émile happen to notice him, there was the gentle weariness in his movements. His pale shirt hung open at his scarred throat, the ill-fitting collar shrugged loose from the point of his shoulder. And his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows.

The boy leant his weight into the side of the chair, and crossed his legs over at the ankle

"Anything good?" He enquired over their shoulder, his grey eyes inspecting the book in their grasp.

There were dark streaks of soot along his forearms, and across the sharp curve of his cheeks. Only his hands were clean, no doubt on Colombe's fierce instruction. And he held a small bunch of grapes in his grasp.

"Monsieur gone out then?" He asked idly. "Or grows bored of you so soon?"

He rolled a dark grape between his thumb and forefinger, and slipped it past his teeth with a satisfying crunch.

Émile was truly absorbed and did not notice their guest until he bumped against the chair. They looked up from their reading, their eyes distant. The waning sunlight glinted like golden thread in their black hair.

“He is gone,” they said simply. The rasp in their voice had dwindled to a pleasing huskiness that only accentuated the well-bred inflection of their patrician accent.

Now that Fabien was so acquainted with them perhaps he took note of how their thighs pressed as they shifted, of how the curves of their body poured against the rigid chair back with all the fluid grace of a dollop of rich cream as they glanced down at the book on their knees.

They carelessly ran their hand through their hair before answering.

“It says there were lions here, once,” they said absently, their finger brushing the page. “Like in Greece. Peux-tu imaginer?”

They looked up at him for the first time since he had entered. Their dark brows rose as they regarded his sooty cheeks.

“That one has your friend’s name, ramoneur,” they said with an offhand wave at the open book next to them. Their gaze lingered on the tight pop of the grape against his teeth. “Written on the inside.”

They made no move to prevent him should he reach to examine the book and find they had spoken true of the handwritten note on its inside cover, succeeded by an airy signature.

Fabien turned his head towards the fading light and nodded softly. He asked nothing more of the master of the house, and when Émile drew the conversation elsewhere, the boy followed.

“That is what this says?” He replied sharply, and leaned in for a closer look. His chest brushed against Emile's shoulder as examined the page. He traced the shape of a letter or two with his fingers, and then withdrew his hand quickly as if the page had scorched him.

The urchin shrugged his bony shoulders and sat back. But his weight came to rest permanently on the sturdy arm of the chair, the press of his body against them constant and unavoidable.

“So she has books? You think because she is 'the help', she is not learned?” He replied tersely, and sped Émile a sharp look.

The urchin did not wait for them to ask more questions, but quickly changed the subject. He returned instead to what they had said was written on the pages inside.

“There... are lions, then, in Greece?” He asked carefully, with the self-consciousness of one with great gaps in their knowledge they knew could be easily manipulated. “It is a book only about lions? What else does it say?”

The grey-eyed youth raised another grape to his mouth, and began to peel the thin skin from the ripe flesh of the fruit.

He waited for Émile to look back towards the book, and then took the opportunity to examine them more closely. His sharp-eyed gaze quickly scanned over their appearance, and he lingered with particular interest on the bruises on their throat, the slit on their mouth, as though curious to see how much they had healed.

The corner of Émile’s well-formed lips turned down in displeasure at the boy’s brusque response. The wood frame of the chair protested as they straightened.

“I don’t care to imagine what either of you do or do not know,” they said crossly, turning their head away. “I thought only it might be of interest.”

They took a breath as though to continue but if they had more to say it was forgotten in light of the more engaging topic of Grecian lions.

“Il y avait,” they said with a roll of their shoulders. “Like the one Heracles killed.” They spoke the name with the easy expectation it should be familiar to him.

They did not shrug away from the press of his body against theirs, but unthinkingly unfolded their legs and shifted to make space for him. They must have been curled like a cat in that chair for some time to have been so warmed by the sun.

They straightened the book in their lap before continuing, their voice flush with gentle nostalgia.

“There was a lion one year at the gardens of le Château de Salignac. They said it was taken in Greece, but-” They bit off their words so abruptly their teeth came together in their jaw.

“Not only about lions,” they replied with a prickliness that suggested they thought they were being mocked. They flipped crisply through the pages as though to illustrate the abundance of information unrelated to lions contained within. They did not appear to feel the boy’s eyes on the reddened gash on their lips, nor lingering on the dark memory of his fingers that had not yet dissipated from around their throat. “It is une histoire naturelle, but I skipped the dreary bits about clams and frogs at the start.”

