**Interlude 15 - Of the ox who loves his yoke and deems the deer of the forest stray and vagrant things

Fabien slept without interruption nestled between the vampire’s arms, their warm bodies pressed close together as the sun burned its languorous rotation across the sky. They awoke to the golden dust that portended dusk. Tariq’s lips were on the boy’s bare skin. His hands were on the curve of his hip.

The night had stiffened Fabien’s shoulder and it throbbed painfully to move. Tariq examined it with a careful touch and, with uncharacteristic caution, begrudgingly recommended a second opinion. His affectionate hands lingered on his back in a manner that suggested he would gladly have initiated a repeat performance if not for fear of worsening his injury.

They were lazy in their enjoyment of the other’s company, and it was some time before they roused from the vampire’s bedchamber to present themselves before Fakhir, who found the boy’s state predictably unamusing. Tariq did not do himself any favours by his refusal to conceal the fierce pleasure he took in his handiwork or his savage pride of Fabien’s ability to withstand him, and her lecture on the importance of self-discipline was oft interrupted by oaths that one could only imagine would burn the boy’s ears had he understood them. Her hands were cool on his skin as she examined him, serpentine twists of fragrant smoke trailing from the corners of her mouth.

They had argued about which parts of which plants relaxed muscle and eased pain without the minor consequence of being fatal - a conversation that quickly broke into a language he did not understand and only ended when Fakhir had pulled out a book so old and flaking it was a wonder it didn't crumble to dust in her hands. Lacrima, her hands caked black with soil from the plants she had been tending before the intrusion, had laughed a husky laugh and offered her own analysis. Tariq’s pretense of wounded aggrievance at whatever she had said only encouraged another spell of laughter.

He was in a room of beautiful monsters with glinting teeth and flashing eyes, the weight of all those they had killed in their long lives as crushing as the depths of the Black Sea - and yet, being fussily attended to in loose, ill-fitting clothes that smelled of his master’s skin, with Tariq’s hand resting affectionately on the back of his neck and these strange-tongued creatures speaking to him with companionable ease, it was hard to feel anything but warm satisfaction.

Fakhir’s final assessment was that Tariq was a reckless brute and that Fabien would be fine in time. She sent him on his way with a poultice that produced a pleasing numbness and strict instructions to not let his Sayyidi hound him into broken bones for his own amusement. Tariq had thanked her with a courtly press of his lips to her knuckles.

The vampire was in good spirits despite the dressing-down he had been subject to, and he kissed Fabien warm and deep before turning him loose to his own devices with throaty vows they would speak again soon.

Fabien was, despite the sharp ache of his bones and weakness of his limbs, almost luminous with joy. The urchin's grey eyes were aglow as he sat amongst his unearthly companions, struggling to follow the thread of their conversation.

When their talk began to drift from him, tangled in languages he did not understand, the boy turned his head to watch his master's lips as he spoke. His heart grew wild in his chest when their eyes met, the warmth of his fierce adoration radiating from his pale skin.

Fakhir would find the boy an obliging patient. He was too exhausted for squirming impatience, and at times almost lulled to sleep by the sound of their voices around him, the press of hands upon his skin. The urchin's eyelids began to droop, and he murmured soft affirmations in a voice rich with happiness.

Non, the pain did not trouble him. Oui, he could flex his fingers. They need not worry so. Such gentle assurances were thwarted when he attempted to casually roll his shoulders, and flinched with a hiss of sharp discomfort. He followed it with a slow, nervous smile as he leant his weight into his master's chest.

The boy was reluctant to let him go. His eyes jealously clung to the vampire's retreating figure, as he stroked the sleeve of his borrowed clothing. But once alone, the boy suddenly startled as a thought returned splinter-sharp to his mind, dislodged now the vampire's presence no longer overwhelmed him.

He made his way on softly limping steps into the dark of the house. In the kitchen, food had been carefully prepared in expectation for his arrival. The sight of freshly buttered bread and ripe fruit glistening wetly inspired a pang of remorse in the boy, and he searched eagerly for signs of his friend.

The house remained dark, quiet, and the pale haired youth tentatively settled himself into a chair and ate alone with ravenous abandon.

With aching arm tucked against his chest as he tore into bread and cheese as though he had been deprived of food all week. Once full, Fabien was upon his feet once more, a bottle of wine tucked precariously under his arm. He gathered what scraps of food remained before embarking on the trek back to his bedroom.

Perhaps Émile was aware of his limping approach. The boy lacked the cat-soft tread of the other occupants of the house. He shattered the quiet of hall as he sent the door reeling on its hinges, nudged wide open by his hip and pushed to by the heel of his foot.

"Are you awake, Émile?" He croaked, his voice as dry as autumn leaves from energetic overuse.

He did not wait for an answer before proceeding to deposit a plate with scraps of food and the bottle of wine upon the small chest of drawers beside his bed. Then wearied by his efforts, he slumped with a shuddering, pained breath into a chair across the room.

"Sainte mère" he winced, as his skull came to rest against the wall. "Hardly worth the effort it took in bringing it to you."

Fabien’s room was dark and still, the door showing no sign of having been opened since he had slammed it shut. He would not be surprised to find his most recent possession precisely where he had left them amidst his others.

Émile was sitting upright in his bed, their back slumped wearily against the wall in such a way as to keep their eyes on the door. It was, however, a futile vigil, as those black-lined eyes were firmly closed when Fabien entered. They had removed their shirt and the soft skin of their bare chest rose and fell with the rhythm of their slumber.

They jerked awake at the clatter of the door, startling with a bleariness that suggested they had been deep beneath the black waters of sleep. The soft green of their eyes was clouded as they struggled to make sense of his silhouette.

