Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13749798.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hetalia:_Axis_Powers
  Relationship:
      England/France_(Hetalia), South_Italy/Spain_(Hetalia), Canada/Prussia_
      (Hetalia)
  Character:
      England_(Hetalia), France_(Hetalia), South_Italy_(Hetalia), Spain_
      (Hetalia), Canada_(Hetalia), Prussia_(Hetalia), Denmark_(Hetalia), Norway
      (Hetalia), Iceland_(Hetalia), Russia_(Hetalia), China_(Hetalia), Turkey_
      (Hetalia)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Detectives, Strippers_&_Strip_Clubs, Gay_Sex, Crimes
      &_Criminals, Kidnapping, Abuse, Porn
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-02-20 Updated: 2018-03-22 Chapters: 7/? Words: 40090
****** Famous First Words ******
by Shadowcatxx
Summary
     AU. Club 69 is a hive of illegal activity and the after-dark prison
     of Arthur, the porn actor; Lovino, the stripper; and Matthew, the
     bartender. It also happens to be the target of three undercover
     detectives, whose job it is to clean up the wicked, sultry
     streets—not to date an actor, a stripper, and a bartender... which is
     only for the good of the mission, of course. ;) But romance is
     tumultuous in a place where trust is fickle and lives are only worth
     as much as someone is willing to pay for them.
     FrUK. Spamano. PruCan.
Notes
     Disclaimer: "Hetalia: Axis Powers" - Hidekaz Himaruya
     Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names and
     relationships. ALWAYS practice safe sex.
***** Prologue *****
CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):
ENGLAND       Arthur Kirkland
CANADA        Matthew Williams
DENMARK      Mikkel Densen
NORWAY        Bjørn Thomassen
ICELAND        Emil Thomassen
ROMANO       Lovino Vargas
FRANCE         Francis Bonnefoi
SPAIN            Antonio Fernández Carriedo
PRUSSIA        Gilbert Beilschmidt
RUSSIA          Ivan Braginsky
CHINA           Wang Yao
TURKEY         Sadik Adnan
===============================================================================
It was late. The tiny postwar house was cold and dark and funeral-black. And it
was quiet. The clock ticked, and the radiator hummed, and outside traffic
honked abrasively and the eleven-fifteen train roared by, shaking the walls,
but inside the small bedroom it was quiet.
                Arthur was seventeen-years-old, pale, underfed, green-eyed, and
hugging the only living-relative he had left. He crushed young Matthew close.
The boy was sobbing uncontrollably. He hugged Arthur tight, seeking a shield
from the grief. They sat together on the single-bed they had been sharing most
of their lives: a wire-framed bed in a boxy, windowless bedroom with ugly
yellow wallpaper. Aunt Madeline had not been wealthy. The circumstances of her
late-husband's death had left her deep in illegal debt, the kind that was
impossible for someone of humble means to ever pay off. Arthur couldn't recall
a time before the debt-collectors and loan-sharks, who banged on the door in
the small hours of morning. They frightened Matthew. Poor, pale-faced, big-eyed
Matthew. He and Arthur were both small for their ages, both of them skinny.
Hungry. Arthur had spent his childhood pretending to hate scones just so
Matthew could have more to eat. And with no forthcoming inheritance that wasn't
likely to change.
                "It's alright," Arthur whispered as he rubbed Matthew's back,
trying to soothe his young cousin. "It's going to be alright. I'm going to take
care of us, Matthew. Don't you worry, poppet, everything is going to be
alright."
                Arthur's words fell on deaf ears, but he talked anyway. He
needed to, otherwise he might start crying. And he couldn't cry, no matter
what. He couldn't break down. He had to be strong now for Matthew. Now that
Aunt Madeline was buried, Matthew was the only thing that orphaned Arthur had
left. He sat on their shared bed and he cradled his cousin in his arms. He
wouldn't let Social Services take Matthew to an orphanage or a foster-home.
Arthur had lived in foster-care for a few years after his mother had
disappeared, before Aunt Madeline had found and taken him in. Arthur had only
been three-years-old then, but he remembered the filthy, crowded place. He
would not let them take Matthew to a place like that.
               "I won't let them take you away," he said. "I swear, I won't.
I'll make sure we stay together. We'll always be together, poppet. Just you and
I, okay? It's just  you and I now, but don't worry. I'll take care of you."
                Arthur was only seventeen-years-old. He kissed his cousin's
curly head and swore a solemn vow:
                "I'll do something—anything. I'll do whatever it takes to
protect us, I promise."
***** One *****
                                    ARTHUR
SEVEN YEARS LATER
And—CUT!" the director yelled.
                Arthur's face relaxed. He closed his mouth—his lips a perfect O
of orgasmic pleasure—and licked the saliva from his chin as he blinked feigned
tears from his eyelashes. It was exhausting pretending to fake it every time,
especially when his colleague's performance was less than satisfactory.
Oh,bloody-hell, he had thought, bored. The actor's uneven rhythm was jerky and
uncoordinated, culminating in very little... impact. Where do they find these
blokes anyway?
                "Oi—!" he called to the man. The actor turned around and
blinked at Arthur, blonde head cocked. He looked like a confused owl. No,owl is
being way too generous. Owls are very intelligent creatures. This one—Arthur
sighed in defeat—looks like he struggles to tie his shoelaces. He was a tall,
fit man who looked like he spent his free time at the gym. No doubt that's why
the director had hired him: good-looks and size were more important than skill.
"Come here," Arthur whistled at him, as if he were calling a dog. "Lend me a
hand, will you?"
                The actor eyed Arthur, whose wrists were handcuffed. "A whole
hand—? I think a few fingers is all you need." He wiggled his meaty fingers,
still sticky, and then laughed at his own joke.
                Arthur forced an amiable smile, then, once freed, muttered:
"Git."
                He towelled-off, dressed, and ran for the door before the
director could criticize his performance. Too late. "Lexus!" he yelled, cocking
his finger in a come-hither way. As a result, it was after midnight by the time
he finally left the studio. Lewd music harassed his ears as he climbed a metal
staircase, dragging his feet step-by-step until he reached the landing: a
blood-red door. How cliché. He pushed it open and walked into a hot, sweaty,
glittery scene. It was crowded. Patrons howled in appreciation of the half-
naked dancers on-stage. The lounge was a cacophony of fake moans and deep-
throated groans of pleasure, and the bar was a hive of loud, sticky, flirty,
drunken activity. Even so, Arthur had no trouble spotting Matthew behind the
counter. The violet-eyed blonde was easily the prettiest waiter the club
employed. He was also easily the youngest. All the others were retired
dancers—too old at thirty to be on-stage. Matthew should have been a dancer—he
was supposedto be a dancer; it's what he had been hired to do—but he couldn't
dance. Not to save his life could that boy dance. Arthur had had to beg the
club's owner to let him stay on as a bartender instead, arguing in the way of
tips.
                "Just look at him," Arthur had said, waving a hand in Matthew's
direction. "Tell me he wouldn't fetch a small fortune in tips."
                Mikkel Densen bobbed his head noncommittally, a pretty, pale
blonde perched on each knee. Despite him being the heir of a Scandinavian
business tycoon—and the heir of an infamous crime syndicate—spoiled rotten
since childhood, he had never cared about the money. Money was something that
he had always had, so he had no reason to think that he may not have it
someday. No, the Dane had always been more interested in the play than the
profit. And the proof was in the way he ignored Arthur in favour of his
lapdogs. Arthur had worked at Club 69 for six years, but he had never seen
either of the violet-eyed Nordics smile. He didn't even know their real names,
only their aliases—Jaguar and Porsche—but he did know that they weren't
employees like everyone else. They were special, hand-picked to stay at
Mikkel's side. They never left the fourth-floor without him, they never spoke
to anyone else, and no one—no one—was allowed to touch them. The Dane didn't
like others touching his things. Not that everyone at the club wasn't a piece
of Mikkel's property...
                And now Matthew will be one of them,too—one of us.
                "He's cute, sure," Mikkel acknowledged, glancing at Matthew,
"but a bartender? I don't know, he's not..."
                He trailed off when the Norwegian's pale lips touched his ear,
whispering. Arthur couldn't hear the Jaguar's words, but later he realized that
he owed Matthew's employment to him. Not that it merited thanks. Mikkel's mouth
twisted into a grin as the Norwegian spoke, like a boy discovering a new game.
Finally, he said:
                "Alright, I'll let the kid stay, but on one condition. I want
the equivalent of a dancer's tips from him—every night. I've got no use for a
pretty face that can't dance or make tips," he said mercilessly. "If he's not
worth his wages, he goes."
                Arthur glared at the Jaguar, who had rested his head on
Mikkel's shoulder. He may have looked like nothing but an accessory, but he
wasn't. His violet eyes were cold.
                Arthur knew a take-it-or-leave-it deal when he saw one.
                "Fine," he had agreed.