Fabien brought his newly skinned fruit to his teeth and severed it in half with a clean bite. His lips twitched in amusement at their irritation, and he resumed looking beyond the library window to the outside world.

“You thought wrong.” He replied simply.

The grey eyed youth listened quietly to them as they spoke, and he did not interrupt. His body relaxed against the sturdy frame of the chair, and his weight pressed wearily against Émile's warmth. With the last breath of sunlight warming the room, and the soft sound of the dark haired youth's voice lulling him, the boy's eyelids began to droop.

“Who is this...Her-ac-leys?” The urchin asked, his voice sleep soft. He rolled what was left of the grape between his fingers, and there was an unmistakable spark of curiosity in his eyes.

“I have never seen a-” He replied, with a touch of awe, but then quickly ceased this line of conversation with a shake of the head.

When Émile began to leaf through the rest of the book, the urchin sat up sharply.

“Non non stop, go back to where you were.” He instructed, and reached out to pause the moment of their hand. He waited for them to rediscover the page before he continued.

“This is the word for lion?” The boy asked, while his finger pointed incorrectly to a word that was written beneath an etching of the beast. He waited for Émile to either confirm his guess or correct him, before he spoke again.

“Look at me and say again this word. Slowly.” The boy ordered, his eyes on Émile's mouth. He watched carefully as their lips formed the word. If his observations were intended to be purely educational, they certainly did not look it. It seemed he took far to much interest in their lips as they spoke for him.

“And now again.” He prompted, and this time followed the letters of the word with his finger as he listened.

The boy's eyes narrowed in frustration, and he turned his head away with a sigh.

“Ah, it makes no sense. The letter's have different sounds. How do they come together? I do not understand it.”

Émile shot their companion a look of consternation at his gentle query.

“Heracles, born of Zeus, who slew the great lion and captured the three-headed dog that guards the underworld. Do they not tell such stories where you are from?”

They flicked nonchalantly through the next few pages. “It must be dull to not-”

Their hand stilled at his touch. Puzzlement dusted their features but they did as asked, the pages curving beneath their thumb as they found their place. They scrutinized the book plate as the boy reached to tap the page.

One could almost make out an audible snap as the pieces came together in their mind.

“Non.” They were not quite able to entirely mask their glee at his mistake, but opted for the civility not to expound on it. “C’est ‘mâle’ - see the M?”

They cleared their throat and read the first line of the caption aloud. Their diction was clear and strong; whatever else could be said of the itinerant houseguest, there could be little doubt they were lettered. “Le mâle a une crinière épaisse de fourrure qui s'étend sur l'épaule et sous le ventre jusqu'aux coudes.”

They made to continue but instead lifted their eyes to him when bid, as surely as if he had taken hold of their chin. The crisp line of their jaw was attentive. They did not look away from his eyes as their mouth precisely repeated the word, even when Fabien’s gaze returned to the book in their lap.

“The letters to either side change their sounds. Like how one groans or cheers a spade in a round of piquet, by what is in in their hand. It is not so hard when you know the rules.”

They looked sidelong at him through their dark lashes.

“I could show you, mon ami,” they said handsomely. “If you wanted it. If you made it worth my time.”

Fabien was, despite himself, clearly interested in this explanation. His lips parted as if he wished to know the story in much detail, but to their question he merely shook his head, a contrived sadness in his eyes.

“Oh, in the gutter, you mean? Non, we clearly do not have time for such fancies.” He replied scathingly.

The urchin was too preoccupied to sense any delight on his companion's part. His darkly ringed eyes were narrowed upon the tip of his finger, as he traced over the shape of the letter. The dark line of his brow was pinched, and the muscles of his lean body tense with concentration.

He valiantly attempted to follow the symbols on the page as they spoke, until somewhere he lost the thread, and released an irritated breath.

“Cela semble impossible.” He replied gruffly.

The boy grew still at their offer of help, and the muscles of his jaw stiffened in displeasure. When his eyes returned to Émile they were storm cloud dark, his manner full of something that twitched and angrily simmered beneath the surface of his skin.

He appeared to wrestle with himself, before with a sharp breath he made peace with it, his shoulders relaxed.

“And what is your price, Émile?” He asked softly, folding his arms across his chest.

The urchin continued to study them carefully as they spoke. His eyes moved between their lips and eyes, hunting out signs of trickery or jest in their expression.

“It is no small task, to pass on such a skill.”

Émile had the churlishness to roll their eyes to the ceiling at Fabien’s derisive response.

