***Interlude 12 - Half gods are worshipped in wine; real gods require blood

It was eerie how quickly the house became a haunted place for the boy.

Colombe did not balk at her dejected friend’s company, and her room became a refuge once more for his sulking. Yet each time he descended her stairs he was confronted by the dark stain of wine clinging stubbornly to the wood boards of the kitchen floor. It unpleasantly called to mind a pool of blood, the banal aftermath of a crime scene.

He would not come across Émile in the halls but their presence lingered like the ghostly scent of perfume. Colombe reluctantly prepared a third plate for every meal which she did not carry with her when she returned down the staircase. Worse still, there were unfamiliar sounds that could be unearthed when the air was still and the house was quiet - a distant moan slithering down the stairs, a cry that might have been of pain or pleasure or perhaps - chillingly - both, winging like a bird outside the window.

A day passed in this manner, then two, and then, beyond belief, he somehow survived a third.

If Fakhir or her companion were aware of the tragic performance unfolding in the shadows of the quiet house, they did nothing to exacerbate it. They kept their own time, coming and going as they pleased.

Colombe avoided the pair with the same revulsion she reserved for the master of the house. Something preyed on her nerves and she was more prone to restlessness than the boy had ever known her, but she took pleasure in his sullen company.

She did not press him about his encounter with the fresh arrival. If he did not offer details, she did not seek them out. The memory of that night remained his to scrutinize while he lay awake, its bloody handwriting scrawled in the torn skin of his discolored knuckles.

The urchin had initially spent much of his time outside. The rooftops gave some flavour of a world beyond the confines of the house, and offered a welcome distraction. When the city slept, he could drink in the great stretch of smoky sky, and sometimes, a rare solitary star.

But all this had changed so quickly when he caught sight of the vampire on his balcony, his pale hair flowing like a stray shaft of moonlight. The boy would not speak of what he had witnessed, but backed away trembling, and lapsed into a quiet he could not be coaxed from

By the third day, the walls closed in, and the hungry muscles of his body grew demanding.

"Put me to work today, Colombe, s'il vous plait? Let me help you, my mind eats itself." He pleaded, clinging to her arm until he was shooed aside like an eager hound. When she agreed, the boy's eyes brightened.

"I will bathe quickly, then come find you." He rasped, and gave her a smile which did not quite touch his eyes.

The boy tucked a cigarette behind his ear as he departed his friend's room. He swept guiltily through the kitchen, pausing only to light his cigarette on a candle flame. It seemed not even the lure of food scraps was enough to hold him in that miserable room.

Whether through distraction or habit, the boy did not care to fully close the bathroom door once inside. So it was not long before the scent of smoke and steam filled the hall in a dull haze. When the tub was full, the scarred and ink-marked creature undressed, and eased his body into the steaming water with a hissed breath.

Fabien lay still, his black ringed eyes raised to the ceiling as he listened to the sound of his own breath heavy in his chest. He absentmindedly lifted his hand to examine the dark row of bruises on his knuckles. And there it was, Émile's dried blood stilll lingering in a dark taint beneath his nails.
A frown pinched together the sharp line of his brow, and the youth began to scrub irritably at his skin.

"Arrêtez." He snarled, when his efforts became too repetitive, too aggressive, and his skin grew crimson and raw.

The boy closed his eyes, desperate to turn his thoughts to anything but that wretched creature against his master's skin. But when he lifted the cigarette back to his lips, his hands were trembling.

In a house primarily occupied by the cat-like tread of the dead, the sound of footfall was sure to draw attention.

The footsteps did not pause at the door, but entered as it was eased thoughtlessly open. The shape of the intruder hovered blurrily near the entrance.

“Eh bien,” The derisive voice was hoarse, but immediately, hatefully recognizable. “Fancy finding my good friend Fabien.”

Émile stepped more fully into the light, though it did little to brighten the weft of bruises that darkened their delicate features. The worst of the swelling had receded, the angry purple of their cheeks fading to a speckled yellow at the edges. The black split of their lip had resisted any attempt at healing and oozed sickly, raw and red.