The anxious tension bled from their body when they recognised him and they lazily returned to their lean against the wall, arching their spine in a feline stretch of trembling muscle. Their ribs moved liquid under the skin. They ran a hand through their hair, righting their bedraggled waves with idle vanity, still blinking sleep from their gaze. The imprint of his hands around their slender throat was still visible as a blued memory on the skin.

The clink of glass as he deposited the bottle near the bed drew their attention as sharply as if he had taken them by the chin, and they regarded the offering with ill-concealed desire.

“Qu'est-ce que c'est?” Sleep raked rough across their words. They licked their torn lip, suspicion stirring in their hungry gaze.

They reluctantly turned their gaze toward him at his pained sigh.

“Ce qui vous est arrivé?” Their voice was soft and hoarse, as though haughtiness was an affectation they hadn’t yet found the time to slip into.

Fabien mustered the energy to rise from his chair, and he limped his way over to the dresser where he had deposited the food and wine. He pulled open a small drawer filled with cards, cigarettes, a few coins and some matches.

There was the familiar fizz as match head struck against wood, and the candle nearest the bed bloomed brightly into life.

With his shadow stark against the walls, he reclaimed his seat and regarded the dark haired creature nestled in the soft comfort of his sheets. The boy's grey eyes began to slowly examine Émile with an intense, thorough care he had not displayed before. He looked them over as though he'd never truly seen them, as though there were angles to their face he had only just discovered.

The urchin's expression was difficult to read. There seemed no malice in his eyes, nor the usual hostility that made his limbs taut like a trap unsprung. Rather, he looked pleased, content in his pain. There was a sense of satisfaction about him, like a poker player who had just laid down a winning hand.

Fabien's eyes lingered upon the bare skin of their chest, moving on to the soft slope of their shoulders. He paid just a little too much attention to their bruised throat, the curve of their lips. Then at last, he met the exquisite green of their tired eyes, before his attention returned begrudgingly to his offerings.

"It is exactly what it looks like." The boy replied huskily, with a forgetful roll of the shoulders that made his breath catch in pain.

"A bottle of wine, some scraps from the kitchen. You are hungry, non?"

He carefully attempted to find his feet, and limped over to the intricately carved oak cupboard that loomed from the corner of the room.

"You can have the lot, but first help me get out of my m- ...out of Monsieur's clothes."

The golden haired youth neglected to answer their other question. He busied himself rummaging through the dead boy's clothing for a suitable shirt.

"Come here, Émile. Make yourself useful for once." He instructed over his shoulder, and attempted to suppress a smile that twitched upon his lips.

"Tiens ça pour moi." He held out the clean garment for them, before he awkwardly proceeded to undo the fastenings of his Master's borrowed shirt.

The boy's usually artful lockpickers fingers were clumsy, and his patience too thin for slow, delicate tasks. He moved to hoist the material halfway over one shoulder, twisting injured muscle and bruised skin in such a way that made him start to tremble in pain.

"What do you think happened?" He snapped irritably, half tangled within fabric and flushed from the energy his efforts had cost him.

"I enjoyed my turn."

Émile blinked against the sudden bright when the candle sparked to life. The warm light sketched their expressive features with a generous hand as they regarded his offering with conflicted suspicion, the word “scraps” furrowing their brow with scorn. They took no notice of his thoughtful examination.

The clear declaration of their end of the terms that would conclude with them drinking wine relieved much of the caution in their posture, and their limbs were loose as they slid from the bed. They crossed the floor on bare feet. There was a slight curl to the way they held themself that made it clear there was a hard knot of pain lodged somewhere in their body.

They bristled at the instruction but complied without complaint, their back held stiff. They did not stifle the yawn that curled their pink tongue.

"Clearly," they commented dryly, their well-bred accent sharpening as though to obfuscate the docility with which they accepted the shirt thrust into their hands.

They watched the difficulty he had in removing his shirt with growing exasperation.

“Arrêter,” they said, slinging the fresh shirt over their shoulder to free their hands. Their movements were crisp as they unwound the fabric where he had tangled it, careful where they had to guide his stiff and sore arm. They had to lean close to assist him in shrugging the garment from his shoulders and he had ample opportunity to observe how the crookedness of their nose complemented the close crop of hair that bared the scar scored across their skull. It lent them a charmingly roguish air.

As they exposed more skin, their eyes took in the dark dapple of bruises and the raw welt of his twisted shoulder with quiet fascination. Perhaps it was the sleep still cobwebbing their brain that granted them the sense to reserve their commentary.

They helped him dress with the same patient, if long-suffering, care, their hands warm where they brushed against his skin. When satisfied, they took a step back to appreciate their handiwork.

“Almost presentable, mon ami,” they said huskily.

If not stopped, they would quickly return to the bedside table to put their hands almost reverentially to the bottle that awaited them, bringing it to their mouth with palpable delight.

Fabien ceased struggling when Émile drew close to assist him, and grew slack limbed and agreeable as they began to undress him.

The urchin’s clear delight at being attended to so thoughtfully by his green eyed companion could be felt in every line of his body. His feline-sharp eyes were uncommonly warm as he followed the movement of their fingers.

The boy's lean chest rose and fell with slow, steady breath that sharpened at the brush of their hands upon his bare skin. He swallowed softly, and shifted the weight between his feet with a more familiar, prowling restlessness.

"Tu es bon pour ça." He murmured close to their ear, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips."I could get used to this."

The grey eyed youth allowed them to claim their prize without a word as he turned away. He carefully gathered together the vampire's clothing, before draping them upon the back of his chair as though they were royal cloth of gold.

"Merci, Émile," he said, carefully straightening the shirt with an affectionate brush of his fingers before turning back to regard his companion.

Fabien's dark brows lifted at the sight of Émile, with the wine bottle still pressed devotedly to their lips.

"Eh bien putain, perhaps I should have brought two." He mocked softly, as he moved towards his bed.