“Non, of course not,” they said with a snide curl of their mouth. “You were too occupied eating mud and training rats to pick pockets to tell stories.”

Their eyes grew bright as the boy reluctantly prepared to strike a bargain. When they straightened, their warm body flexed against him.

“And it will take time,” they added. “We mustn’t rush it.”

They mulled this idea over with exaggerated care, clearly enjoying the prospect of suggesting terms. The light from the window had begun to wane, dwindling from rich gold to a wan, buttery yellow that began to tinge with grey. It darkened the bruises around their throat to a charcoal stain.

“It will be several sessions before you are proficient, I think.”

The black waves of their hair fell over one eye as they tilted their head in a portrait of contemplation. The boy would not find the jest he sought in their expression.

“Je connais. You have little things stashed away, yes, comme la cigarette? I want a token for every lesson. If you don’t come empty-handed, you will leave a little less empty-headed.”

They had to raise their eyes to scrutinize his countenance for his sentiments on this suggestion.

“I will leave it to your refined judgement what this skill is worth, but I trust mon bon ami. I did so enjoy our last exchange.” There was a husky insinuation in the words. “Sommes-nous d'accord?”

Fabien met Émile eyes at his sneering remark, his expression devoid of life or amusement.

"Exactly that." He agreed coldly.

The soot streaked youth continued to watch his companion as they thought over a suitable reward for their efforts. The boy remained silent, his grey eyes hard, and his growing displeasure evident in the set of his mouth.

The grey-eyed boy contemplated their terms with a thoughtful nod. His expression appeared to soften, as though this simple bargain was indeed agreeable.

He leant his weight on his knee, and leaned over at the waist to draw his eyes level with Émile.The boy carefully brushed aside their dark hair, before slipping his hand around the back of their neck. His long fingers gently curled against their skin with exquisite tenderness, as though they were young lovers arranging a secret engagement.

"D'accord. I'll get you what you want." The boy replied lightly.

His grip tightened, and the flex of his lockpickers fingers grew hard as they dug deep into his companion's soft skin.

Soon he had a hold of Émile by their scruff like a disobedient dog. He pulled them close, until their lips were but a breath apart.

"But you listen to me, and listen very carefully. This stays between us, only us. You take what I give you, and you do not leave a trace of it. Not so much as a dusting of ash on your collar, or a hint of wine on your tongue." He hissed, and shook them hard enough to rattle the teeth in their head.

"If you get sloppy, if you slip and reveal something, I will hurt you so bad you will not be able to walk the halls of this house unaided.

And I will see to it the girl feeds you nothing but scraps for the rest of your time here."

This close, he could smell the scent of Émile's hair, and hear the softness of their breath in their throat. A trembling began in the arm that held Émile still, and  his grip on the curve of their neck tightened.

Before caring to hear their answer,  he forcefully pressed his lips to the side of their jaw, then turned hungrily to discover their mouth.

It was not quite a kiss. His mouth was too hard, the squeezing grip of his hand too spiteful. His teeth scraped against their split lip, scoring over tender flesh that desperately longed to heal.

"Do you understand me, Émile?" He breathed against their beautifully shaped lips, his desire to taste them fully and deeply trembling through him. "If so, then oui. Teach me. I wish to learn."

Émile fell into a stillness like the rapt trembling of a hare at the touch of the boy's hand on their skin.

They met his eyes with fierce focus. The soft green of their bruised eyes was like a speckled stone sunk into the dark silt of a river's bottom.

They sucked their breath over their tongue at Fabien's assent as though to speak but fell silent as they were jostled, one hand quickly reaching to catch the book as it slipped from their lap.

They did not struggle against his grasp, but listened attentively to his sharp instruction. It was the threat of violence that prompted their brow to furrow. Ire crackled across their features like the electric hum of static before a storm.

"You-" they began with a hot hiss, but whatever regrettable words buzzed on their tongue were quickly stifled by the press of the boy's mouth. They gasped against him. Their lips instinctively parted and they yielded to his hard mouth, a shiver flickering up their back.

They flinched when his teeth raked the torn skin of their lip, but did not pull away. When he released them, their breath shivered hot and fast against his mouth.

"Oui," they breathed. "I understand you. I will take what you give me." The base of their spine ground taut against the rigid chair back. "And leave no trace."

Their chest rose with quick breaths. They looked him in the eye with such intensity it was as though they were held transfixed, though displeasure still seethed in their hard gaze. Their pupils were large and dark.