There were dark shadows beneath their fish-scale green eyes as they appraised the boy in the tub.

They ambled leisurely along the side of the room, idly taking note of its accoutrements with the air of a lord touring a vineyard they intended to purchase. They sat heavily in a chair against the wall, their hands held loose between their knees.

“No need to make haste on my account,” they said airily. They eyed the cigarette in the boy’s hand with naked envy but had evidently absorbed enough of their previous lesson to stay silent on the subject. “Je peux attendre.”

They leaned back and regarded what little they could see of the urchin - the blackened skin of his knuckles, the cigarette filling the air with a haze - with quiet disdain. When they rested their head against the wall, the thin skin of their throat was raised a seething purple like the stain of wine. If one looked closely, they could find the delicate stippling of spots left by the gouging points of his fingers.

“Unless you need a hand in there, mon ami,” they rasped. “I have so missed your tender touch.”

Fabien's eyes darkened at the intrusion. He moved as if to rise up, both hands clutching the sides of the bath in preparation to haul his body upright.

"You cannot just wait outside?" He snapped, as he watched Émile move across the room.

The urchin's grew still when they moved into the light, and the evidence of the suffering inflicted on graceful lines of their face were revealed. He turned his head sharply aside, and at once became occupied with washing his chest.

The boy said no more, but  fell into a sullen silence, as though he intended to ignore Émile entirely. But their generous offer of assistance stirred him, and was met with a look of fierce dislike.

"Surprised you'd have the energy for me." He replied hotly, and continued to feign obliviousness to his audience.

He scrubbed irritably at his ribs, before moving on to his sharp shoulders. Then finally, he learnt forward and released a shuddery sigh.

"D'accord, I can tell you want this." The grey-eyed urchin said as he plucked the cigarette from between his teeth. It was offered with a lazy flick of the fingers.

"Come here then, ne sois pas timide." He coaxed, dangling his prize like one might tempt a hungry dog.  "Unless my... cocksucking gutter-rat mouth puts you off?"

The urchin was sure to relish any signs of hesitation, and would be meet them with a triumphant look of cruel delight. He drew his offering back to his lips to take a slow, luxuriant drag, before it was offered again. "It is good, not cheap stuff."

This time he forced himself to examine Émile carefully. He lingered on the swollen distortion, the bruise-black skin which marred the beautiful architecture of their face.His expression was difficult to read. The hardness had not left his eyes, and there remained a tension in his jaw that spoke of viciousness, perhaps even cold pleasure.
But at times, his features seemed to soften, as though remorse struggled to the surface.

"It looks like you need it more than I do." He said, not unkindly.

Émile’s eyes had fallen shut. With their head against the wall, it seemed they might drift to sleep in this room, lulled by the soothing splash of water and their own hoarse breathing.

However, they snapped to alertness at the boy’s offer. They raised their head, features lit with a deep and guileless desire. They regarded him from across the room, his jeers falling on deaf ears in light of this temptation.

They stood heavily and moved toward him but stopped just beyond reach, skirting the proffered hand with the wariness of a feral dog.

“I...” they began, but quickly trailed off. It was not hard to read the pain in their body from the brittle manner in which they held themself - the slight inward curl of their spine, their faintly off-tempo stride. The hair cropped close to their head was beginning to grow back shaggy in the days it hadn’t been maintained, the scar raking their scalp shimmering unpleasantly like the pale throat of a fish.

They hungrily licked their torn lips. The fragrant tobacco smoke curled enticingly. Émile straightened, gaze moving from the cigarette to meet Fabien’s eyes.

“Qu'est-ce que tu veux,” they said flatly. It had nothing of the cadence of a question - only dispassionate resignation.

Fabien continued to extend his hand, his unpleasant smile deepening at one corner of his lips. Their continued hesitancy was met with a huff of impatience, but his sneering did not lessen.

Émile's words however, appeared to completely disarm him, and he was left utterly speechless.

"What?" The grey-eyed boy croaked as he straightened his spine. His skin, already ruddy from the heat of the bath, turned a touch more crimson.