The urchin allowed his aching body to sink onto the softness of his sheets, still warm from the weight of their body, with a groan. He eased his chest up until he was propped upon the generous collection of pillows, the back of his skull resting against the headboard. He released a soft sigh, his bruised eyelids heavy and features sharp in the warm flicker of candlelight.

"Come sit with me," he instructed, and patted the space beside him with a lazy flick of the palm, like one might coax the family pet to nestle at his side. "I do not get much company in this room, and you are better than none."

The boy continued to watch them thoughtfully, adjusting his position to accommodate them beside him with a flinch of discomfort. The bed was of decent proportions, certainly more grand and decadent than Fabien had ever had in his life. But  it was designed for a single occupant, and there was little room spare to avoid the press of the urchin's limbs.

"Seems like rest has done you some good."

Émile’s fingers curled worshipfully around the thick glass of the bottle’s neck. They tilted the bottle back and drank greedily, the deep gulps flexing the muscles of their throat. A ruby rivulet slipped from the corner of their mouth, trailing bloody down their neck, and they quickly corrected, leaning back so as to not waste a drop.

They gasped for air, the bottle sloshing half empty in their hand, and leaned to pick gingerly through the bits and pieces of food they were given with the fingers of one hand. They ate quickly, but with a deep-rooted delicacy that was almost laughably dainty given the circumstances. The boy’s mocking words did not pierce their single-minded focus. They paid him no mind as they zealously, deftly polished off torn hunks of bread and slivers of cheese.

Their pace slowed as they savoured the sweet yellow flesh of a crescent of peach and their lips glistened when they mechanically sat down where Fabien had indicated next to him. They licked their forefinger and thumb clean with satisfaction.

They lifted the bottle they had never relinquished to their lips and drained the last of the wine with the same unwavering engrossment. The empty bottle clinked hollow against the wood where they placed it.

His guest ran their hand through their ink-black hair like a cat grooming itself after their hurried meal. They did not look at him.

“Oui.” Their voice was thick and they cleared their throat. The haziness of their gaze suggested the alcohol had reached their empty stomach before the rest of the sustenance. “Je suis sûrement béni to have one so noble concerned with my wellbeing.”

Émile’s hands were taken with a restlessness like that of suddenly craving a cigarette and they unthinkingly patted their thigh. Coming up empty, they stretched their arm out along the bed but were quickly blocked by Fabien’s body. They turned to him.

“Qu'est-ce que vous voulez,” they said impassively.

'Not concern, votre Majesté. It was an observation." Fabien replied, his body stirring in a way that suggested prolonged stillness made him ache.

He did not interrupt their meal with further idle chatter or mocking commentary. But waited in silence until Émile was settled beside him.

The boy did not answer their question, but leant across the bed to rummage for a cigarette in the drawer he had left open. His body pressed against them with unnecessary familiarity as he lit the end with the candle flame.

The scent of the master of the house was all over him, as if it had bled through his fresh clothes. Vivid and inescapable. He turned his head aside to exhale a ribbon of smoke that curled and lingered around the room.

"What do I want from you? Hm, voyons voir." He murmured thoughtfully, cigarette pinched between his teeth as he leaned back to rest his weight on his side.

When Émile turned towards him, the urchin lifted his arm to stroke a rubied drop of wine from the corner of their mouth with his rough thumb.

"Je veux que tu me parles." He said, as his hand slipped away. "I'm curious, Émile. I want to know more about you. Humour me, oui?"

There was a granite hard firmness in the youth's tone that suggested there was little room to disagree with his demands.

"We will share this," he continued, plucking the cigarette from his lips. "And you will answer my questions."

The grey eyed youth studied the thin cylinder of rolled tobacco between his fingers. It was rolled across his knuckles with a card sharp's flourish, before he raised it to his lips. Then, with a roll of the wrist, he offered it across and exhaled once more.

"How long have you been away from home?"

Émile unthinkingly shifted to make room for the press of his body as Fabien leaned across them. They were wine-warm, their body flushed with the soft heat of life that was so unlike the vampire’s unearthly, grave-cool skin.

They fell into perfect stillness when he reached to touch their mouth. Their hard gaze met his and they did not look away as his thumb brushed the corner of their lip.

They turned their head as his hand slipped away, and their eyes followed the cigarette in his hand as the fragrance of tobacco filled the room. His request was met with a tautness in their jaw as they ground their teeth.

"I fail to see,” they said stiffly. “What interest it could have to you.”

Despite their rancor, they only hesitated briefly before accepting the cigarette from his hand. His question made them scoff.

"And what home is that?" They took a deeply appreciative drag of the cigarette, holding it in their lungs until their eyes watered before releasing a cloud of grey smoke from between their teeth. "Le manoir has been ashes for almost a year. Ou du moins, je suppose - I have not seen it for myself."

They examined him sidelong through their dark lashes before offering the still-burning cigarette with a flick of their fingers, though it was so near their face he’d have to reach for it. When he did, they lifted his outstretched hand to brush his thumb against their parted lips, their breath hot where their wet tongue grazed his skin. Their bare chest shivered with their soft sigh.

“C'est tout ce que tu veux de moi?” Their eyes were shockingly, improbably green when they met his. "Seems a shameful lack of imagination."

Fabien’s response was sure to do little to alleviate Émile’s growing displeasure. The urchin’s unfaltering smile deepened into a smirk that coiled its way into the corner of his mouth. He rolled his lean shoulders yet again, forgetful of his injury until the bite of pain caused him to flinch.

"Well, you do not plan to leave us anytime soon. Why should I not know something about you?" He replied cordially, the candlelight burnishing the cold grey of his eyes to a coppery fineness.

Émile’s answer caused him to pause, and he was quiet as he listened to them speak. When they had finished, the boy’s expression was quietly thoughtful, his eyes distracted as though in recollection of something.

“Ahh, donc c'était ta maison dans l'incendie.” He muttered beneath his breath.