Their whisper was rough in their throat. "You don't have to justify wanting to hurt me."

Fabien continued to watch Émile's carefully as he awaited his answer. When they agreed to abide by his terms, the hardness in the boy's grey eyes appeared to fade somewhat.

“That's right,” the boy murmured encouragingly, his grip on the back of Emile loosening. The urchin's touch became soft, his fingers stroking the nape of their neck. “Oui, very good. That's all I need to hear.”

He returned their willing obedience with the press of his mouth, though the irritation he had aroused had drawn a smile to his lips. The boy laughed softly against their skin, and immediately relinquished his grip. His hand merely came to rest loosely upon the top of their spine, and he shook his head as thought they had said something especially amusing.

“Non? Don't I? My mistake.”

He slipped from the arm of the chair as though he meant to leave, but turned to face Emile, and pressed himself between their knees. He placed his palms against the back of the chair and leaned his weight them, taking advantage of his superior height and the clear strength in his lean arms.

“I do want to hurt you,” he confessed simply. “There is not a single second that goes by, that I am not contemplating all the ways I could bring you pain.”

“The only thing that brings me cheer, non, absolute pleasure-” he continued, and then paused to take Emile's chin in his hand. He brushed his thumb over the curve of their broken lip, before tilting back their skull so that he could admire the beautiful structure of their face. “-when I am alone here, is the thought of you under my heel, begging for my mercy.”

The boy pressed the pad of his thumb against the sharp point of a canine tooth.

“But merci, for your consideration. Do we begin our lesson now, or do you want something from me first? Because if so, you need to ask me very nicely.”

The hard tense of Émile's body softened beneath his encouraging hand. They languidly rolled their head into his touch like a dog aching for affection, though their darkly-lined gaze studied him with something approaching spite.

Fabien's praise plucked a soft exhale from their chest. A spark of irritation still lingered in the taut set of their jaw but their shoulders loosened as he relinquished them and they pulled away, raking a hand through their hair.

They did not shrink beneath him when he pressed them into the chair, nor did they wilt at his cruel words. The insolent glint of their gaze was only broken when the boy lifted their chin. They complied without protest, their lips parting as he pressed against them.

They were silent a long moment, their hot breath fluttering like a moth's wing over his skin.

"I have begged for many things," they said thickly, their tongue brushing his thumb. "Mais pas de pitié. Never mercy.”

The taut line of their bruise-darkened throat flexed as they tried unsuccessfully to swallow the spit that began to pool slickly on the back of their tongue. The point of their tooth caught on the skin of his thumb at the motion and lingered there with a fierce, trembling desire to bite down.

"Is it easier for you?" The words were soft and dark, as though dredged up from some deep place that never saw the light. "To pretend it is my whore mouth that makes you ache to hurt me? Is it easier for you when you can say I deserve it?" The muscles of their back were so taut they shook, though their tone was sapped of all passion. "D'accord. I can ask nicely.”

They lifted the alluring green of their eyes to him with a perfectly wicked flick of their lashes that conjured obscene images of them on their knees. The underside of their tongue licked hungrily over their torn bottom lip.

“Please kiss me," they breathed, their voice a husky whimper in their throat. Their body arched toward him. "S'il te plait, put your mouth to me and let me suck on your tongue. I want to feel you in my mouth."

When the affectation of breathless pleading fell away, their voice was as cold as their hollow gaze. "Maybe if you are lucky, you can still taste his cock on my tongue."

"None of this is... easy for me." The boy replied quietly, a slight waver in his voice. There appeared a sadness in his feline-sharp eyes, but it was gone before it could gain root

He watched Émile's performance with a look of growing distaste, and his body stirred uncomfortably. Soon there was a slight trembling in his arms, a tightening of his grip upon the creaking leather of the chair.

When Émile had finished speaking, the urchin nodded his head. He withdrew his fingers from their mouth and struck them hard across the cheek with the back of his hand. He released a soft, satisfied gasp, as though some mounting pressure within had been immediately relieved.

But it wasn't enough. Aggression burned in an electrical hum through the boy's entire body. He turned his head aside, his breath ragged in his throat as he tried to contain the ever rising heat of his anger. The chair began to shake with the trembling of his lean body, as he struggled to restrain his aching desire to reduce his company to a pained, flinching mess

Sensing the danger, the urchin straightened his spine and pressed his palm against the smooth flatness of his stomach. He held there, as if a knife had pierced his skin but he could not find the strength to remove it. The skin about his sleep-hungry eyes had reddened, and he brushed aside a wetness on his cheek.