"It wasn't a - Nothing! I don't need anything from you." He murmured nervously. The youth continued to stir uncomfortably at the suggestion, and half raised his legs as though suddenly aware of his nudity.

"Just ...ah, fuck this, just take it and sit down, will you?" The boy demanded irritably, his hand still extended as he waited for Émile to accept. "It will quiet you at least, until I am finished here. Stop pissing me off."

If Émile was slow, the boy was certain to let the cigarette fall to strike the damp floor, where it would go out unless fast hands reached for it. He leant back to drench his tangled golden hair in the water, and surfaced to run his fingers through the curling strands.

"Scar looks deep. Fell off maman ou papa's horse?" He asked softly, scrutinising them over his shoulder as if they were a puzzle he sought to figure out.

Émile was clearly at a loss at the boy’s answer. Their brows creased with palpable perplexity but, not one to miss an opportunity, they gingerly plucked the proffered cigarette from his hand. Their fingers were cool where they brushed against Fabien’s water-warmed skin.

They did not offer their thanks but brought the damp cigarette to their mouth with gluttonous greed, relishing the hot smoke on their tongue like a pauper with blackened fingers warming themself on embers.

“Ah,” they breathed, their eyes closed as though in rapturous prayer. They did not return to their chair but leaned redolently on the side of the tub.

They scoffed at the boy’s suggestion. Some ruddy semblance of life had been restored to the swollen skin of their cheeks, beneath the scrapes and welts.

“Are you disappointed, mon ami, it was not you come closest to putting me in the ground?” The venom in their tone had cooled. They unthinkingly raised their unoccupied hand to gently finger the scar on their scalp.

“That honour belongs to père Dubois.” The resentment roiling in their croaky tone was as black as pitch and just as likely to ignite with an errant spark. “No one says no to Antoine-Théodore-Louis-Auguste de Dubois, least of all blood.”

They took a deep drag and held the smoke in their lungs until their eyes watered.

“Et toi?” they breathed in a cloud of smoke, turning toward him. They gestured to their own bruise-blotted throat. “Like the teeth of an animal, did one of your chien errant friends turn on you?”

Fabien watched Émile relish his treasure with a look of quiet satisfaction.

"There now, wasn't so hard, was it?" The boy remarked mockingly, as he continued to run his fingers through his wet hair.

Their answer provoked a further look of quiet surprise, and a clear and mounting interest. If what he heard had softened him, there was no evidence of it in his voice, only cold disdain.

"Oui." He answered flatly, and placed the back of his skull against the smooth curve of the bath. "But do not worry, there is time still yet."

The urchin's feline-sharp eyes were bright with curiosity as he watched Émile speak. "And what did you do to upset Pere Dubois so greatly? Didn't want to attend another Winter's Ball?" He asked with a quirk of an eyebrow.

When they mentioned his scarred throat, the boy laughed bitterly and shrugged his bony shoulders. He nodded, his eyes dark and troubled as he met their sea glass gaze.

"Oui, you guess correctly, Émile. Such is the way of life on the streets, eh? We gutter-rats are always at each other's throats."

The boy moved to stand upright, shifting water around him in a great flurry of droplets that were sure to wet Émile's clothes as he rose up. He swung his legs over the side of the bath, and proceeded to seek a towel to wrap around his narrow waist.

They did not heed the boy's mocking. Their bruised eyelids remained shut as they savoured the fragrant taste of tobacco in their mouth. Fabien's mean speculation prompted their eyelids to flutter open and they studied him in silence, battered face wreathed in smoke.

"Oh, I attended," they said offhandedly, their voice hoarse in their throat. "As did mon père - along with his Marquis friend, who contributed generously against the family debt to use my whore mouth."

The rancorous sting of these words was unmistakable. They tapped the cigarette on the side of the tub, a flurry of grey ash showering to the sodden floor, before continuing.

"It was my duty to suck and instead," The set of their jaw tensed as they ground their teeth. "I bit."

"And alas, le pauvre Marquis has sired no heir." Bitter triumph echoed hollow in their voice.