                So Matthew bartended and waited on tables. He wore the club's
revealing black uniform, and he walked with a sway to his hips, and he leant
down and bent over as often as needed, never complaining when he got grabbed or
groped, and he smiled and pretended to be flattered by the patrons, whom he was
secretly afraid of.
                "He's not a bad actor," Mikkel had said once, eyeing Arthur
suggestively. "If you know what I mean?"
                "Over my dead body," was Arthur's candid reply. The English-
born man would never let his cousin take a job downstairs.
                Arthur navigated the crowd, squeezing and ducking between
patrons. "Excuse me, please," he said politely, trying to reach the bar. But he
was rather slight and lightweight and he got pushed and shoved a lot. He tried
to elbow past the larger men, but despite his pleas nobody paid him any
attention.
                "Could I just—Oh! So sorry! May I please just—Ow!Blimey!" he
gasped, hopping inelegantly when someone trod on his foot. "Oh, for the bloody
love of God, the Queen, and holy fucking shit! MOVE!" he snapped aggressively,
shoving patrons aside. In one fluid motion, he vaulted over the countertop and
landed behind the bar.
                "Hey, Art," said Matthew. He was mixing a cocktail and didn't
even flinch. "How was it?" he asked discretely.
                "Bloody awful. I got lectured—again."
                "Couldn't fake it this time?" Matthew guessed. Mechanically he
slid the drink across the countertop and took the next order.
                "They don't pay me nearly enough," Arthur deadpanned in reply.
                Finally, Matthew looked at him. "Oh, Art, I'm so sorry," he
said, as if it was somehow his fault.
                Matthew was the only person in the world whose pity didn't make
the Englishman want to punch him square in the mouth. Despite the club's sultry
atmosphere and the waiter's revealing attire, Matthew somehow still managed to
look like innocence incarnate, as pure as a violet-eyed angel. Striking him
would have been like punching a puppy. The teenager was a tall, pale-skinned
beauty, but Arthur still saw a frightened child whenever he looked into those
luminous eyes. He still felt like the boy's protector, his older brother.
Matthew was the only family he had left, and the only person in the whole world
who actually cared about Arthur Kirkland—the mediocre porn actor.
                Matthew's apology made Arthur feel guilty. He hated feeling
guilty, so he cracked a joke as if he didn't care:
                "If they're going to pay me shite, the least they could do is
hire a bloke who knows what he's bloody doing. If he could just make me come,
at least it would be some consolation. I hate faking it. It's not even worth
the effort," he sighed, as if shrugging-off office misconduct.
                "Then quit." It was said quietly. Matthew's head was bowed, his
face hidden.
                "Matthew, we've talked about this. I can't quit."
                "You mean, you won't."
                Before Arthur could rebut, a loud voice called over the music
and Lovino leapt onto the countertop. "Hey!" yelled the dancer self-
importantly. He eyed the throng of patrons. "Which one of you rich fuckers
wants to buy me a drink? Make it a double and I'll give you a lap-dance for
half-price! Let me see. You—you'll do!" He pointed vaguely to a handsome
brunette, who was better dressed than most. (A former art student, Lovino had a
keen eye for fashion. Expensive suits equalled money equalled a huge tip in the
Italian's logic.) The brunette cordially paid for a double-shot and Matthew
fixed Lovino his preferred poison. "Grazie!" he called over-the-shoulder,
leading the patron away.
                Arthur rolled his eyes.
                "Don't let Lovino drink his paycheck," he warned Matthew. "He
still owes me his share for last month's rent."
                In Arthur's opinion, the worst decision he had ever made was
not fighting in school, or drinking underage, or experimenting with illegal
drugs, or accepting the submissive role in a porn film when he was only
eighteen-years-old, which had snowballed into his present career. No. The
biggest mistake he had made was letting spoiled, twenty-two-year-old Lovino
room with he and Matthew.
                "He's got nowhere else to go," Matthew had argued on Lovino's
behalf. "He can't go home, his boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—hits him. Please, Art?
Lovino's been so kind to me. He tried really, really hard to teach me to be a
dancer. I owe him for that. It'll only be for a little while, just until he can
find a new place to live, okay? Please?"
                Damn Matthew and his big puppy-dog eyes!
                "Fine," Arthur had growled. "He can stay. But just until he
finds somewhere else. And he'll help pay the rent. This isn't charity."
                That had been over a year ago. And Lovino hadn't left.
                "I'll see you at home," Arthur said to Matthew. "I need a
bloody shower. Be careful," he added, slipping a wad of banknotes into
Matthew's pocket. "Take a taxi. Don't let Lovino bully you into taking the bus,
it's not safe at night."
                "I know, I won't," Matthew promised. "Thanks, Art."
                "Cheers," said Arthur.
                He turned away and leapt back over the countertop, but it was
slippery with spillage and he lost his balance. He crashed into a patron
standing on the other side and they both fell to the filthy, sticky floor.
                "Oh, bloody-hell! I'm so very sorry!" Arthur panicked, looking
down at the man who had broken his fall. He wasn't a distinctly tall or broad
man; in fact, he and Arthur shared a lithe figure. He was young (twenty-
something), blonde, blue-eyed, and very well-groomed. He was only an inch or so
taller than Arthur, but much more elegant. He wore a stunningly expensive suit.
"Oh, bugger me!" Thoughtlessly, Arthur grabbed a handful of serviettes and
began wiping at the stains on the man's jacket.
                "It's a tempting offer, chéri, but I'm regrettably busy
tonight."
                Arthur's face heated in embarrassment—in secret fear. The
patrons of Club 69 were not the most forgiving of men, especially the self-
entitled playboys with nice clothes. Money equalled power in Arthur's world,
and people with power liked to flaunt it. Abuse it. People with too much power
were dangerous. "I'm sorry," he repeated earnestly. He had worked hard to keep
a low-profile for he and Matthew, never drawing unwanted attention to himself
off-screen. The last thing he wanted was trouble, especially from a Frenchman.
                "Is there anything I can do for you?" he offered.
                "Yes," said the Frenchman, smiling. "You can get off of me."
                "Oh, bugger—I mean, fuck."
                Hastily Arthur leapt to his feet and offered the chuckling 
young man a hand, which he took. His fingers were long and artistic.
                "Enchanté," he said, squeezing gently.
                "Uh, sure," Arthur frowned in reply.
                "You're bleeding," the Frenchman noted lazily, tapping his own
forearm in example.
                Arthur's fall had torn his shirtsleeve and cut his skin on the
counter's edge. "Oh, so I am," he acknowledged, feeling dazed. "Yes, right. Uh,
excuse me, please."
                He left quickly, before the Frenchman could demand compensation
for the dry-cleaning bill he was definitely due. He left before taking a close
look at the Frenchman's handsome, blue-eyed face and noticing the microphone
that had fallen out of his ear; before he could spot the firearm tucked
secretly inside his jacket. In fact, the flustered porn actor left the scene so
fast, afraid of retribution, that he didn't even register dropping his wallet
in the fall. Or that he had accidentally grabbed the wrong wallet when he left.
===============================================================================
                                    LOVINO
Lovino threw back the strong double-shot and licked his supple lips
seductively. "Alright, Green Eyes, let's do this," he said, pushing the patron
back into a vacant chair. He slid onto the man's lap, straddling his tapered
waist. The Italian could feel the tense muscles beneath the man's expensive
clothes. They rippled as he moved. He started slow, then his rhythm increased.
He had done this many times before. And it helped that this one was a good-
looking man. Like, a really good-looking man. He had glossy brown hair that
curled between Lovino's delicate fingers. It smelled really good. And his warm
hands felt good on Lovino's naked skin. His touch was teasingly gentle, not the
pawing, grabbing, groping of most overeager men. He simply held Lovino's narrow
hips as the dancer rocked fluidly back-and-forth.
                "Mm," Lovino moaned approvingly in the young man's ear. He
licked the earlobe and felt a small hole, once pierced. "You're a big boy,
aren't you?" he groaned throatily, grinding his hips against the man's pelvis.
He grinned a saucy grin. "Mm,yeah. Oh, you like that, don't you, baby?" He
leant in close, letting his wet lips linger inches from the man's shapely
mouth. "I bet you're a fucking firecracker, aren't you? Mm, a handsome stallion
like you. You want me to ride you, baby? Oh, yeah.I can feel it. You want me,
don't you?" Playfully, he nipped the man's nose. "You want me so badly, don't
you, Green Eyes?"
                The man's eyes twinkled playfully. He smiled—
                That's right, idiot. I want a big fat tip for this fucking
show.
                —and then he laughed.
                The young green-eyed man burst out laughing. His whole body
shuddered with the effort, stomach muscles rippling. He laughed so hard that
his eyes teared. A big, loud, stupid-sounding, genuinelaugh. He laughed and
didn't stop until Lovino slapped him across the face.
                "I-I—I'm sorry," the man gasped, red-cheeked but still
grinning. "I didn't mean to offend you, it's just, well... Does that really
work?"