Fabien reached to politely accept the cigarette back, and was taken off guard despite himself. At the brush of their tongue against his skin, the urchin’s hand stiffened, and his breath hitched in his throat. His eyes lingered hungrily on the glistening wetness of their mouth, until it proved too great a temptation. He leaned in slowly, tilting his head to press his lips to theirs, eager to taste their mouth sweetened with wine and fruit.

The boy's shoulders began to tremble with desire, and he slid his hand around their jaw, until it was curled around the nape of their neck. He grasped them with unnecessary firmness, his eyes hard, the flicker of amusement replaced by something else entirely.

Finally, he managed to prize himself away. His hand slipped away and he began to busy his mouth with tobacco, reluctant to meet the beauty of their eyes.

"Oui Émile, only this." He answered breathlessly, struggling to form the words he needed. "Seulement ça, pour l'instant.”

He exhaled a shuddery, smoke infused breath between his teeth and ran a hand through the tangled wheat gold of his hair. When he managed to refocus his attention, he continued.

"So, la maison est en cendres and you go ...where? For nearly a year?"

The boy tapped aside a thread of ash that had begun to leave a dusted trail over his clean shirt. He idly littered the floor beside his bed in a manner that made it seem the lavish room was no better quality than a cot in a workhouse.

"Quite a time to go without a solid roof and walls. And longer still, without finery… luxuries, I imagine." He managed to return his storm cloud eyes to them, and slowly passed the cigarette back with a hand that still faintly trembled.

"You do not look like you would last well on my streets."

Émile’s sea-glass eyes reflected profound triumph when Fabien’s thoughts became unspooled by the press of their tempting mouth. They opened to his lips with an eager grace that suited them well, their mouth warm and their tongue tasting faintly of wine.

They leaned fondly into the hand that curled around their jaw. Their breath shivered with hot delight against his mouth. The pressure at the back of their neck coaxed their hips into rolling, their lower back arching with feline satisfaction.

Uncertainty flickered across their features when he pulled away. Their eyes darkened at his rebuff and they crossed their arms across the naked skin of their chest.

“Comme vous le souhaitez,” they said sourly.

They eyed the cigarette he offered, but irritation sparked like flint in their expression and though their fingers twitched, they declined to accept it. When they spoke, the words were hot.

“I was on the street before le feu,” they spat. “Funnily enough, I was not informed they were your streets. Had I known, I would surely have offered proper tribute to le Roi des rats.”

Their weight slid from the bed and they found their feet unsteadily, the off center cant of their balance requiring a supporting hand on the wall. They did not look at him.

“Or perhaps, my friend,” they said dryly. “You were here, sleeping on soft sheets and drinking sweet wine while I paid how I could for every scrap in the charming cathouse along Rue de Loir.”

They straightened and swept the dark hair out of their stormy face.

“That is surely enough to sate even your banal curiosity. If you will excuse me, I am sure there is someone in this house who has more use of me than pricking me to death with tedious questions.”

Fabien fell quiet as they spoke, his eyes intense and his expression almost rapt with interest. Something in Émile's words provoked a flinch of recognition, and the boy appeared briefly troubled. But it did not last long, and it had vanished by the time he spoke again.

"I thought there was something of the gutter about you." He remarked cheerfully, his grey eyes glittering with fresh amusement.

The heat of their words enticed husky laughter to spill from the boy's lips. He scratched at the underside of his chin, an infuriating picture of ill-breeding trussed up in finery. The scar of poverty still darkened the hollows of his eyes, and lingered in the hungry parting of his teeth. But his skin, though pale, was indeed aglow with health from rich food and a life of safety and comfort.

"Ah, well no matter. You'll have plenty of time now to pay your tribute" He replied, with a showman's smile.

The boy's eyes followed Émile with a jackal's interest. He arched a dark brow, and then slowly shook his head.

"Non, ma belle amie, we are not finished here just yet."

There was a gentleness in his voice that had not been there before. And perhaps, though it was fleeting, a note of regret. He spoke as though trying to soothe a wild animal.

"Oh? Who are you running off to then? Monsieur Tariq? Soit mon invité. I'll just wait here for him to send you back to me."

The urchin stretched his lean body out across the bed, cracking his joints with a deep sigh of satisfaction. He inhaled, burning what remained of his cigarette to almost nothingness.

"I do not expect to wait long." He continued, expelling a breath of smoke from between his teeth. "Monsieur is quite keen for us to have this little… I don't know, coeur à coeur?"

He examined the stub with idle interest, before it was extinguished. Crushed between his thumb and forefinger, which were brought blackened with ash and char to his mouth to be licked clean.

The urchin lifted his eyes back to his companion.

"So now, explain to me, why you cannot walk beyond the walls of this house. Speak it to me, as you did to him."

Émile had crossed the room, disregarding the boy’s mockery with a clenched jaw. However, mention of the master of the house gave them pause and they hesitated with their hand on the handle of the door.

The implication of Fabien’s words did not crash over them all at once - rather, they seemed to strike them in shuddering waves. Their shoulders tensed and rose until the line of their back was shaking. Their breathing came so fast they had to open their mouth to let out a pained gasp.

They released the handle.

“Tu putain de rat.” It was almost conversational.

They reached up without thinking and stroked the shorn hair near their scar as a dog scratches fleas, with a feverish scraping of their nails that increased as they considered their predicament.

“Why-” It was a snarl, their bile rising. “Do you talk to him? Ce n'est pas juste, I don’t tell him anything, not when you-” They bitterly bit the words off and turned to face him. Their fists were clenched.

“You needle and meddle and pry and paw through filth like the squealing swine you are, and to what end? Tout pour quoi?”

For a single moment, the shuddering tension in their body flashed murderous as a knife, as though they toyed with the image of lunging at him. Instead, they turned their head aside, their breathing nearly a pant.