They exhaled a spray of smoke from between their teeth.

"Très amusant, I'm sure," they said dryly.

They met the boy's gaze as he answered, the welt on their cheekbone lending one eye a yellow cast.

"Oh, oui?" they breathed. "It is strange that…" They hesitated, glancing sidelong at Fabien. With monumental effort, they swallowed the words on their cut lips.

"It is strange," they concluded lamely, turning their gaze away. The cigarette between their fingers had grown so short it burned to hold it, but they seemed loathe to discard it and gingerly passed it to their lips.

They watched him vacate the water from beneath dark lashes. They sagged wearily against the tub, heedless of the splashing that dampened their tattered clothes. Their gaze was not shy as they openly appraised the boy's water-slick skin.

"My friend, I must insist," they said huskily. "Next you put your hands to me, you leave me conscious so I may enjoy it."

Fabien did not turn around to regard Émile as they spoke, but carefully tied the towel about his hips. He listened in silence, and did not interrupt until they had finished.

The urchin was not quick to reply, and with his head turned to the wall, it was difficult to gage his response to what he had heard. Unfortunately, the boy's bare spine and shoulders betrayed a great deal of emotion. The muscles beneath his wet skin grew tense, and his hand sought the top of the cupboard as though in need of support.

"I have heard funnier," he rasped thickly, the heat of anger burning hot on his tongue.

Émile's history had for a moment recalled to mind the powdered and masked lords and ladies at that filthy brothel. Their gloved hands stroking his throat, stretching apart his jaw to feel over the rough points of his teeth. The urchin caressed the faded ring of burns around his wrist.

The boy began to tremble, affected perhaps by a cold breeze on his wet skin. Or some other terrible realisation of which he could not escape. When he turned around, his grey eyes were touched by some emotion, something which looked very close to pity.

Émile's next words startled the youth, and once again he was left floundering for an answer. His hesitation caused his skin to redden in embarrassment.

"Avez-vous perdu la raison?" He hissed, and pressed his fingers into the hollows of his eyes.  "Do you not realise that I -" He bit his tongue, and released a low, shuddery breath.

The grey-eyed urchin took a step closer, his golden hair still wet and dripping across his chest.

"Where did you meet Monsieur Tariq?" He asked slowly, and tried to regain a semblance of calm. "Why did he bring you here?"

The boy's visible discomfort coaxed a faint smile to Émile’s lips.

“C'est ta perte,” they said with a roll of their shoulders. Despite their best efforts there was nothing left of the cigarette to nurse, and they reluctantly flicked it to the floor with a hiss.

They lifted their eyes at Fabien’s renewed questioning. Their gaze was steely, but their hands were at once taken with restlessness and they uneasily dragged their fingernails down the delicate skin of their inner arm. They absently repeated the vampire’s name under their breath, rolling it on their tongue as though encountering it for the first time.

Émile turned away and peeled their threadbare shirt from their abdomen. The smooth skin of their back bore far fewer bruises than their neck. Their spine cut an elegant line down their back like the delicate grooves in a cream-coloured shell, their shoulder blades sharp as they lifted the fabric over their head.

"These questions grow tedious," they said, bunching the cloth in their hands. Their night-black hair fell wildly, mussed by the removal of their shirt. "If you aren't going to hit or fuck me, you may as well fetch une bouteille de vin."

They dropped their discarded shirt to the floor in an inglorious heap and, without looking up, looped their thumbs in the band of their trousers to ease them off.

'Why don't you ask him yourself, if you are so keen to know the old man’s mind," they said uncharitably. "He must be unoccupied, if I am here."

Fabien locked eyes upon the black haired creature, and his grey eyed gaze narrowed in contempt. The boy clenched his fists, his lip curled and mouth poised to bark something unpleasant. But he thought better of it, and relaxed with a slow breath.

The urchin took a few slow steps closer. He watched as they disrobed, his storm cloud eyes trailing the curve of their spine from the top of their neck, down to the base.

"Would you like that, Émile?" He broached airily. "A bottle to yourself? The cellar here is well stocked. I could choose you something especially fine."