                Perched on the man's lap, Lovino gaped at the Spaniard in
bafflement. "Excuse me?" he asked dangerously.
                "Those lines you're feeding me, that—that voice!" he snorted.
"Does anyone actually buy that act?"
                Lovino blinked. His temper flared.
                "Yes, actually, they do. And most are fucking grateful for it."
                Feeling affronted, he uncoiled himself and stood up. He was not
tall. In fact, he was the smallest dancer Club 69 employed, a naturally fine-
boned beauty. He had a dancer's figure. He was remarkably flexible, but not
strong. But as long as he was standing and the Spaniard was sitting, he was the
taller. He used the height to his advantage in an attempt to intimidate. He
glared down at the green-eyed man in ire and loosed his fiery temper without
precaution or restraint:
                "Just who do you think you are, you fucking jackass? You don't
like my performance? Then don't come to a fucking strip-club! Just how stupid
are you? You think you can just waltz your fine ass in here with your money and
your pretty face and make fun of me? You think I have nothing better to do than
ride your fucking boner all night, you asshole? Wrong! I don't have to waste my
time on ungrateful pricks like you! You want a treat, sweetheart? There's the
fucking door, Your Highness! You can just get the hell out and jerk yourself
off! You don't deserve any of this!" he yelled, gesturing at his half-naked
figure. "Fucking bastard!"
                The Spaniard stared in stunned silence for a moment. Then his
lips quivered, curled—
                "Don't you fucking dare," Lovino snarled in threat. Too late.
                —the Spaniard burst out laughing.
===============================================================================
                                    FRANCIS
Francis watched the scene from the bar. He smiled and shook his head. Quietly,
he said: "Toni just got bitch-slapped by a stripper."
                The microphone in his ear crackled softly, relaying Gilbert's
laughter. "That's fucking awesome!" he said.
                "It would be, yes," Francis agreed. He scanned the club's floor
and spotted several burly bouncers. "But he's drawing too much attention to
himself. He's going to get himself thrown out."
                "Because of one stripper?"
                "He's a very vocal stripper."
                "Mm,nice.
                "What's he wearing?" Gilbert added, at the same time a
bartender asked Francis: "What can I get for you?"
                Francis faced the pretty blonde, a flirtatious glint in his
eyes. "Nothing, chéri."
                "Nothing?" Gilbert gasped, pretending to be scandalized.
"Lucky,Toni. You guys get all the fun roles."
                "I'd love to disagree, my friend, but it's true," Francis said,
winking at the blonde as he left the bar. Slowly, he walked to the opposite
side of the stage to avoid staying in one place too long. He didn't make eye-
contact with anyone and he didn't get in anyone's way. He moved anonymously,
just another rich playboy in the crowd enjoying his night.
                Francis loved going undercover. It was his favourite thing
about being a detective in this rotten city. He loved the thrill and excitement
of playing a role; of dressing-up like a stage-actor. He loved the fake
personas he got to play. Tonight it was a rich playboy. Tomorrow, who knew? It
was fun. And he was good at it. Francis and Antonio were the two who always got
chosen for undercover missions because of their versatility. They could look
like, sound like, or act like anyone. They could be anyone. It was a gift that
Gilbert secretly envied.
                "Ask the Chief if you can join us tomorrow night," Francis
suggested half-heartedly.
                "Can't," came the expected reply. "I'm too recognizable. I
can't disappear in a crowd like you and Toni can. I'm just too damn memorable,"
said Gilbert good-humouredly.
                Francis felt bad for Gilbert's albinism, which limited him to
playing shadow-games. He was never allowed to show his face in the field
because he was much too recognizable. It was a pity—but Francis would not pity
his red-eyed partner. It was not something that Gilbert wanted or appreciated.
Instead, the German-born honed other skills and was the most physically fit and
stunningly accurate shot on the force. He was a sharpshooter. Contrary to the
norm, Gilbert's eyesight was exceptionally keen, which made him an excellent
marksman. He was also the most experienced in reconnaissance missions, which
was something of a specialty of his. Just then, he was perched on a rooftop
across the street from Club 69, keeping a watch for danger and potential
targets. The reason that Francis and Antonio felt so confident waltzing into
the enemy's belly was because they knew that Gilbert was guarding them.
                "Hey,someone's leaving through a side-door," Gilbert reported.
                "A patron?" Francis asked.
                "No,looks like an employee. A stripper,maybe?"
                Quickly, Francis surveyed the stage. Except for the irate
Italian, all of the dancers were accounted for. "No, I don't think so. Describe
him."
                "Average-height. Skinny. Blonde. Ugly tartan overcoat. He's
walking fast,heading to the road."
                "I know who you're talking about," Francis replied, thinking of
the young green-eyed blonde who had tackled him. "He's not a dancer or waiter,
but he's employed here. I'm sure of it. He arrived late and left early. He went
behind the bar and spoke to one of the bartenders for a while, then slipped
something into the boy's pocket. It was discrete. I almost missed it."
                "Drug-dealer?"
                "I don't know."
                "Can you talk to the bartender?"
                Francis glanced at the bar. It was hectic. "No, not without
being suspicious. But if he leaves the bar, I'll follow him. I saw him waiting
tables earlier. If I get the chance, I'll pickpocket him."
                "He a cutie?Worth copping-a-feel—?"
                Francis rolled his eyes. "Always the gentleman, Gil."
                "I try."
                "Don't you fucking dare," said the Italian suddenly. Then
Antonio burst out laughing—again.
                "Oh, fuck," said Francis flatly. "I think Toni just crossed the
line with that stripper. He's going to get himself kicked-out any minute now.
Oh, wait. Maybe... Nope. He's done for. Here comes the bouncer, and... there
goes Toni."
                "Uh,guys—?" said Antonio's giddy voice in Francis' ear. He
snorted, as if he were the punch-line of a genius joke. "I'm being escorted
out.See you soon,Gil."
                Francis watched from a high-vantage as Antonio was led by an
imposing half-giant to the exit. Before he left, he lifted his hand and waved
jauntily over-the-shoulder. Francis chuckled.
===============================================================================
                                    ANTONIO
You're useless," said Gilbert in greeting. He shifted sideways, making room for
Antonio on his sliver of rooftop. A jet-black rifle was set cozily beside the
German, like a favoured pet.
                Antonio tugged his tie loose as he sat down. He shivered. It
was cold hard concert and Gilbert's blanket did little to alleviate the
discomfort. Not that the German seemed to mind. Even as he spoke, Gilbert's red
gaze never wandered from the street below. He looks like a gargoyle, Antonio
thought. Whereas he and Francis got to wear expensive, tailor-made suits
intended to impress, Gilbert wore simple black street-clothes for camouflage in
the dark. In the streetlight's weak glow, he looked younger than his twenty-
seven years. The hood pulled overhead made him look the part of an assassin.
What a cool job! Antonio thought, admiring his friend's skill.
                He, himself, was not the strongest or fastest member on the
force (not consciously, anyway), and maybe he didn't have the best combat
record either. Maybe—maybe he had a bit of a bad history. Just a couple of
instances. Just a couple times when he had gotten a little carried away. A
little overzealous. A little out-of-hand. A little... crazy.
                Francis jokingly called it Antonio's Berserker. But even though
it sounded badass, Antonio hated it. He was afraid of it. It was a brutal
affliction that he couldn't control. He had tried to discipline his mind and
body to prevent it, but it was useless. The Berserker was fueled by an
overwhelming rage that could not be explained or suppressed. Fortunately, it
had become a rare thing since his extremely unstable teenage years. It didn't
happen often anymore, but when it did it was usually unprovoked and left the
twenty-seven-year-old feeling lost and confused afterward. The smallest thing
could set him off and then there was no stopping him until the Berserker had
run its course. Gilbert had tried to stop it once and had ended up with broken
bones. Antonio still felt bad about that. The Spaniard became a madman who
couldn't distinguish between friend and foe. In a fight, he became like a feral
beast. It had gotten him into a lot of trouble in the past, and learning to
control it had been his only reason for finally joining the force. (How else
was he going to get access to restricted drugs?)
                "Toni—?"
                Gilbert's voice interrupted Antonio's bleak thoughts.
                "Is it true you got bitch-slapped by a stripper?"
                A sly grin reshaped Antonio's lips. "Yes," he confirmed. In
proof, he tapped his abused red cheek. "And it was totally worth it."
                "You're so weird," said Gilbert. "And maybe a masochist."
                Antonio shrugged. "He was too cute not to provoke. I like hot-
tempered boys like him."
                "I know you do. I don't know why you do," Gilbert shook his
silvery head, "but, whatever. You're Spanish," he said, as if that explained
it.
                "And he's Italian. A hot Italian, with a hot Italian accent,
and a hot Italian temper," Antonio purred.
                "Oh, yeah? On a scale from one to ten—?"
                "Eleven! No—twelve!"
                "I'd give him a generous seven-point-five," came Francis'
voice.