"I did not - come here today, to hurt you." He began again, his head turned aside and as he looked to the calm stillness beyond the window. Dusk had continued to creep light-footed around them

"I do not - understand why you are still-" the last word was a half snarl, "-here, in my house."

Something in his voice made clear it was not the house to which he truly referred.

"But since you are, I do not want to spend my time fighting like cats."

Émile had expected a blow - the curve of their body leaned into it with quivering anticipation - but that did not prevent the smack of Fabien’s hand being accompanied by a soft groan of pain.

The impact wrenched their head to the side. It tore open the split of their lip and when they turned back to him, blood darkened their panting mouth.

The defiant jut of their chin evinced their readiness for the next strike, their rigid body held in shivering suspense. When it did not land, they only very slowly raised their gaze to see the boy had turned away. Doubt flickered across their features.

They held perfectly still beneath him in breathless expectation of the violence that radiated like heat as he trembled. Their eyes were impassive and they watched him reel in silence.

There was something of cold pleasure in the curl of their bloodied lips at the dampness he brushed from his cheek.

They did not appear to know what to do with this revelation. They warily examined the underside of his jaw as though to decipher what sort of snare he was laying.

“How would you rather we spend the time?” The very faintest flicker of that manic anger raked across the words, but he appeared to have doused the worst of their aggravation.

They leaned back in the chair and gently touched a finger to their split lip. It came away glistening black with blood. They regarded it with sardonic resignation.

“Qu'est-ce que tu veux de moi?” They sounded, more than anything, bone-weary.

Fabien had not quite clawed his way back from the black heat of his aggression, when his eyes returned to Émile. The boy ran his fingers through the honey gold of his hair, his breath still sharp in his chest, and his wan skin flushed with colour.

The urchin sank to his knees, his head half bowed, as though he intended to beg forgiveness for his misdeed. He leaned across the curve of their thighs, and reached out to carefully brush the back of his fingers across their bloodied mouth. His thumb returned to stroke their mouth, but this time the boy's touch was gentle, and slow.

“Arrêter de parler. That's what I want,” he murmured roughly. He looked down at his fingertips, darkly wet with Émile's blood, and lifted his hand to press them against the point of his tongue. When this proved insufficient, he sucked the taste of them into his mouth, and released a soft sigh. This seemed to stir something in the grey-eyed youth, for his hand slid slow and firm along the inside of their thigh, widening the space between their legs so that he could nestle in closer.

“I like you quiet, whimpering.” He breathed, his grey eyes examining their mouth as he spoke. “I like when your mouth is moaning into mine.”

The boy arched his back and eased closer, and the hand that gripped their thigh continued to stroke gently along their skin. As though recalling how soft and warm that flesh had been, when he had last laid his palm to it. He titled his head, and licked curled along the curve of their lip, his tongue firm and wet against the bloodied slit.

“And at least now, like this, it is only you that I am tasting.” He breathed softly, Émile's blood wine-dark on his lips as he spoke.

He pressed his mouth to the underside of their jaw, marking their skin with the red brand of their blood. The boy's breath grew hot on the rich creaminess of their skin, and the softness of it against his mouth had the boy panting.  His mouth lingered on the dark stretch of bruises his hands had wrought on their smooth skin.  He began to press firm, urgent kisses along the curve of their throat, down to the slope of their shoulder.

When their clothing began an impediment, he tugged at it, caring not if he damaged the seams in his desire to reveal more of their body to him.

It was nearly shameful, how becomingly the blood darkened the arch of Émile’s lips. Fabien’s hand had reddened their cheek to a fetching blush, and the bruises that dappled their throat only accentuated the rich cream of their slender neck. Even here, the set of their mouth surly and fingers black with their own blood, they had the discourtesy to be as enticing as the ripe flesh of the grapes the boy snapped between his teeth.

Their dark brows furrowed in a scowl at his desire that they should stop talking, and the corner of their mouth curled in a way that forebode trouble. However, whatever cantankerous words coated their tongue were swiftly swallowed as the boy raised his blood-darkened finger to his lips.

They watched him suck their blood from his skin with rapt fascination. Something in the gesture seemed to quicken their breath and their chest stirred against him.

“You-” they began breathlessly but it was a half-thought and brushed aside as easily as a cobweb as Fabien put his hand to the inside of their thigh. The book slipped from their grasp and fell to the floor with a dull thud as their legs parted to make room for him between them.