The boy's body had not fully cooled from the heat of the bath, and despite the wetness of his skin, he still radiated warmth. He leaned in closer, wet hair skimming the curve of their shoulder as he brought his mouth close to one delicate ear.

"That would feel so good, non?-" He rasped heatedly, as two fingers moved to sweep aside tangled stands of their dark hair from their neck. "-Just the thing, to ease this aching body." He continued breathily.

The urchin softly caressed the skin of their neck as he spoke. his fingers tracing along smooth skin, down to the gleaming points of their shoulders. By now, his bare chest and hard stomach were almost flush against his companions spine. The lower half of his body remained barely concealed behind the precarious hold of the towel.

His lean arm slipped round their chest with almost brotherly affection. It allowed the boy to lay his hand over the inky smudges on their throat, where his palm rested, the pressure light.

"Et tu as de la chance. I am in a généreux mood. I might even throw in another cigarette. Does that sound good?"

He applied carefully into the dark smudge of bruises left by his hand. Not enough to choke, but certainly enough to make the bruised flesh ache and groan deliciously.

"All I ask for in return, is some information."

Émile froze in place as the boy leaned over their shoulder. The thin skin of their throat broke out in shivering gooseflesh at the words whispered in their ear, and Fabien would feel a trail of pebbled skin beneath his fingers.

They turned their head as though to shrug him away but there was no real urgency to the movement and their breath caught at the brush of the boy's palm to the tender bruise of their throat. They instinctively lifted their chin, hands pausing in their work of disrobing and body stiffening so as to carefully not apply pressure to their throat. Their spine curved with yielding feline grace, thrusting the small of their back against the boy's pelvis and holding it there in trembling anticipation.

"Ah, it sounds good," they agreed hoarsely, their eyes dreamily half-lidded. They wet their torn lips with their tongue.

"The trouble, my friend," they croaked. "Is that I think you are a lying rat, and it would please you to leave me wanting." This time, the grinding of their tailbone into the water-warmed crook of Fabien's hips was purposeful.

"Let's have une discussion amicale." Though there was little pressure on their windpipe, the damage to their throat was such that they were forced to strain for breath between sentences.

"You must know some things of interest." Another pause, another wheezed breath. "Things that would make for a fair trade for what you want to know. Égal et juste, oui?"

They paused for only a moment before continuing. "What is he to you?"

Fabien released a sharply panted breath at the flex of Émile's lower body against him. At first, he struggled to appear unaffected, until their continued squirming provoked the skin beneath his towel to twitch and grow unmistakably hard.

Then the boy's body stiffened, and it seemed he might hastily withdraw. But he merely relaxed his grip, and pressed his mouth to the glimmer of their scar, his arm afflicted with a faint trembling

"Tu blesses mes sentiments." He replied breathlessly.

The urchin shifted his hand to rest just below their jaw, a position that allowed his thumb to graze the elegant curve of their chin. He continued to stroke upwards, until he could lightly stroke across the broken skin of their lip.

"Mais d'accord, if that is what you want. Fair is fair." The grey-eyed boy replied softly.

"Monsieur took me in when I was in trouble." He explained carefully. "He generously helped me, and has given me a home here."

The urchin paused before he continued, each word spoken with slow precision.

"And I - think very highly of him. There. Mon tour maintenant?"

The hand that was not brushing across his companion's beautiful mouth, slipped around their waist until it discovered the hem of their clothing. He slipped two fingers beneath their waistband, and began to casually stroke their skin.

"Why did you stop undressing?"

The growing resistance at their back only seemed to encourage the roll of Émile's hips. Muscle moved fluidly beneath the skin of their bare back as they sought more enticing leverage to press against roused skin.

"Et tu blesses mon visage," they replied hoarsely, the rancor bled out of their tone.

They winced when Fabien dragged his thumb along the sore cut on their mouth, but they did not pull away. Their lips parted just enough to suck the tip of his thumb across their wet tongue.

Fabien's speculations about their tempting mouth proved true - it was silken and eager, and filled one's head with diabolical designs of what might fill it.