                Antonio frowned, as if the Frenchman had served him a personal
insult. "Rude," he said dejectedly.
                "Oh,he's certainly a beauty!" Francis acknowledged in
appeasement. "But his personality leaves something to be desired."
                "Hey, you grope that bartender yet?" Gilbert asked as a quick
change-of-topic. Francis and Antonio had quite different tastes in lovers and
argued about it so often—and so unabashedly—it made Gilbert dizzy.
                "No, I haven't had the chance. He's been stuck behind the bar."
                "What bartender?" Antonio asked curiously, feigned-insult
forgotten.
                "The cute blonde," Francis described. "The really young one.He
can't be older than nineteen, twenty?He's got exquisite curls,like mine."
                "I have no idea who you're talking about."
                "Really? Oh,come on,Toni,you're a cop. You're supposed to be
observant. He's been there the whole time!"
                "Has he?" Antonio exchanged a look with Gilbert, who shrugged
unhelpfully. "Hmm, well I didn't notice him. I guess he's just not that
memorable."
===============================================================================
                                    MATTHEW
It was late, nearly half-two in the morning, nearly closing-time, and Matthew
was tired. He stifled a yawn. He wanted a scalding-hot shower, his extra-large
hoodie, his fluffy bed, and sleep. Lots of sleep. He wanted to burrow beneath
his thick, snow-white duvet and sleep until spring like a hibernating beast. No
work, no bills, no slutty uniform, no angry, horny, drunken patrons, no measly
paycheck, no Club 69. He wanted to curl-up beside Arthur and escape to a dream-
world where cold, hungry, sleepless nights didn't exist. Instead, he smiled at
the patrons, who secretly disgusted him, and tried to lose himself in a
daydream as he prepared the bar for closing.
                He was collecting empty glasses from a table when someone
stumbled into him. A hand groped his backside before retreating.
                "Oh, how clumsy of me! Apologies, chéri!"
                Matthew considered the handsome Frenchman, who's cheeks were
flushed with drink. "That's okay, just be careful," he said, paying the patron
a fleeting smile.
                "Matt!" Lovino yelled. On-stage, his cinnamon skin glistened
with beads of sparkly sweat and his chocolate-brown hair shone like a
stallion's shiny coat. The harshness of the overhead stage lights should have
made him appear meek, but instead the faux gold accentuated the Italian's
flawless beauty and likened him to the image of a Roman god. Despite his small
stature, Lovino did not lack stage-presence. If it weren't for his temper, he
would have been the most popular dancer at Club 69.
                Matthew strode to the stage and habitually took the banknotes
that Lovino handed to him: the dancer's tips.
                (At the end of the night, the employees tallied their tips and
the money was distributed accordingly amongst them all—except for Matthew—with
Mikkel taking the majority portion. Lovino's handful for tonight was pitiful.
After the scene with the cocky Spaniard, few patrons had wanted the hotheaded
dancer's attention, and even fewer had requested him. Despite Lovino's good-
looks, his catlike eyes blazed a subconscious warning to the club's patrons
that said look but don't touch, which wasn't ideal for making money.)
                "Fuck! If it hadn't been for that fucking Spanish bastard..."
he began, but trailed moodily off. Lovino wasn't in the habit of lying to
himself. Every angry outburst cost him in tips and tonight had been no
different. In fact, it had been worse. "I'll be out as soon as I get this
fucking glitter off me," he said, gesturing backstage.
                Matthew finished cleaning the floor while he waited for Lovino.
The club was empty of patrons now. The last had been escorted out by the
bouncers, including the blue-eyed Frenchman. When Lovino finally emerged, he
looked relatively mute compared to his loud stage-costume. He still had silver
glitter in his eyelashes, but Matthew chose not to acknowledge it. Together,
they donned their winter coats—it was cold for November—and left the club via
the side-door. It opened into a narrow alley, which Club 69 shared with a
tanning salon next-door. Lovino shivered in the wind and headed for the street,
but Matthew stopped him.
                "Art gave me money for a taxi," he said.
                "Oh, good. I hate taking the fucking bus."
                "Me too, it's so—" Matthew froze in sudden dread. His back-
pocket was empty. "Uh, one sec. I thought he put it—" Frantically, he searched
his coat pockets. "Oh, shit!"
                "What?"
                "Oh, shit!" Matthew repeated. "Art gave me fifty in cash and I
lost it!"
                "Wha—? Are you sure? That's a lot of money, Matt! That's our
ride home!" Lovino chastised.
                "I know, I'm sorry! I—"
                "Maybe you left it inside? Maybe you mistook it for tips and
handed it in—?"
                But Matthew shook his head. The money that Arthur gave him was
their secret. He had to hide it or he risked losing it.
                Lovino heaved a deep, defeated sigh. "I'll go get change for
the bus," he said, heading back into the club. "You wait here. I'll be right
back."
                Matthew sighed and leant against a cold brick wall. He closed
his eyes. So much for showing Art that I can take care of myself, he thought,
depressed. He was old enough, after all, yet Arthur still treated him like a
frightened child. It's because I've never given him a reason not to. Arthur had
been protecting Matthew for as long as he could remember, and he would continue
to do so as long as Matthew needed him. The only reason Arthur had chosen a
life of endless degradation making smutty adult-films was because it paid for
Matthew's rent, food, clothes. It provided the income they lived off of.
Matthew's meager wages didn't even come close to affording what Arthur's could
(which was pitiful, really). It's all my fault, Matthew had thought when Arthur
had taken his first job at eighteen-years-old. Matthew had only been eleven
then, and they had just been evicted from his mother's house; the house by the
railroad tracks that he and Arthur had grown-up in. Matthew was just starting
middle-school. Arthur had already dropped-out of high-school, but he had
refused to let Matthew do the same. "Don't worry, poppet. I'll take care of it.
You just focus on your studies," he had said. My studies,pft. It was impossible
to study when you were tired and hungry and worried that one day your cousin
might not come home. Matthew had been young and scared when his mother had
died. He hadn't known what to do. He had never known what to do.
                Why am I so useless? he thought, letting the cold wind chill
him. He was so tired.
                "Hey, look here," said a deep voice.
                Matthew's eyes shot open in surprise. A half-circle of big
shapes surrounded him. Oh,fuck.
                "Aren't you a pretty thing? But you look cold." The man's
bloodshot eyes lingered on Matthew's exposed legs. "You work here, doll?" He
cocked his greasy head at Club 69. "I bet you made a killing in tips tonight,
huh, baby? Such a pretty thing like you. I bet you'd love to share, wouldn't
you—"
                Matthew slapped at his hand. "Get away from me!" he snapped,
voice shaking. "I-I—I don't have anything."
                "Nothing—? Oh, come on now, baby." Suddenly, the man grabbed
Matthew's biceps and squeezed him hard. He leant in close. "A beauty like you?
You must have something. Money? Or, sparkly gifts from admirers?"
                "I-I—I don't," Matthew insisted, pressed flat against the wall.
"I really don't. Please leave me alone."
                As the men descended on him, jostling and groping and bruising
him in their search for valuables, Matthew wished that he did have
something—anything—to offer them, if only to make them stop. One of the club's
ex-dancer's had told him once that the worst time to get robbed was when you
had nothing worth robbing. It angered the robbers. In proof, the men spit
vicious remarks in disappointment, talking with their fists. Matthew endured a
few frustrated blows before a fist struck his stomach hard and he buckled. His
knees hit the pavement and he gasped.
                This, he thought, is my punishment for having no money.
                "Let's go," one man suggested, "he's got nothing worth taking."
                Yes,go!Please,just go!
                But the leader wasn't ready to surrender. He was a negotiator.
He said: "I wouldn't say nothing." Roughly, he grabbed Matthew by the curls and
forced his head up. "I don't like wasting my time," he sneered, as if Matthew's
lack of valuables was the man's inconvenience. "So," one-handed, he unzipped
his fly, "you're going to make it worth it."
                Matthew squeezed his eyes shut as the man yanked his head
forward. But that's as far as he got.
                A grunt, then a shriek sounded. There was a crunch, like bones
breaking. Matthew's eyes flew open in shock. His captor whipped around just in
time to get violently struck. He cried-out as he hit the
pavement.               He tried to regain his feet, but a kick crashed into
his back, forcing him down. Instead, the man crawled on his hands-and-knees. He
spit profanities as he stumbled, racing after his retreating fellows. It
happened fast. One minute Matthew was surrounded. The next he was sitting alone
on the ground.
                His rescuer was a very tall, lean man dressed in black from
head-to-toe. A big cowl-like hood hid his face, but the streetlight illuminated
his pearl-white lips, lifted in a rueful grin.
                "You okay?" he asked in a low, growly voice. He extended his
hand.
                "Yes," said Matthew meekly.
                "Good."
                Effortlessly he pulled Matthew to his feet, then broke contact
and turned away.
                It took the teenager a moment to find his voice. "Uh, thank-
you!" he called to his quickly retreating rescuer.