“Fine. D'accord. You have clearly gone to effort. I am sure you will find it très amusant.”

They took a step away from the door and it quickly became another, then another, until they were pacing the floor like an animal caged. Their hands were taken by manic restlessness and they dragged their fingernails down the delicate skin of their inner arm. Their eyes were set hard and distant, mossy stones laid to rest in the rich, black silt of a river.

“I-” they began, lost the thread, tried again, and were immediately overwhelmed. They took a deep breath and it shuddered in their chest like a shot bird.

“Comme tu lui as parlé,” they repeated under their breath, as though the mantra would call the words they needed.

They closed their eyes. The memory they sought in the dark behind their lids was raw enough to make them flinch when they found it, and they stumbled forward before the words were lost.

“Ma mère est morte," they said blankly. “She is - was - fond of drink and was sleeping or… confused, je ne sais pas. But she did not make it out of the fire.” The lines they scratched in their arms were raw and raised red, visible even across the room.

“The fire, the fire, le putain de feu,” they snarled with sudden vehemence. When they opened their eyes they were glassy. They unthinkingly fingered the scar gleaming pale as a fish’s throat along their scalp. “Mon père did not have to do much convincing to persuade everyone I am to blame for the fire. And just like that my house is ashes and I am pursued for matricide.”

They reached blindly for the wall and sagged against it, curling their body inward. They put their hands to the sockets of their eyes as though to crush them beneath their palms. Still they spoke, dutifully dredging the words from some place of soft, black rot within them as they had been bid.

“The dogs are bred to kill other dogs, but it is not always dogs… hares scream when they’re torn apart. And sometimes, for sport, a beggar, a gutter-rat no one will miss. They scream too, until they don’t.”

Their breathing had slowed. They spoke carefully from behind the hands still pressed against their trembling eyelids, each word as deliberate as a rune carved into a rock.

“I cannot leave here, because if I am found I will be dragged back to that place and mon père will throw me to those dogs. And I will slit my throat before I give him the satisfaction of watching me scream.”

The pale haired urchin withstood the viper-sharp sting of Émile’s insults with unshakeable good humour. He acknowledged their glowing assessment of his nature with a mockingly refined bow of the head.

“Oui.” He agreed softly. “Et probablement bien pire.”

His expression grew slowly stoic as he watched them pace back and forth across his bedroom floor. His eyes grew graver still, despite the frantic hammer of his heart against his ribs, and the growing sense of dread that twisted its way through his gut as their anger boiled over.

The boy tucked a hand behind the back of his head, and reclined as comfortably as a young scholar about to enjoy a particular riveting fireside story. But concealed at the curve of his neck, his fingers twisted and coiled through his hair in nervous agitation.

The quiet in the spaces between Émile’s words stretched out uninterrupted, yawning into the empty space around them in a way which made the room feel suddenly stuffy and cramped. The walls too closely spaced together, the air too thin draw a suitable breath.

The boy listened, his chest rising and falling with rapid breath. Sometimes, his fingers stiffened arthritically at his neck, other times they tangled, pulled and scraped against the soft flesh of his scalp. He struggled to keep his eyes rooted on Émile’s figure, so instead studied the space around them, the soft edges in-between.

It was not in Fabien's nature to enjoy such torment, nor to revel in stories of suffering. He had neither the coldness of heart nor an actor’s skill to fully suppress his pity. So it was there, hiding within the corners of his eyes.

When they had finished speaking, the boy wet his lips with his tongue, encouraging them to form words like a mother cat coaxing a kitten to draw its first breath. His lips parted, but he lapsed back into that uncomfortable, contemplative silence.

“Merci, Émile.” The boy finally stated, so simply, as though they had merely completed some megre transaction. “Trés intéressant. The appetites and hobbies of l’aristocratie never grow old.”

The urchin sat up and turned until his weight was resting on the edge of the bed, head hung low, and fingers laced together between his knees. He appeared, in that moment, as though he were succumbing to the dark depths of grief. But his eyes were contemplative as he examined the space between his bare feet as though it were a scrying mirror revealing hidden truths. He rubbed irritably at his bruised eyelids with his thumb and forefinger, the muscles around his mouth tense.  

Then, as though he had reached a decision, his lip curled from his teeth and with a sharp shake of the head he cast aside whatever thoughts had tormented him.

“Non. Fine. It is done, settled. It changes nothing.” He hissed beneath his breath. “Pour moi, au moins.”

The urchin rose and turned to look at his green eye-companion again for the first time. He had the audacity to approach them, to reach for them with his rough hands and affectionately stroke aside inky strands of hair from their beautiful eyes.  

His body pressed into theirs, almost crushing them into the wall as thought he intended to snuff the life out of them himself. But his mouth was upon theirs, his palms reaching to stroke over the soft skin of their shoulders, their chest. His desire for them as hot and wanton as it was tender, perhaps even remorseful.

“I need you to walk with me, mon cœur.” He breathed, as his hand reached to reclaim its grasp on the back of Émile’s neck. His eyes had all the cold apathy of an executioner ushering the condemned towards the cold kiss of the blade. But then, like clouds passing from the sun, he brightened.

If they protested, or sought to struggle from his grasp, the boy was sure to drag them along with him over to the door.

The silence weighed heavily on Émile following the conclusion of their dreadful tale, as though they were a figure of clay and the quiet were a colossal stone tablet seeking to flatten them against the wall. The tension in their shoulders had bled away and they sagged hollow and empty, obstinately letting the silence crush them. Their breathing was ragged.

They did not draw the balls of their palms from their eyes until persuaded by Fabien’s affectionate hands. The whites of their eyes as they looked up at him were the unsettling pink of raw meat. But there were no tears, no sobs, no appeals for pity, or mercy, or rest. They examined him with the wary resignation of a wild animal too drained from its fight against the teeth of the snare to bristle at the approaching hunter.