Their breath hitched becomingly in their bruised throat as the urchin's hand slipped lower. They leaned into his touch like a cat begging for affection.

"Mon erreur," they answered with shuddering breath. Cautiously, as though testing whether they would be allowed the freedom of movement, they exposed more of the smooth skin of their backside until, with a wriggle, they could kick off their clothes entirely.

An adolescence spent on the family estate had molded their proportions to comeliness like fruit allowed to ripen on the vine. Their bare waist was slender, but lacking the lankiness of deprivation, and the soft curve of their thighs sloped pleasingly to well-turned calves.

Perhaps it was little surprise that the half-roused flesh between their thighs was as shapely as the rest of their delicate features.

They did not appear to dwell terribly long on the boy's answer to their question, distracted as they were.

"It is your turn," they conceded throatily.

"But I fear my answer will disappoint you." A faint tremble had taken their limbs. "It is an echo of what you have said - I was in trouble, and needed shelter."

Taking exquisite care not to shake him loose, they reached to lightly hold the boy's wrist near their jaw. Their thumb stroked the back of his thumb before gently pressing it past their lips and into their wet mouth.

It did not seem fair that their tongue should be soft as silk, so eager to taste him. Their teeth softly scraped his first knuckle as they sucked him into their mouth. Their breath was coloured with a faint moan.

"But fair is fair. What would you ask of me?" they panted.

Fabien's entire body was set to trembling as they suckled upon him. When they took his thumb deeper into their mouth, the urchin was almost left gasping. He stroked across the plump flesh of their lower lip, his wet thumb glazing broken skin.

"You were ... being rude." He replied distractedly.

The urchin gently encouraged Émile's to lean forward, and his feline-sharp eyes drank in full stretch of their naked waist and back. His palm slid appreciatively over the smooth curve of their ass, before moving, fingers splayed, along the dip of their spine.

The boy's touch was slow, explorative, as though he had never laid his hand to something so luxuriously soft.

Then, almost thoughtlessly, he dislodged his towel with hasty fingers.The boy's aching arousal was plain. The hard skin of his cock twitched and prodded eagerly against their back. He slid himself along the cleft of their ass with a weakly groaned breath, until even this proved unbearable,

The youth nudged their legs apart with his knee, and grasped the head of his aroused skin. Slowly, he eased himself between the silken flesh of their inner thighs with a low moan.
He quickly pressed his mouth against the side of their skull, and his tongue wantonly curled along their scarred skin.

The urchin paused there, trembling in desperation as he held off from finding the delicious friction he needed.

"I - ah- " He panted weakly, as he struggled to regain focus.

"And w-what does - does he ask in return? Just this mouth?" It was asked so low and huskily, that this seemed a different question altogether

The boy's hand withdrew, and he lifted his thumb to his lips to suck hungrily on the taste of Émile's mouth. It was not long before his fingers slipped back, eager to return to that warm wetness.

Émile poured like molten wax at the press of the boy's hands. Their spine arched a trembling bow as they bent at the waist, and they lifted the round curve of their ass to grind insistently on aroused skin. Their skin rose in shivers beneath his admiring touch.

The removal of the barrier between them was met with a hot pant of approval, and they pressed his thumb deeper into the wet heat of their eager mouth.

There was a faint tension in the curve at the small of their back when he nudged their legs apart, and they planted the balls of their bare feet as though bracing for pain. When he slid into the warm crook of their soft thighs they shivered. Their soft sound of pleasure was nearly a low whimper.

Their breath was hot on his bruised knuckles. "Whatever he wants." Their voice still rasped in their bruised throat, but the cool disdain had evaporated to reveal a breathy docility, like a muzzled dog straining to lick the fingers of their master. Hot insinuation bristled behind their words and it was difficult to make out to which 'he' they referred.

Fabien would struggle to find his focus at the shallow rocking of their hips as they sought to thrust his cock deeper between their thighs.

"Often this mouth, oui."

When his hand returned they lapped longingly at his wetted thumb, trembling at the taste of his mouth. Their tongue trailed the sensitive skin between thumb and forefinger.