                He received a haft-hearted, over-the-shoulder wave in reply.
                As soon as the mysterious man rounded the corner and
disappeared, swallowed by the night, the club's side-door opened and Lovino
stepped out. "That took a long fucking time," he complained, miffed. He began
walking to the bus stop, shoulders hunched against the cold, but stopped when
he realized that Matthew wasn't following. "Hey," he said impatiently, "I got
change for the bus, let's go. It's fucking freezing out here!"
===============================================================================
                                    GILBERT
Gilbert hated bullies. A lot. He always had.
                He was climbing down from the rooftop, lugging his duffle-bag,
hiding his sniper-rifle, when he saw the men. The gangly group ducked into an
alley to avoid attracting unwanted attention, intending to drink or shoot-up—it
was anyone's guess—when they saw the boy. He was waiting for his co-worker to
return and looked like a victim, a young blonde with curly hair. Francis'
bartender. The maybe-drug addict. (Let no one say that Detective Beilschmidt
didn't pay attention.) Gilbert hoped the group would just keep walking, but
they didn't. They stopped, intending robbery. He was going to walk away. He was
a sharpshooter who worked in the shadows, and he was under strict orders not to
get involved with anyone unnecessarily. He was not allowed to show his face.
They'll take his money and then move on, he knew. Except they didn't, because
the boy had nothing to take. What kind of bartender has no tips after a whole
night of working? Whatever. He's not my problem. He's not my job. Let the on-
call police deal with it. It's not like the boy was trying to fight. He looked
too spooked. Soon the men would get bored of him and leave.
                Gilbert slung his duffle-bag over his shoulder and started
walking away. Then he heard:
                "I don't like wasting my time. You're going to make it worth
it."
                "Fuck," the German cursed. So close.
                He adjusted his hood, pulling it further down, and turned back.
                It was finished fast, as expected. Gilbert was a born-and-bred
fighter. He had been training at hand-to-hand combat since he was a child, not
including all of the time he had spent play-fighting with his brother. He had
been a boxer and a track-runner in high-school, and was the
best—undefeated—fighter on the force (sans the Berserker). As such, it took the
German all of five seconds to frighten off the robbers. It was hardly a
workout. Then he looked down at the frightened boy.
                "You okay?" he asked.
                The boy's eyes were big and violet. Gilbert had never seen
violet eyes before. Hmm,pretty, he thought. Those eyelashes go on for miles.
                "Yes," he said softly.
                Gilbert's heart skipped a beat. The feeling took him completely
off-guard. He didn't like it.
                "Good," he said gruffly. He offered the boy a hand and then
pulled him to his feet. The boy nearly flew. Fuck,he weighs,like,nothing at
all. Quickly, he let go.
                "Uh, thank-you!" the boy called as Gilbert walked away.
                He waved over-the-shoulder in farewell. Get home safely, he
thought, fighting the urge to stalk him home.
                He met his partners in the park a few blocks away. Francis was
pacing lazily back-and-forth while inspecting the cleanliness of his suit, and
Antonio was sitting on the dry fountain's edge, legs splayed, eating a burrito.
                "You've got salsa on your face," Gilbert said.
                Antonio grinned. "I got hungry."
                "And Del Taco was the only thing open at three am?"
                "What?" The Spaniard shrugged in self-defense. "I like
Mexican."
                "You sure you wouldn't rather be feasting on Italian?" Francis
teased.
                Antonio grinned, lips salsa-red. "Well, I didn't see Italian on
the menu. But if I had..." He clucked his tongue twice and purred suggestively.
                Francis rolled his eyes and handed Antonio a handkerchief.
"You're so odd," he said affectionately.
                "Said the man with a silk handkerchief," Gilbert interjected.
"What are you, a magician?"
                Francis cocked an ash-blonde eyebrow. "Why so late, Gil?" he
changed the topic. "You're usually the first one to arrive at the meeting
spot."
                "I got held up. I was being an awesome knight-in-shining-
armour, no big deal." Gilbert smirked arrogantly.
                "You look more like a vigilante," Antonio said through a
mouthful of burrito.
                Gilbert and Francis paused to exchange a mischievous look, and
then leapt at the Spaniard in a synchronized attack. Francis pulled Antonio
into a headlock; Gilbert stole the half-eaten burrito and shoved the remainder
sloppily into his mouth. The intense spice made his eyes water—he hated spicy
food—but it was worth it to see the Spaniard's crestfallen face.
                "No,my burrito!" Antonio cried in mock-distress.
                Francis laughed benignly and ruffled his partner's dark hair.
"Come on, let's go. It's already late. And I've still got some research to do,"
he added ambiguously.
                Gilbert conceded. He slung his heavy duffle-bag over-the-
shoulder and followed his partners uptown.
***** Two *****
                                    ARTHUR
Arthur's eyes opened and glared at the abrasive sunlight. One day he or Matthew
was going to remember to close the drapes before bed, but he could be peeved
about that later. Just then, someone was banging loudly on the flat's door. Who
the fuck—the Englishman swiped at the alarm clock, annoyed about the hour—is
calling in at the crack of bloody noon? He crawled out of bed, tossing the
duvet back atop Matthew, who groaned and buried his disheveled head. "Bugger,"
Arthur muttered as his bare feet touched the cold floor. He stumbled out of the
bedroom and into the kitchen, using the counter as a guide to the door. The
place that they rented was an old two-bedroom flat. It had a small lounge that
opened into an even smaller kitchen, and only two windows—one in Arthur's
bedroom; one in the main room—no balcony, peeling, cigarette-yellowed
wallpaper, and a broken radiator that hummed. It was too cold in the winter and
too hot in the summer. The building itself was dirty and located in a bad part
of town, but the rent was cheap.
                Arthur reached the heavy door, yanked the chain off, threw it
open, and snapped: "Yes?"
                "Bonjour," said the blue-eyed Frenchman cheerfully.
                Arthur stared at him, mouth agape. The mistaken ID badge
suddenly flashed before his eyes.
                Detective Francis Bonnefoi. It was a police badge. When Arthur
had first realized what he was holding, he had experienced an array of unwanted
feelings, shock being a forerunner; panic, a close second.
                "Oh, shit! Oh, fucking shit!" He had dropped the badge and
leapt back as if it was on fire. In retrospect, he was glad that Matthew and
Lovino hadn't been there to witness his blunder. "He was a bloody police
detective? Are you fucking kidding me?" The Frenchman whom he had accidentally
tackled—tackled, straddled, and inadvertently groped—had been an undercover
officer of the law. "Oh, holy fucking shit!"
                Oh,holy fucking shit, he thought now, face-to-face with the
blue-eyed detective.
                The blue-eyed detective who was standing right in front of him
in the dingy hallway, mere inches from the flat's threshold, where Arthur
Kirkland, the illegal porn actor, lived.
                When Arthur failed to speak, the Frenchman took liberties:
                "Cute pyjamas," he said, indicating the Englishman's flannel
bottoms, which were covered in a print of mint-coloured bunnies.
                Arthur went bright scarlet, flushed from his cheeks to his
navel, suddenly very aware that he wasn't wearing a shirt. He crossed his arms
over his bare chest and tried hard to look impertinent, but he ended up looking
cold. "Can I help you?" he said, injecting as much venom into his tone as
possible.
                In reply, the Frenchman produced Arthur's wallet from his
pocket and held it up. "Trade you?" he said, and extended his free hand.
                Arthur eyed him suspiciously for a moment and then wordlessly
retreated to fetch the detective's badge. The Frenchman—gentleman that he
was—waited patiently in the open doorway.
                "Here," Arthur said, returning with the badge (and a cardigan).
                The Frenchman took the badge and Arthur's hand. His skin was
smooth and warm. "Thank-you," he smiled, squeezing gently. "I'm Francis
Bonnefoi, by the way."
                Arthur tensed. "The copper, I know."
                "Is that all you remember about me?"
                Because he thought that saying I remember the feeling of your
groin pressed up against me was, perhaps, a trifle too risqué for small-talk
between two strangers in a dingy hallway, Arthur said:
                "Yes, that's all."
                Just then, a sleepy voice interrupted:
                "Art—?"
                In the lounge, sprinkled in floating gold dust-motes, grumpy
and sleep-deprived, stood Matthew and Lovino.
                Matthew: pale-blonde curls in bouncy disarray, bleary-eyed, and
wearing a giant hoodie and a pair of tartan pyjama-shorts, which left his long
legs on display.
                Lovino: gravity-defying chocolate hair sticking straight up,
scowling as he rubbed sleep from his eyes, and undressed in nothing but a pair
of poppy-red boxer-shorts. The Italian shivered, but he refused to wear clothes
to bed. It wasn't comfortable, he said.
                "Who the fuck is at the door?" Lovino growled. "It's not even
noon!"
                "Uh..." Arthur did a quick calculation and then pushed Francis
into the hallway in secrecy. "Never-mind, just go back to bed!" he called over-
the-shoulder, following the Frenchman out. As he closed the door behind him, he
saw his roommates' confused faces.