Their eyes closed at the press of his mouth to their bloodied lip. Their breath shivered against him at the copper taste of their own blood on their tongue. They lifted their chin without prompting to allow him access to the smooth skin beneath their jaw, the bruise-mottled curve of their throat. Their shoulders trembled as though suppressing a wince at the press of his lips to the wounded flesh of their neck but it did not prevent the hungry lean of their body against his mouth.

Émile’s fingers grazed the flex of his ribs beneath his clothes. There was a delicate hesitancy to the touch, as though in fear of being too forward, of prompting him to turn his mouth away from their neck in reprimand.

Instead, their hands fumbled to undo their shirt. Blindly, they loosed their buttons and, when granted an opportunity amidst the starved press of the boy’s body, slipped it from their shoulders to expose the graceful arch of their collarbones, the deliciously soft line of their fair stomach. It was as plain an offering as they could make, having evidently taken his appeal to keep their petulant mouth shut to heart.

The grey-eyed urchin did not appear to mind Émile's touch, and he shivered lightly at the soft trailing of their fingertips. He released a soft sigh of pleasure, betraying an unspoken yearning for contact, for hands on his skin.

"Oui? What about me?" He asked softly, the question breathed into the soft curve of their shoulder.

When Émile exposed more of their skin for him, Fabien was left shuddering with want. His breath caught in his throat as he watched their hand shrug aside layers of clothing to reveal more of their bare flesh.

The urchin hesitated, before his long fingered hand reached for them as though it were his absolute right. His palm slid over the curve of their shoulder, shaping the skin like a potter giving form to clay. His palm stroked the soft curve of their shoulder, before he trailed his knuckles downwards to feel above the pulse of their heart.

"That's better, Émile. Very good." He rasped, and met their eyes with his lips parted and body trembling. He found their bloodied mouth again, and kissed slowly and gently, as though rewarding them for their compliance.

The boy wasted no time, but turned his head aside to press his hot mouth and flicking tongue back to their soft skin. He trailed down from their neck, to the beautiful just of their collarbone.

"I like you like this-"

The points of his teeth scraped against the skin of their throat, as though he longed to bite down to the bone. Something about the boy's mouth grew hard, and he distracted himself by snaking a hand inside their shirt to stroke their waist.

"-When you are well-behaved." There was something softly taunting in his voice.

His body pressed in close, his sharp hips moulding against theirs. It was hard to disguise how heated he had become, and as his hips flexed, his growing hardness pressed this firm between their thighs.

"When you offer yourself to me. Seems right, non?"

Émile arched their spine to press their chest into Fabien’s touch like a cat begging for affection. Their skin was flushed with warmth beneath the boy’s hand. He could feel the rapid bird-wing flutter of their heart against their ribs.

They met his gaze, looking up at him with darkly-lined eyes.

“You,” they repeated dreamily. Their half-lidded eyes did not quite conceal their look of quiet calculation, and it was dubious that what came out of their mouth was their original response. “Are almost tolerable when all I can taste of you est mon sang..”

This, at the very least, appeared truthful, as the boy’s praise drew a soft moan when their lips met. They reached for him without thinking, the press of their palm temptingly adamant on the curve of his jaw. Their fingers tangled in his hair.

They were panting as his mouth trailed down the fine line of their neck, their want as brazen as the insistent nudge of their hand on his head. They grew still at the graze of his teeth to the delicate skin of their throat, their flesh prickling.

“Oh, c'est ça que tu aimes?” It was soft as the satin fringe that shaded their eyelid, but not entirely kind.

Their eyes remained raptly on his as their hand slid along his stomach, down between his thighs. Their touch was indulgent, appreciative, and their palm folded over the firm skin beneath his clothes with shivering pleasure.

“I like you bes-” The words died in their throat as they stiffened, their gaze rigid over his shoulder. Fabien would not have time to turn before he heard her.

“Boy.” Fakhir seemed terribly tall standing in the doorway. The backdrop of her dark hair made the chatoyant glow of her eyes a liquid gold. The loose cut of her clothes suggested she had emerged from her room across the hall.

She crossed her arms over her chest.

“We will have a word.” There was little indication it was a request.

A twitch of humour curled its way into boy's lips at Émile's words, though it was quickly suppressed when their mouth met his.

The urchin appeared to relish  the feel of their hands on him, responded just as eagerly to scrap of their fingers through his hair.