They pressed two of his fingers deep into their mouth, sucking them on their tongue with delight evidenced in the twisting of their hips against him. Their muted moans buzzed along his skin.

"Mais parfois he bends me," They turned their head, panting, and reached to wet their hand with their wanton tongue. "And fucks me from behind."

They bent just enough to wrap their palm around the head of his cock pressed between their thighs. He was slick with arousal and they encountered little resistance as they stroked him hungrily, surely, their hips rocking in time.

"I do as asked, mon ami." There was an electric thrill hearing those words shuddering hoarsely from that petulant mouth.

When Émile pressed Fabien deeper between their thighs, the boy almost took leave of his senses.The youth teased himself, easing out slowly, before he met that soft deepness between with a low groan.

Émile's body was moved and adjusted at his leisure. He carefully pressed down on the small of their back, keen to get their spine to arch enough that he might get a more pleasing view. His hand stroked over pale skin with relish, smoothed over the soft contour of their backside, until he found a steady hold on their hips.

When he felt their hand slide around him, his thighs began to tremble.

"Ah... oui, like that." He whined breathily, his mouth flush against their ear.

But as their devilish tongue slid across his fingers, the boy could respond with little more than soft, moaning breath of approval.

His grip grew firm, and his fingers dug deep into the soft flesh of their waist. He held there, as the rutting of his hips gained speed and he settled into some exquisite, natural pace.

"Est-ce que ça fait du bien?" He rasped, between the firm thrusting of his hips. Their previous discussion was abandoned, as he slipped upwards and against their roused skin, riding hot and liquid against sensitive nerves.

Fabien was not selfish, nor was there malice beneath his desire. When his companion's hips rolled against him, he moved to meet their rhythm.

"I'm so ...c-close." The urchin gasped in a half whined breath, as his lower body moved with the wet grinding of his cock into their hand.

His aching moans grew louder, and he lowered his head to stifle his mouth against the slope of their shoulder. Soon the thrusting of hips became more precise, until with a sharp cry of enjoyment, he came with a shuddering gush into their palm.

The boy's body continued to twitch and quiver with the aftershock of spent pleasure. His gasping mouth planted small, affectionate kisses, that sometimes broke into the gentle scoring of his teeth like a wild animal, along their skin.

He lifted his head to brush his mouth wetly along the side of their jaw, and slowly slid himself slick from between their legs.

Émile’s ragged breath came in hot pants with every thrust of the boy’s hips. The line of their spine arched at his prompting, the small of their back pressing hard against his palm and their hips lifting to supply him the leverage he needed.

The deeper his fingers dug into their waist, the more zealously they responded. Perspiration beaded like dew down the delicate curve of their back.

Fabien’s appreciative murmurs were potent encouragement and they drove back against him with a rocking of their hips, rolling their head to the side to expose the bruised skin beneath their ear to his mouth. They stroked the slick head of his hard cock between palm and thigh with quick, eager thrusts. Only a sliver of green eye could be seen beneath the dark lashes that trembled against their cheek.

Their answer to his question was immediate. “Ah, oui.” It was so low in their throat it was nearly a growl.“Ça fait tellement de b... bien.”

When he slipped up against their roused skin their back bucked and their eyes opened with a jolt. Their grip tightened on his wrist.

“Yes,” they gasped, shaking. “Yes, yes, yes…”

The pumping of their hand on his aroused skin became quick and shallow as his thrusts grew short. A shuddering tremor took their hips as though in aching sympathy as he came in their palm. The points of their teeth dug into his finger hard enough to leave indents in the skin.

Émile pressed the graceful curve of their bruise-dappled neck against the urchin’s affectionate lips. Their body shook against his. They held the shape of a word in their mouth but they bit it down with a sharp shake of their head.

When they were released, they took a stumbled step forward and put their hands on the edge of the tub of cooled water for support. Their legs were trembling, their inner thighs glistening wetly. Their chest heaved as they sought to catch their strained breath.