                "Boyfriend?" Francis asked curiously.
                "Cousin and, uh... my roommate," Arthur replied, because he
thought calling Lovino a dirty freeloader was too harsh.
                "The blonde—?" Francis inquired.
                "Matthew," Arthur supplied.
                Francis produced a handful of banknotes from his breast-pocket
and gave it to Arthur. "I'm afraid I own him an apology. I am sorry about that,
but I had to run the serial numbers,  you understand."
                "I didn't steal it," Arthur said, insulted by Francis'
assumption. "I earned that money, thank-you very much."
                "Doing what, if I may ask?"
                "I—" Arthur's green eyes narrowed. "No, you may not ask. In
fact, I think that you should leave, Detective."
                Francis' lips curled into a sanguine grin. "I like the way you
say that. Detective," he repeated.
                For the record, Arthur did not think his voice had sounded half
as husky.
                "I'll go," Francis added, noting the Englishman's annoyance.
"But before I do, I need you to promise me that you won't reveal my identity to
anyone at Club 69."
                Arthur eyed Francis skeptically. "Oh?" He cocked his hip, arms
crossed in an arrogant fashion. He smelled a profit. "And just how much is my
silence worth exactly?"
                "Your job, for starters," Francis replied smoothly.
                Arthur frowned. Then his green eyes widened.
                Francis' smile morphed into a devilish grin. "Yes, I know who
you are. Granted, it did take a bit of hunting on my part. You're not exactly a
porn star, are you, Arthur Kirkland? Or, should I call youLexus? Frankly, I
thought that a three-star rating for your last performance was really quite
generous."
                Arthur scowled. "You watched a video of me?" he said in alarm.
                "Several, actually." Francis shrugged. "I'm a detective. It was
research. As a third-party consumer, however, can I make a small suggestion?
You really shouldn't talk on-screen. Let your body do the talking, because your
English mouth could be much better occupied."
                "Get out!" Arthur snapped, pointing at the stairwell. "Get out
of here, you—you—pervert!"
                "Yes, yes, I'll go," Francis promised, reversing a step. "Just
as soon as I have your word that you won't tell a soul who I really am. Not
your employer, not even your roommates. Otherwise—" Arthur threw a fist, which
Francis caught. He squeezed it hard and Arthur flinched, surprised by the
strength, "—I'll have you charged for all those very illegal films you star in,
chéri, and you can kiss your paycheck goodbye."
                "That's blackmail!" Arthur spat, struggling. "What kind of
bloody copper are you?"
                "The kind who watches illegal porn in his free time," Francis
countered. Arthur glared blackly at him. "So," said the Frenchman, leaning in
deviously, "do we have a deal?"
===============================================================================
                                    MATTHEW
 Who was that?" asked Matthew when Arthur re-entered. He was brewing coffee at
the counter, indulging in the heat and caffeinated scent of the steam. "Art—?"
                "Nobody, just some git," Arthur grumbled as he locked and
chained the door.
                Not one to interrogate, Matthew left it alone as Arthur slid
onto a barstool and rested his head sleepily on his folded arms. It was quiet.
The coffee-maker drizzled; the clock ticked; the shower ran, and Matthew could
hear Lovino singing to himself in Italian because he thought they couldn't hear
him. Just another typical morning—uh,afternoon, he thought, feeling a touch
pathetic as he retrieved two mugs from the overhead cupboard. He poured a
sugary coffee for himself, and steeped a tea for Arthur. They drank in silence,
so used to the other's companionship that it had long ago become routine.
Arthur worked at the newspaper's crossword puzzle while Matthew tried to
fashion lunch out of leftover take-away.
                "Oi, Matthew," Arthur said after a while. He sounded
contemplative as he tapped a pencil against his temple. "Do you remember seeing
a Frenchman at the club last night?"
                "You mean the drop-dead gorgeous one in the grey suit?" Matthew
asked rhetorically. He threw a grin over-the-shoulder. "Yes, I vaguely recall
him, Art."
                "Uh, yes, whatever. I wasn't paying very close attention.
Though he was rather... you know." Arthur gestured noncommittally. "I suppose
he was conventionally attractive, perhaps... if you like blue eyes..."
                Matthew cocked a pale eyebrow. "Art, I've known you all my
life. I know that you have a weakness for blue eyes, and that Frenchman had the
most beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen."
                "Fine, whatever," Arthur dismissed. "That's not the point."
                "Then what's the point?"
                "He's a twat."
                "You have this on good authority, do you?"
                "Don't sass me," Arthur scolded in annoyance. "I happen to know
for a fact that he—Cheers," he interjected when Matthew placed a plate of
reheated Chinese food in front of him. "Uh—yes, know for a fact that he's big
trouble. I'm telling you because I want you to stay away from him."
                Matthew covered his mouth, chewing eggroll. "What if he comes
back to the club?" he asked, his mouth full.
                "Serve him, but don't talk to him."
                Matthew swallowed. He regarded his brooding cousin curiously.
Since when does Art have secret vendettas against perfect strangers? he
wondered. It seemed shallow. Then again, the rich, blue-eyed patron was a
Frenchman, which was crime enough in Arthur's prejudiced mind. Whatever,it's
not like I get to keep my tips anyway. "Okay," he promised, and received a
satisfied head-bob in reply.
                It was then that Lovino stalked into the room. "Okay, which one
of you cheap bastards took my moisturizer? It's expensive!" he exploded when
neither confessed.
                "If it's so expensive, stop buying it," Arthur argued. "It's
not like you're raking in a six-figure salary, poppet."
                "Oh, puh-lease! I'm getting heat from the fucking porn star?
This," Lovino gestured to his wet, towel-covered body, "is the money-maker,
Sherlock. Nobody wants to grope a stripper whose skin feels like fucking
sandpaper!"
                "I'll give you back your bloody moisturizer when you return my
concealer!" Arthur snapped.
                Lovino scoffed. "I don't have your fucking concealer." He said
it like Arthur was the densest person on earth. "Besides the fact that I don't
have stupid freckles to hide, I have a completely different skin-tone than you
do. Why the fuck would I take your cosmetics? God, Matt's skin is closer in
colour to yours than mine is."
                Arthur opened his mouth to retaliate, then closed it. He turned
and looked at Matthew, who quickly avoided his cousin's inquisitive gaze.
"Matthew?" he asked suspiciously.
                Matthew tried to escape into the bedroom, pretending he hadn't
heard, but Arthur grabbed his forearm.
                "What the hell—" he said, pushing back Matthew's messy fringe
to reveal a bruise, "—is that?"
                "Nothing," Matthew replied, squirming uncomfortably. "I'm
fine—Ouch!" In accident, Arthur hit Matthew's ribs and the boy hissed through
his teeth.
                Arthur's green eyes widened. Uninvited, he grabbed the hem of
Matthew's hoodie and yanked it up, revealing his torso, which was a canvas of
tender purple bruises.
                Lovino swore in Italian.
                Arthur gaped. "Bloody-hell, are you okay? Is anything broken?
Who did this to you?" he demanded.
                Lovino said: "Seriously, Matt, what the fuck?"
                "I said it was nothing!" Matthew snapped, pulling himself free.
"Look, I'm sorry I took your concealer, Art. I just need it for tonight. I'll
replace it, I promise."
                That said, he retreated into the bedroom, closed the door, and
crawled miserably—achingly—back into bed.
===============================================================================
                                    GILBERT
I have a brilliant idea!" said Francis, blowing into the office like a
whirlwind.
                Gilbert kicked Antonio's desk-chair and the Spaniard bolted
upright, feigning wakefulness. "Franny's got an idea in his head," Gilbert
drawled, bored. He was spinning in circles in his wheeled desk-chair.
                "Sup—?" Antonio blinked, rubbing his sleepy eyes. His shirt was
wrinkled and his tie was flung haphazardly over his shoulder.
                "Are you just getting back now?" Gilbert asked, eyeing Francis
like a—well, like a detective. "Where the fuck were you?"
                "I was at Arthur's."
                "Arthur—?" Gilbert glanced at Antonio, who shrugged. "New boy-
toy?"
                "No, new lead," Francis said. His word-choice grabbed his
partners' interest. Both of them suddenly perked-up like two hunting-dogs on a
scent. Francis was pleased. He slid onto Gilbert's perfectly ordered desk (as
opposed to Antonio's catastrophe) and cocked  his index-finger suggestively.
His partners rolled their chairs closer. Gilbert kicked his legs over Francis'
lap; Antonio sat on his chair backwards, laying his chin on the backrest. Then
they waited for the Frenchman to discard the theatrics and talk plainly.
                "Arthur is the man from Club 69, the one who left early."
                "How do you know? Did you stalk him?" Gilbert asked.
                "Not exactly." A fleeting look of guilt momentarily crossed
Francis' face, but Gilbert blinked and it was gone. "Do you guys remember the
blonde bartender and the stripper who slapped Toni?" he asked excitedly. "Okay,
good. Because as it turns out, they live with Arthur!"