The firm press of the boy’s body was a relief, and they parted their lips to him without struggle. Their mouth was slack and warm and tasted of salt, as though the grief that made a nest of their body seeped out on their tongue. They shivered under his hands. They did not pull away.

They regarded him blankly at his gentle instruction.

“Pourquoi tu ne peux pas me laisser seul,” they croaked hoarsely, their throat tight. They made to turn their head aside but were obstructed by his hand and they maintained an aching eye contact, helpless to look away.

Their attempts to resist him were feeble, their effort to dig in their heels easily undone by the pressure of his hand at the nape of their neck, and they were soon led as tamely as a lamb. The bare skin under Fabien’s hand was hot and trembling as though with fever.

Fabien reached for the door, and carefully led Émile out into the quiet of the darkened hall. The boy's heart was grateful they did not fight him, and the hand upon their neck loosened. He did not let them go, but stroked the heat of their skin with the gentle brush of his thumb.

"Because I am a rat, a swine. Because I am bored. Because it amuses me." He said softly, turning his head to meet their eyes.

"Which do you like best? Take your pick."

The direction he intended to guide them soon became only too clear. No doubt the stretch towards the master of the house's bedroom door was etched into Émile's memory.

The urchin was prepared for signs of reluctance, for his hands had a stiffness to them that suggested he was ready to tighten and grasp at the slightest flinch. He kept his eyes turned away from them as they walked together.

He paused before the doorway, his grey eyes finding Émile in the dark. His expression was strange. His feline-sharp eyes were tense, and a faint sheen of sweat glistened upon his brow and cheeks.

He swallowed firmly, and just as the night before, lifted his hand and to rap softly with his knuckles.

"Monsieur? May I speak with you, s'il vous plaît?"

The boy's hand grew gentle upon the back of Émile's neck, the brush of his fingers soothing as he stroked them with quiet affection.

"I have made up my mind."

It took Émile longer than it ought to recognize their destination, their mind occupied as it was with other thoughts that beat against their skull like the dusty flutter of moth’s wings, and Fabien was sure to realize the moment it dawned on them for they flinched as though they’d been struck. A soft, quizzical sound that may have been the start to a question was miserably swallowed. They pulled up short like a dog balking at the leash, their body stiff and resistant. It took the firm press of his hand at the back of their neck to stir their reluctant feet.

They recoiled from the sound of his knuckles on the heavy door. Their eyes were on the ground. Their frame slumped woodenly but there was an anxious energy in the quickness of their breath that gave the distinct impression they were being summoned before a headmaster for punishment.

The pair would not be forced to wait long, as the vampire’s voice quickly lifted to bid them enter.

The room smelled faintly of fragrant smoke and the tang of lanolin. It was pleasantly cool from the night-soaked air that wisped through the open windows. The crimson curtains stirred like the bloody fingers of a restless sleeper as they entered.

The vampire was seated in the same chair Fabien doubtless remembered from the night prior. His long hair was pulled back to keep it out of the way as he meticulously worked to black the boot in his lap. The waxy smell of the dubbin saturated the room as he carefully smoothed the polish into the leather with small circles of the cloth in his hand.

It was utterly mundane, and the quiet, commonplace scene was tranquil after the emotional happenings the pair was fresh returned from.

“Bonsoir, Fabien.” The greeting was warm. The vampire carefully marked his progress with his thumb, the motion necessary in lieu of the sight his pale eyes lacked, and lifted his pale gaze to the door. His attention drew acute as a loosed arrow to the boy.

“Très bon. And what have you decided?” he asked steadily. Émile shrank back against Fabien, their brows furrowing with uneasy confusion at this exchange.

Fabien's hands fell away for the first time since departing his room, and Émile left to stand unattended in their host's presence. Despite this, the boy did not step away, the brush of his body was never too far from their reach. And when they stepped back against his chest, the youth's body softened and his hand twitched as though to steady them.

He lifted his grey eyes to meet his master's gaze, and his expression at once was luminous with fondness.

"Bonsoir," the boy replied gently, his attention grasped so firmly by the sight of his master that he was at first slow to reply.

"I want them, Monsieur." He confirmed at last, speaking the words without a flicker of hesitation in his voice. "I want them at my feet. I think they can be made to learn."

He turned his attention from their host back to Émile. The urchin's grey eyes lowered to their the short crop of hair on the side of their head, and to the glimmer of a scar that sliced through the beautiful dark strands. It was here his attention lingered as he spoke.

"The details of their life are... interesting, but my mind has not changed."

The urchin glanced up, stretching out the tired ache of his limbs in a carefree flexing of muscle. As though this meeting was little more than a simple social call, some domestic request that Colombe gather certain supplies from the market for him on her next visit.

This time the youth stepped completely aside, abandoning Émile as he moved to draw in closer to the master of the house. He lingered at the pale eyed gentleman's side with such aching devotion, his expression soft with affection and quite far removed from the tense disquiet he had displayed earlier.

"Puis-je les avoir, maître?" He asked, his voice as low and rich as sun warmed honey.

Fabien’s words were met with a rush of warm delight from his master. When he drew near, he reached to tip the boy’s chin with his knuckle to avoid sullying him with the polish that darkened his fingers. He kissed him with perfect lazy satisfaction, the press of his mouth presumptive as though this were his right.

“Bien sûr,” he breathed against his mouth. “If you want them, then they are yours.”

He straightened and took up the cloth to resume his polishing. “Dubois,” he said briskly.

Émile stood adrift near the door where Fabien had left them. The inside of their bare arms were etched with raised red lines and the bruises that lingered around their throat and cheekbones were wine dark in the dim light. They regarded the unfolding tableau with creeping dread, unhappy wariness inscribed in their bearing. They recoiled at the sound of their name.

“Monsieur?” they replied dutifully, their voice cracking.