“Mm,”he replied vacantly, concerned only with the feel of their skin against his lips.

When their hand slipped low across his stomach, the boy bowed his head until the smooth skin of his brow brushed against Émile's shoulder.

“Ah,” he breathed heatedly into the crook of their neck, and he pressed soft, encouraging kisses up to the underside of their jaw. His already aroused skin stiffened enthusiastically under their touch, and even the most gentle pressure of their hand had his hips flexing hungrily into their palm.

The boy's mouth was still tasting the smooth skin of Émile's throat when Fakhir's voice carried across the room. He flinched against his companion, and released a sharp, nervous breath.

Fabien did not startle and scramble guiltily to his feet, but slowly began to untangled his sharp limbs from around Émile with all the reluctance of a sharp-eyed cat relinquishing its prey. He reached for the arm of the chair with one trembling hand, and carefully found his feet.

The boy turned to face the vampire, shrugging his shirt back into place as he attempted to neaten his appearance with nervous adjustments. He raised his grey eyes to her, without quite meeting her amber gaze, and a faint, uncertain smile haunted the edge of his lips.

“Oh, ah, oui, Madame, of course,” he replied meekly. “It is a private matter, or?”

Fakhir’s gaze was sharp as an arrow as she coolly watched Fabien nervously straighten his disheveled clothes. Her eyes lingered on the scarred skin of his throat before falling to take in the rest of his rumpled appearance. It was difficult to make out anything of the thoughts beneath her stony countenance.

“We will walk,” she said shortly. “Outside.”

She gestured with two fingers for him to follow before turning her piercing gaze to Émile, who was trying unsuccessfully to sink into the chair. Their open shirt revealed a great deal of their flushed skin and the wine-dark bruises that flecked their neck. Their bare chest rose and fell with their rapid breath.

“And you? An eyebrow arched expectantly.

“He told me not to talk to you,” they muttered sullenly. Their gaze was pointedly averted but they could not help watching her from the corner of their eye with sheepish interest. They made no move to right their shirt.

The corner of Fakhir’s lips twitched. “Ah, the first I know he has offered sensible advice.”

She turned dismissively away from them and put her hand firmly around the back of Fabien’s neck, her skin cool as stone.

“Come,” she said, affording him little option but to agree as her thumb prodded into the bones of his spine, shepherding him out the door and leaving Émile the picture of bedraggled unsatisfaction in their chair. They only had time to add, “Don’t forget our de- “ before Fakhir had closed the door. She led Fabien with a solid grip on the back of his neck down the corridor and out into the night-doused courtyard.

The moon had risen in a sharp, silver splinter in the sky and the night air was cool on his skin. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of the lone tree. Fakhir’s gaze lifted to the vampire’s balcony before returning to Fabien. She had not released him from her grip. She leaned in close enough he could see the ivory flash of teeth in her mouth when she spoke. Her breath smelled of sweet smoke and, faintly, copper coins.

“Listen to me, boy” she said, rather needlessly given how terribly close she was. The shadows darkened the pits of her eyes and her amber gaze nearly glowed. “You will not lash yourself to the back of an ox fatted for slaughter. You will not make a companion out of one of his playthings, tu comprends?”

Fabien's attention was purely devoted to his hands. He overturned each palm, inspected the knuckles with rapt attention.

"Of course, Madame," he replied obligingly, more than eager to depart.

The boy's eyes returned only briefly to Émile, before he pointedly looked elsewhere. He flinched against Fakhir's palm as their words were severed by the closing off the door.
There was no resistance in his body as he was led from the library. He did not slip into his usual energetic chatter, but allowed her to guide him in solemn, tense silence.

Once they were outside, the boy folded his arms across his lean chest and attempted to meet her eyes unflinchingly.

Fakhir's words at once caused colour to rise upon the youth's wan cheeks. His lips, still blushed with the red of Émile's blood, parted slightly in protest.

"But I was not- I have no want to be-" he began hotly, his bony shoulders trembling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

The urchin's jealous anger became untethered, and rose bitter and seething to sharpen his voice and clench into his fists.

"But perhaps if he were not always so busy-" he spat, "-entertaining this 'plaything,' as you say, I would not find myself-" The words were snarled through gritted teeth, as he lifted his dark eyes towards his master's balcony.

The boy shuddered back at the sound of his voice, and hung his head like a dog prone to bite.  

"Je … je suis désole, Madame." He began again, soft with remorse. He took a sharp inward breath, and it was then that Fakhir's words began to settle uncomfortably in his mind.