                "No!" Gilbert gasped in mock-surprise. "Oh! Unknowable
universe!"
                Antonio snickered. Francis rolled his eyes.
                "So they live together, so what? It's not uncommon in their
profession," Gilbert added, rapidly losing interest in Francis' new lead. "Who
cares?"
                "Well, you will. Or, you should—because we're going to take
them out."
                Gilbert cocked a silver eyebrow.
                Antonio very eloquently said: "Huh?"
                "Okay, let me explain," said Francis, giving Gilbert's calve a
friendly pat. "We're not getting anywhere on this case, right? We've hit a
wall. We've done everything we can from the outside, which is why we're working
undercover in the first place. So, what better way to dig deeper into Club 69
than by interrogating a couple of the employees? It'll be work," he added,
eyeing Gilbert specifically. Gilbert loved work. (Or, maybe obsessed was a
better word. Or, maybe he just didn't have a real life.) "It's perfect,"
Francis continued proudly. "There are three of them, there are three of us.
Now, I know Maths isn't my strongest subject, but I'm pretty sure three plus
three equals a triple-date. Oh, come on! We need them for the case! And who
knows? Maybe—just maybe," he lowered his voice seductively, "they need us,
too."
                "You want us to date a couple of strippers? Oh! High-school
fantasies really do come true!" Gilbert mocked.
                "It'll be fun," Francis promised. "And informative. Toni, you
want to take Lovino out, don't you? Lovino—the Italian," he clarified.
                Antonio's green eyes brightened like neon lights and his head
shot up. "Oh, hell yes!"
                Francis smirked. "And Gil—? You'll take Mathieu out, right?
The—"
                "Bartender, yeah, I puzzled that out."
                Instantly, Gilbert pictured the bartender in his mind.
Matthew.It was an uninvited picture, but, once there, not unwanted. The boy was
a beauty, no doubt about it. But what if he recognizes me? Gilbert hadn't told
either of his partners whom he had rescued the night before, only that he
playfully claimed to be a shining knight ("vigilante," Antonio mumbled). To be
honest, neither of them had been interested. Gilbert had dozens of stories like
such—some true, more imagined. He was arrogant and he liked to impress. He
liked to role-play the white knight, since it was the only acting he got to do.
Gilbert Beilschmidt was a shadow. He wasn't meant to be seen, especially not in
association with this particular case.
                If Matthew recognizes me,it could blow-open the whole
operation. If I go,then I'm putting Fran and Toni at risk. I have to tell them,
he realized, ashamed of his unprofessionalism. And yet—
                If I tell them,they'll be obliged to tell the Chief. There's a
chance he'll reassign me. And Franny will choose someone else to date Matthew.
                That last one shouldn't have been a factor.
                "Please, Gil?" Francis asked, noting the German's hesitance. He
pouted sadly. "Honestly, he's really cute. Right, Toni?"
                Antonio shrugged. "Yeah... I kind of still have no idea who
you're talking about."
                Francis nodded. "Thanks, Toni," he said sarcastically. "Gil?
Gil—? Gil, please?"
                Gilbert sighed. "Oh, stop moaning my name, Fran."
                "If you don't agree to date the bartender, I'll moan louder,"
Francis threatened.
                Gilbert merely stared at him. He and Francis did this often,
had staring-contests that challenged the other to back down first. Gilbert was
good at it. He had an intense, defeating gaze. Francis knew this, which is why
the crafty Frenchman suddenly took a big, deep breath, threw his head back
wantonly, opened his mouth wide, and—
                "Okay, okay!" Gilbert leapt up in surrender. He pressed both of
his hands to Francis' mouth. "I'll do it!"
                "Perfect!" Francis smiled, prying Gilbert off. "This plan is
absolutely genius, if I do say so myself. Let's ask them out tonight."
                "Tonight?"
                "Yes, tonight. I'm telling you," Francis said, laying a
confident hand on each partner's shoulder, "it's a totally foolproof plan. I
can't think of a single thing that could go wrong."
===============================================================================
                                    ANTONIO
No."
                Antonio pouted as he looked up at the Italian on-stage. "But,
Lovino," he said, voice raised to be heard over the music, "you didn't even let
me finish—"
                "Don't care," said Lovino mercilessly. He turned his back and
continued his routine. Antonio's eyes lingered on the dancer's taut backside.
His gorgeous skin glistened with glittery sweat as his figure gyrated
shamelessly around a metal pole, moving to the music's slow beat. "Oh, and
also," he added tersely, looking at the Spaniard from upside-down, "don't call
me Lovino."
                Antonio leant in (careful not to touch the questionable stage).
"Why not?" he asked. "It's your name, isn't it? It's a lovely name."
                "Yes," Lovino said, ignoring the compliment, "it ismy name, but
not in here."
                "Oh, I see. So do you—"
                "Go away."
                Antonio blinked. "But I—"
                "Buy something, or go away."
                Antonio grinned like a cat spotting a field-mouse. He reached
into his inside-pocket and produced a wad of rolled banknotes. It took every
fibre of his self-discipline not to laugh at the horrified look on Lovino's
face when the Italian realized his mistake. Antonio milked the moment. Slowly,
he took a step backward and settled onto a loveseat. He cocked his head in an
innocent fashion and pat his lap suggestively.
                "So, what shouldI call you?" he asked, locking his arms around
Lovino as the dancer slid begrudgingly onto his lap. ("I want a big fucking
tip, you bastard," he muttered.) His skin was soft and sunshine-warm, wet with
beads of sweet sweat. Antonio wanted to lick him. When Lovino only scowled,
refusing to make eye-contact, Antonio started to guess: "Sugar? Ginger? Honey?
Coco?"
                "Please, stop talking," Lovino deadpanned as he half-heartedly
swayed. "And why are they all food anyway?"
                Antonio shrugged. "I guessed at a theme. Club's always have a
theme. You know: food, flowers, gemstones."
                "It's cars, actually."
                "Oh, yeah? So what is your stripper-name, Lovi?"
                Lovino stopped, hands braced on Antonio's shoulders. "Lovi—?
What the fuck? Is that supposed to be cute?"
                "Isn't it?"
                "No, it's stupid."
                Antonio pouted and batted his thick eyelashes. Lovino flicked
his forehead. "Stop that, you look like a creep," he said.
                Antonio smiled. "Oh, come on," he goaded, tickling Lovino's
ribs. Lovino squirmed and swatted at him. "Tell me your stripper-name. Which
car are you?"
                Lovino glared challengingly at him, his gold-flecked eyes
ablaze. It sparked a fiery desire in the Spaniard's, uh... heart. Eventually,
the Italian jerked his head to the side, and muttered under his breath:
                "Ferrari."
                Antonio threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, God! That's so
bad! I love it!"
                "Oh, fuck you, you bastard!" Lovino snapped, going tomato-red
in embarrassment.
                It was, possibly, the cutest thing Antonio had ever seen.
                "Seriously, shut up!" Lovino pleaded, glancing from left-to-
right. Brazenly, he pressed his hands to Antonio's mouth.
                Deviously, Antonio smirked. "Okay, okay, I'll be good. Unless
you want me to be bad—? Ferrari."
                This time, Lovino's eyes twinkled and his lips pursed as he
tried hard not to laugh. A tremor shook his body; Antonio felt it. "Stupid
bastard," Lovino muttered, shaking his head. More seriously, he said: "What are
you really doing here, Green Eyes?"
                "My name is Antonio. Antonio Fernández Carriedo."
                "I didn't ask your name. I asked you why you're here." Lovino
frowned. "How did you get back in anyway? I saw the bouncers chuck you out last
night."
                "Not important," Antonio dismissed. "I came back here," he
said, resting his hands gently on Lovino's slight waist, "to ask you out."
                Lovino rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I figured that much out for
myself, Lope de Vega. What I don't know is why—? You don't even know me."
                "I want to."
                Lovino feigned gagging. "Oh, God. What a line!"
                Antonio laughed. "I like you, Lovi, you're feisty."
                "Well, you're weird." Smugly, the Italian untangled his limbs
and stood. "And don't call me Lovi. Also, I don't date club patrons."
                Antonio stood, as well. "Not even ones as breathtakingly
handsome as I?" he joked, wiggling his eyebrows.
                Lovino frowned. "Is that supposed to be your sexy-face? Did you
learn the art of seduction from a children's cartoon?"
                Before Antonio could reply, a deep voice called Lovino's
stripper-name from the second-floor: "Ferrari!"
                He stood on the balcony overlooking the club's floor, looking
extremely underdressed in a band t-shirt and a hoodie, but nobody snickered or
scowled. Mikkel Densen never dressed-up. It was a detail of his profile; he was
the only criminal overlord Antonio had ever encountered who dressed like a
teenager. A very, very big, ruthless teenager. Most of the people Antonio
convicted liked to flaunt their wealth, but not Densen. He was a naturally
handsome man, but the nicest thing about his wardrobe were the two tall blondes
hanging off his arms. He pointed a warning finger at Lovino, then jerked it
toward the stage.