“There has been an adjustment to our agreement. I am surrendering responsibility of you, and placing you in Fabien’s hands in all matters.”

He let the words take their effect. Émile stood still, unmoving. Tariq tilted his head expectantly, though the careful movement of his hands did not still.

“Oui, monsieur.” Though the words were deferential, their gaze was not on the vampire - it was fixed blackly on Fabien.

The vampire idly flicked a speck from the toe of his boot. “Nothing in this house belongs to you unless it is given to you. You will eat and drink what he wishes, sleep where he bids, and mind him in all things. If this arrangement is not to your liking you are free to leave, as you have always been.” His tone was unceremonious, but each word was spoken with deliberate care. ”Suis-je clair?”

“Oui, monsieur,” they replied dully. Their eyes did not stray from the boy.

“Très bon, And, Dubois-” The vampire paused in his labor and glanced up with eyes that did not quite find their houseguest. “I will not intercede in his judgement. Understand your sentiments and sensibilities amount to naught under this roof and spare me, tu comprends?”

There was a pause, brief but dangerous, before they answered.

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Splendide. Is that all, mon chéri?” The tenderness in his tone left little doubt of who it was he spoke to.

The press of his master's mouth enticed a faint moan from the boy, that sharpened into a hot pant at his words.

Fabien stood arrow straight beside his master's chair, observing the effect of his decree like a beloved fan bearer at the right side of the Pharaoh. He did at least have the courtesy to meet Émile's green eyes, but there was little but cool indifference in his gaze. As though their suffering had slipped from his mind, blackened to nothingness in his master's presence.

Every so often the boy's head turned, his eyes gentle as he watched his host speak. Then he looked back to Émile, that awful smile branded across his youthful mouth.

When the blind gentleman's attention at last returned to him, Fabien bent to brazenly curl his arm around his shoulder and tuck his head affectionately against his throat. It left little doubt how privileged a position he held, what freedom he had.

"Oui, Monsieur, that is all. Merci. Tu es tellement bon avec moi." He whispered, softly intimate, far too low to be understood by any but his master's razor sharp hearing.

The urchin stepped aside, and slowly drew closer to his new acquisition. He paused unnecessarily before them, searching their eyes momentary before he spoke.

"Come then, Émile, we have wasted enough of Monsieur Tariq's time for tonight."

He turned to brush past them, reaching for the door with his injured arm tucked close across his stomach. The boy did not look over his shoulder for assurance, he expected to be followed without complaint.

Once outside their host's quarters, the youth walked in the direction of his room, back to where only moments before he had brought Émile food. Where he had, at times, touched them kindly. Shared what was his, like they were brothers in arms upon some bloody stretch of field.

This time, they would find him seated on his bed, coaxing them closer like a young lord about to inspect a new servant.

"Come to me, mon coeur." He said,  indicating the space between his bare feet. Weariness had begun to creep it's way into his limbs, a soft exhaustion that made his shoulders slack. "Let me look at you."

"This will be easier, if you do not resist me, Émile." The boy said as he waited to see if they would approach, his voice low and not unkind. His eyes held no more of their mocking amusement.

Tariq’s hands fell still as he nuzzled affectionately into the press of his boy’s head. It was an intimate gesture, and one that left little doubt of Fabien’s standing in his esteem.

“Tout pour toi,” he murmured, his voice rich and warm.

Émile met Fabien’s eyes when he approached, their gaze hard but their expression carefully devoid. Their eyes narrowed at the airy instruction and their jaw set in a hard line, but they bit their tongue. They only hesitated a moment before turning to leave.

Their host allowed the pair to leave without further observation with their business concluded, the smell of smoke and dubbin fading as the heavy door closed behind them. Émile’s bare feet were quiet on the carpet of the hall.

They followed him without a word though there was venom in their silence and their pace was needlessly slow, like a coyote loathe to submit to a leash. They stopped just inside his door. They regarded him with cool disdain. Without the benefit of even their faded finery, the dark bruises of their throat bleeding over their bare chest and the pink cast of their gritty eyes lent some truth to Fabien’s observation of there being something of the gutter about them.

They did not immediately come when called. They stood dully near the door, the line of their spine stiff. The fingers of their hands clenched and unclenched.

Reluctantly, they took a step forward, and another, pausing just outside the reach of his hands.

"Two-faced rat." There was no venom in the gravelly words - it was a passionless observation. The defiant set of their jaw suggested they expected the reflection to be met with a blow.

Fabien’s attention remained firm upon Émile as he waited patiently for them to heed his words. If their comment had wounded him at all it did not show in his grey eyes, though the muscles around his mouth grew taut with displeasure.

"Assez de cela." He said wearily, shifting the muscles of his shoulders with a grimace of discomfort. "And I said come here, I know you are not hard of hearing."

The urchin waited in silence for them to step closer. Should they falter again, or move too slow, he was likely to rise up and grasp their arm to pull them close to him. When he had them where he wanted, the boy overturned their arms so that he could inspect the red marks with the rough brush of his thumb.

"You know, this becomes as easy or as hard as you wish to make it." He commented softly, as his fingers stroked their skin. The boy had touched them before, his hands thoughtlessly feeling over the warmth of their limbs. But there was something different in the sweep of his palm, presumptive and tender in a way it had not been before.

He lifted his eyes to meet theirs, and he took their chin between his thumb and forefinger. His hands were gentle as he grasped their jaw, as his finger stroked the heat of their skin.

"Know this,” he continued slowly. “I just worked very hard to get you. It took effort, oui effort Émile, on my part, to make you mine. Not just to hear about your sad little family tragedy. But for all of this."

The boy’s hand with its rope scarred wrist slipped down from the curve of their jaw to the soft skin of their throat, where his agile fingers began stroking over mottled flesh. He spread his fingers across the pale shadow of bruises, applying his hand like a master craftsman revisiting marks carved into clay. His touch remained gentle, despite the disquieting nature of his words.