They fought with gritted teeth to remain standing on shaky legs but the exhaustion was too great and they succumbed, sliding to the floor with a soft groan. They turned inelegantly, all shivering limbs and wine-dark bruises, and sat down hard, resting their head against the side of the tub. Their palms were turned upward as though with an uncharacteristically fastidious desire to avoid soiling the floor. The split on their lip had re-opened and a rusted smear of blood darkened the chin beneath their parted lips.

Fabien's hand found the edge of the bath to steady his trembling legs, and he stood there, flushed and gasping.

The urchin dropped to his knee beside Émile, his features half obscured in the curling strands of his wet hair. He studied them carefully, his expression difficult to read.

"Give me your hands." He instructed at last, and reached for his towel to wipe them clean.

If his offer was met with scorn, he simply laid the towel beside them and shakily found his feet once more. Then he moved across the room to slip his ill-fitting shirt over his head.

The boy kept his back to Emile as he reached for the rest of his clothing. There was something in his movements that suggested a determination to leave immediately, to create distance between them.

But with a sigh, the boy returned to the bath. He leant across to drain the water, before with the sound of groaning pipes and gentle splashing, the basin began to refill. The youth sat in silence on the edge of the bath, his fingers diligently testing the temperature as he watched the water rise. His grey eyes were heavy-lidded, and he appeared lost in thought.

When he was satisfied, he leant back to Émile and offered his hand. The skin where their teeth had dug into his flesh was reddened, and the deep indents left by their teeth had purpled. They would not be quick to vanish .

"Come now, it is ready for you. Let's get you up." He stated, his voice soft with exhaustion.

Any signs of protest from Émile were sure to be ignored. If they struggled, or simply refused, the boy merely slipped his hands around their waist to help them rise. He assisted as little or as much as necessary, his grasp firm but gentle upon their bruised and tired body.

"Monsieur says to put this in sometimes. He says it eases the muscles."  He murmured, as he turned to rummage in a cupboard nearby. He tipped some fragrant herbs from a jar into the water.

The grey-eyed urchin turned away to finish dressing in silence. He secured the ties of his trousers, and shook out some of the lingering wetness from his hair.

"I must get on with my work now." He said simply, caressing the skin between his thumb and finger as he turned to leave the room.

Émile’s breathing was laboured. It was plain how ragged their wounded throat and broken nose forced air to rake from their lungs.

They met Fabien’s eyes with blank incomprehension at his instruction to offer their hands. Their curled fingers stirred at the touch, but he would find little resistance in their slack arms as he wiped their palms clean.

They lay unmoving and quiet as a stone as he dressed. When he turned back to refill the bath, their eyes had fallen shut and their head drooped at a weary angle against the side of the tub. Their breathing had grown regular, their bare chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.

The hush of the dimly lit room was peaceful as the greying calm of evening as he filled the bath. The gentle splashing of the water was a soothing comfort. Émile's head fell to the side and they lightly rested their cheek against his bare knee while he stretched on the edge of the bath.

They startled at the sound of his voice, their bleary eyes opening with a flutter. This new directive was met with a look of fierce dislike.

"Laisse-moi tranquille," they croaked, turning their head aside. When Fabien reached for them, he would find their body still trembling.

They resisted him, legs kicking on the floor as they squirmed to escape his grasp, but their struggle was weak and after a short while they decided the battle lost and begrudgingly allowed him to help them up. They flinched at the shock of warm water to raw skin.

"I don’t… need anything... from you," they rasped bitingly. But as their aching body settled into the warm water, their shivers ceased and they relaxed with a gravelly sigh.

They watched with one narrowed eye as he tipped the contents of the jar into the water. The powdery herbs spun in eddies along the surface. The fragrant steam seemed to do their breathing some good and the tense set of their jaw loosened as they inhaled.

Émile lapsed into silence once more as the boy busied himself with dressing. They did not respond to his farewell and as he turned to leave he would find their head slumped heavily against the back of the tub, eyes closed, utterly insensible to the world.

Given the desperate comfort they took in their aching slumber, it was not terribly hard to imagine it was their first chance at uninterrupted sleep in some time.