"They ...seem in no immediate danger." He rasped, a flicker of uncertainty in his voice.

"Monsieur keeps them here alive this long, and... that is not like him." He dared to meet the luminous beauty of the vampire's gaze. "Maybe he grows fond."

Fakhir did not shrink away from his anger, nor turn from the heat of his rancorous words. Her eyes narrowed dangerously but she remained silent as he broke in a dark wave against the shore of his resentment. The hand at the back of his neck did not loosen.

It was his speculation as to Émile’s fate that prompted her jaw to clench in irritation. She shook him as one would a dog by the scruff. “Has petty jealousy rotted your brain? You are not such a fool.”

Her breath exhaled through her sharp teeth in a hot hiss.

“Think, boy. Does he treat them with fondness? Does he speak to them as he speaks to you?”

She scrutinized the features of his face with her flickering gaze to see if he absorbed her meaning. The light from the moon shone silvery on her skin like the glint of frost across a black lake.

“He is killing them slowly, for his own amusement. As is his wont. As is his right, yes?”

The boy’s bloodied mouth caught her eye and she lingered on it with intense preoccupation. It disrupted the flow of her thoughts and she lapsed into silence. Her pupils swelled like a drop of black ink. Her lips parted softly before she rediscovered the thread of her words.

“He need not take the blood to weaken them,” she said, her voice low and rough in her throat. “Do not mistake this slow death for affection.”

She tore her eyes away from the dark blood smeared across his lip. Her hand fell from his neck and she straightened, her silhouette hazy in the shadows.

“I am not your Sayyidi. You may do as you will. I tell you only that you are putting your hands to a corpse.”

She consciously lifted her eyes to the sliver of the moon above the rooftop. Her eyelids fell closed as she took a deep breath of the cool night air.

“I should not be here with you while you smell of blood,” she remarked with lidded eyes. It was only the very faintest of shivers that took her fingers when she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

The strength in Fakhir's grip was enough to shake the breath from the boy's lungs.

"How the hell would I know how he-" Fabien gasped, his grey eyes narrowed in irritation.

All life and colour began to drain slowly from the urchin's eyes and skin as the sea glass green of Émile's exhausted eyes returned to him. Their trembling body at his feet, the weakness in their limbs and that bloodied lip under his thumb. Had they dragged themselves to that chair in the library?

"Non, non, non," he groaned softly, and shook his head slowly to stop the flow of these terrible realisations.

He released a pained breath and reached for his brow, before raking his fingers through the burnished gold of his hair.

"This is … my fault. I could not do it.  I could not let him kill them," he gasped, his throat tight with misery.

The boy's sharp limbs were suddenly robbed of their strength, and he swayed lightly where he stood. His wavering body drew in dangerously close to Fakhir, as though he might brush against her chest, or reach for her arm to tether him.

It was only her words which caused him to draw back, and search her eyes with quiet confusion. He brushed his fingers across his lips, and looked down at the dark stain of Émile's blood.

"Monsieur ...would be angry, if ...I…were to-'  He began softly, and lifted his grey eyes to her.

The sharp-eyed youth took a few reluctant steps away to create space between them, his breath sharp in his throat.

"Je  ...je dois arranger ça. I have to do something."

It was easy to remember when she was bathed in the grey light of the moon that bleached all things of colour and made them unfamiliar that she was dead. Her skin was cast with the feather-soft grey of ashes and she seemed unnaturally still with her eyes lifted to the sky. If her chest rose with her breath it was so shallow as to be imperceptible.

She did not speak as Fabien reeled with realization, but kept her gaze on the moon with an air of emphatic preoccupation. She shook her head at his assertion.

"It is not your fault," she countered quickly and quietly, her eyes turned away. "It is his nature, and you do not set his nature."

His gentle rebuff drew a wry smile to her lips.

"Non, saghirti," she said. "We will not anger Sayyed Tariq."

Carefully, she looked to him. Her pupils were still dilated large and black, but she seemed very much composed as she regarded him.

"He has decided already that they should die," she said impassively. "I do not know what you mean to do, but if you were mine I would tell you to let them die. Do not bind yourself to them; let them bleed, let them die, and let them rest."

She tilted her head like one in contemplation, her gaze wistful as it trailed over him.

"It has been long since I shared a house with one who still breathes. I forget what delicate things you are, what sweet temptation there is in your passion."

And then, with a weary wave of her hand, "Oui, go. Rester en sécurité."