“I took a risk, and I don't take risks unless I think the pay-off is worth it.”

The golden haired boy’s hand came to rest on the slope of their shoulder. He paused here, his thumb idly stroking the smooth, gleaming skin of their shoulder joint. His expression was difficult to read, and if their green eyes met his, there seemed to be a flicker of conflict within them, as though he were engaged in some distressing internal debate. But his hand on their skin remained steady, the rise and full of his chest slow and unlaboured.

“So, you are going to make me believe it was worth the trouble. Starting now. Tu me suis?”

He allowed them a moment to digest his words, his feline-sharp eyes studying their features to see if they had been listening. The silence lingered on as the boy made sure that his words had penetrated the thick heat of anger and exhaustion.

“Now I want you to get on your knees.”

Émile’s shoulders fell slack when the anticipated blow did not fall, and they released a soft breath from between their teeth.

They stood obstinately out of his reach and did not approach at the reprimand, regarding him with a gaze that was mulish in its blank refusal, though they were drawn easily into the space between his legs when he pulled them close. They did not look down at the red lines on their arms as he traced them with his thumb. The set of their eyes was hard through their dark lashes; a contrast to the delicate skin of their inner wrist that was soft as the pliant petals of a cream rose under his touch.

They met his eyes when he took their chin in his hand, though the vulnerability of their nearness took their shoulders with a faint tremble. His mention of their family tragedy hit its mark and they hissed in a soft breath, the gentle green of their eyes darkening with hurt and anger. The scar that raked across their scalp shone in the candlelight as they unthinkingly tilted their chin up at the press of his hands to the tender bruises on their throat.

It was hard to decipher their thoughts on what he said. They stood still, listless as a winsome figure carved of wood. Only the flint of their gaze and the hard set of their jaw as they ground their teeth betrayed that black rage that seethed beneath the surface.

However, there could be little mistaking the tremor that set their shoulders to shaking at his command.

They did not move. Their bare chest rose and fell with their rapid breath, the baleful glare of their eye brimming with spite almost to the point of violence.

A moment passed, and another, and it seemed some conflict raged in the firm lines of their rigid body.

And then slowly, hatefully, as an animal moves when it is backed into a corner, they lowered to their knees. They rocked back to rest on their calves, the groove of their naked back stiff and unyielding. It suited them beautifully.

They had to look up to meet his eyes and this was unbearable. Their gaze skittered away and they looked resolutely ahead at nothing at all.

“I don’t need anything from you,” they said evenly, their hoarse voice hardly above a whisper. It seemed to be the only answer they had for how easy they intended to make this arrangement.

Fabien, to his credit, displayed no sign of growing impatience when Émile was slow to follow his instruction. He allowed them as much time as they needed to absorb his words and follow through, his hand a warm weight upon their shoulder that did not seek to apply insistent pressure. When he felt them begin to tremble beneath him, his hand once again stroked their skin in slow, repetitive motions.

The urchin looked at them expectantly, despite the anger he could feel simmering beneath their skin. He searched the green depths of their eyes in careful silence, his lips slightly parted as though to ask something more of them, but no words came.

When he had them at his feet, the boy’s hand slipped away and moved to his throat. He began the process of slowly and painstakingly unbuttoning the shirt they had only just helped him into with such care.

"That's right. Très bien, Émile." He encouraged in a gentle breath, unable to disguise his growing pleasure at having them knelt so prettily between his thighs.

"See now, it is really not so hard."

When Émile turned their attention elsewhere, the youth resumed his work, his fingers working buttons free to expose his lean, muscled chest which had become flushed with growing heat. Their words caused him to pause in his undressing, and he lowered his eyes to regard his new possession with a spark of interest. The boy placed his hand upon his thigh, as a sharp breath of amusement was plucked from his chest.

"Well, I didn't ask for your opinion, mon coeur, I asked if you were following me." He chastised lightly, the arrogance in his tone apt to make their skin crawl with displeasure. "And look at this, I am still waiting for an answer.”

The boy leaned his weight across his thighs so that he could affectionately stroke the soft skin of their cheek with the side of his finger, as one would some feral kitten they hoped to make tame. He continued in this way for some time, his eyes on theirs, his finger stroking towards the corner of their mouth.

“A simple "oui, Fabien, I understand," will do, if you are struggling. I think it is time you started speaking to me with just a touch more civility, non?”

He withdrew, and turned his attention to the last few buttons with a swift, plucking motion of his fingertips. With this done, he moved to his waistband, where his fingers paused as his eyes met theirs once more.

“I want you to ask me how you can please me.”

Émile did not look up at the sound of Fabien removing his shirt. Their eyes were fixed firmly ahead. The nails of their hands dug into their thighs. His praise persuaded their cheeks to flush red and they grit their teeth.

They started at the press of his hand on their hot cheek and their eyes met his briefly before flitting away. He could feel them still trembling, with anger or exhaustion or the sheer weight of this indignity. The clench of their jaw locked their tongue and they made no gesture of hearing his words.

It was not until he had turned away that they found their voice.

"Oui, I understand,” they said quietly. And then, as though they could not slow the momentum of their words; "I understand you have your fun playing at being king of this wretched place, but you still sound like common trash." Their voice grew in heated volume until the final word was a snarl.

They did not have to think long on their response to this command; the word fell from their lips almost before he had finished speaking.

"No," they said firmly, decisively, as though it were a word that had any right in their mouth. "Not even if-” This thought veered into the distressing and they quickly averted course. “Not for you."

They looked up at him without moving their head. The pretty green of their eyes was dark through the fan of their black lashes. They would have struggled to present a more appealing image on their knees before him, their charmingly disheveled hair a complement to the sharp line of their tense jaw.

"Get it over with or leave me be." They had the indecency to sound perfectly genteel, as though it were they idly commanding a tiresome servant.