                "I have to get back to work," said Lovino, deflated. The fire
in his eyes had died. Expectantly, he held out his hand.
                Antonio, too, felt ill-at-ease. As much as he enjoyed watching
the Italian dance, he didn't want Lovino up on that stage, where other men were
free to ogled him. Reluctantly, he chose a few banknotes and placed them into
the outstretched hand—including a big fucking tip and his phone number. He
folded Lovino's delicate fingers down over it, enveloping his warm hand, and
squeezed gently. For a fleeting instant, their eyes met.
                Then the dancer turned away.
===============================================================================
                                    FRANCIS
What's behind the red door?" Francis asked, saddling up beside Arthur at the
bar. The Frenchman's hawkish gaze had been fixated on the guarded door all
night, ever since he had seen the green-eyed Englishman disappear behind it. He
suspected it led to illegal activity, of course, but whether it was porn,
drugs, or gambling was anyone's guess. As one of the bartenders slid a neat
drink across the counter, Francis studied Arthur for clues and nervous ticks.
                Arthur didn't even look at Francis. He stared into the middle-
distance as he took a drink, and said: "Sod-off."
                "It's a studio, isn't it?" Francis guessed. He leant in, his
lips cheekily close to Arthur's ear. "It's thestudio. It's where all of my
perverted fantasies are made, isn't it?" Arthur clenched his jaw but didn't
speak. Francis continued: "It must be so hard. I bet today was a real hard day
at the office, wasn't it?"
                Finally, Arthur lost his temper. "Get lost, frog!"
                Francis backed away and resumed a shoulder-to-shoulder position
with the short-tempered Englishman. "You're awfully tense for someone who just
had sex," he noted.
                He was surprised when the actor snorted mirthlessly. "Pft,
hardly," he grumbled unhappily.
                Francis cocked an eyebrow. His observant eyes surveyed the
surly actor and noted his flushed face and unfocused gaze, his wet lips, his
deep breaths, and the way he shifted uncomfortably from left-to-right,
fidgeting. "Oh, I see," he said. His velvety tone caught Arthur's attention,
then he lowered his voice to a whisper, and added: "Feeling a bit unsatisfied,
chéri?"
                Francis' sultry voice and proximity had an immediate effect on
Arthur. Francis saw it.
                "Get away from me," he said viciously, before hastily leaving
the bar.
                Francis followed. He grabbed Arthur's forearm, ignoring the
actor's protest, and pulled, guiding him through the crowd toward the back.
                "What are you—Get off of me!" Arthur snapped breathlessly in
panic.
                "Oh, stop whining," said Francis, pushing Arthur indelicately
into the empty restroom. There, he released him and locked the door.
                Arthur was red-faced. Reading Francis' intent, he said: "I can
take care of myself, thank-you."
                "No doubt," said Francis, blue eyes lingering on the actor's
groin before recapturing his eyes. "I have a feeling you've been taking care of
yourself for a very long time. Why don't you let me take care of you just this
once?"
                Experimentally, he stepped forward. Arthur stepped back and
soon found himself trapped between Francis and the counter, a wall-mirror
reflecting his back. His eyes were bright and wide in disbelief.
                "I'll take really good care of you," Francis promised. He
stopped in front of Arthur and cautiously slipped a leg between both of the
Englishman's, splaying them. "You won't regret it," he bragged, blue eyes
flashing with wicked delight. He pushed his knee against the actor's erect cock
and listened hungrily to the delicious groan Arthur emitted. It was
involuntary: high and soft and ending on a sharp, agonized gasp. Helplessly, he
pressed his uncomfortably stiff length against Francis' knee. "Well?" the
Frenchman tempted, hooking a finger into Arthur's belt-loop. "What do you say,
chéri? Will you let me take care of you—"
                "Shut up!" Arthur snarled, grabbing a fistful of Francis'
shirt. Roughly, he tugged the detective closer. "Just—stop talking."
                Arthur covered Francis' mouth with his, kissing hungrily. It
was wet and hot and soft as he sucked Francis' lips. His tongue was laced with
rich liquor. Francis returned the kiss vigorously, his tongue dancing with
Arthur's. He scooped the actor up and sat him on the countertop, sliding off
his trousers as he did. Arthur's hands grabbed for the Frenchman's long curls
as Francis' hand coiled around Arthur's cock. He bowed his head, hiding his
face in the crook of Francis' neck as the Frenchman's hand pumped back-and-
forth, slick in seconds. He squeeze and stroked and applied pressure to the
weeping tip with the base of his thumb, pressure that made Arthur whine
throatily in pleasure. His voice in Francis' ear, moaning in erotic agony,
encouraged the Frenchman. It was a sweet sound: so was the feel of Arthur's
laboured breaths against his skin. Francis had to actively concentrate on his
task, otherwise he risked losing himself to desire, too. They didn't speak and
they didn't look at each other, but it didn't matter. Francis could feel
Arthur's heart pounding. Then the Englishman shuddered and gasped: "F-fuck!"
and came smoothly in Francis' hand.
                There was a minute of charged silence, before Francis said:
                "Satisfied?"
                He was shocked to see tears in Arthur's blonde eyelashes when
he pulled back. Shocked by just how beautiful the Englishman suddenly looked.
His soft, wheat-blonde hair was dishevelled in a sexy, bedraggled way, and his
shirt was wrinkled, the top buttons undone. Sweat had smudged the concealer
off, revealing a patch of pale freckles, which gave his delicate-boned face a
charming boyish look. Francis couldn't believe how vulnerable the Englishman
looked, trembling like a virgin, gasping to catch his breath—and they hadn't
even had sex. He's been sexually frustrated for a lot longer than I thought, he
realized, intrigued. He couldn't help but think that, had Arthur's on-screen
performances looked like this, he would have been discovered as a porn star a
long time ago. There was something irresistible about his eyes: eyes that made
him look misleadingly innocent. His red cheeks made his eyes look even greener.
                Green eyes were Francis' favourite.
                "I'm not going to thank you, if that's what you're waiting
for," Arthur said, eyes alight in self-defense.
                "I didn't expect you would." Francis ducked in and pecked
Arthur's lips, stealing a kiss. "Just go out with me and we'll call it even."
===============================================================================
                                    MATTHEW
Matthew was stacking chairs on tables as the bouncers ushered the last patrons
out. It had been a long, unproductive night. It was too cold outside, nobody
was out on the street. He almost hadn't met his tip quota.
                "Francis asked me out," said Arthur, appearing out of nowhere.
Matthew jumped in surprise. "That bloody frog-eater asked me out!"
                "Uh, okay. I assume Francis is the Frenchman?"
                "The frog, yes. He actually expects me to go on a date with
him!" Arthur's tone was cruel, but his expression looked more exasperated than
angry.
                "So... go?"
                Matthew knew it was the wrong answer as soon as the words left
his mouth. Arthur's green eyes widened like a snake's.
                "I mean, why not go?" he amended quickly. "He's really
gorgeous."
                "Matthew, poppet," said Arthur, trying to suppress his temper,
"I work with a lot of really gorgeous men, and most of them don't know where to
stick their fucking dicks."
                "I know, Art, but Francis seemed a little more mature than the
guys you work with, don't you think? And he's French," he added suggestively.
"You know what they say about the French, don't you?"
                "That they're rude, noisy, self-centered, can't drive?" Arthur
mock-guessed. Matthew rolled his eyes. "Being French isn't a pro, pet, it's a
con. A very big con. If I go out with him, then I'll actually have to spend the
whole evening with a Frenchman."
                "So, you rejected him?"
                "Well... not exactly."
                Arthur broke eye-contact and began picking distractedly at the
peeling veneer on the bar. Matthew didn't say a word. He waited patiently,
expertly outlasting his cousin's stubbornness.
                "I'm going out with him," Arthur mumbled, "under protest—"
                Matthew smiled in encouragement. "I'm sure it'll be fine—"
                "—and you're coming with me," Arthur finished.
                Matthew blinked, sure that he had misheard. "Pardon?"
                "I'm spending tomorrow evening with Francis, and you're coming
with me, Matthew."
                "I'm not going to third-wheel your date—"
                "He has a friend," Arthur elaborated. "It's a double-date."
                "A blind-date, you mean," said Matthew unhappily. He crossed
his arms, hip cocked. It caused his uniform to ride up, revealing bits of
wintery skin, but nobody was there to leer so the Canadian-born boy didn't
care. It was much too hot in the stuffy club, besides. "Why am I being
recruited?" he asked.
                "Firstly, because he asked if I had a friend for his friend,
and I do: you," Arthur noted. "And secondly—and I really can't stress this
enough—I don't want to be left alone with the fucking frog-eater! Please,
Matthew? You have to come. It'll be much better if we're both there. That way,
if they're both complete freaks, we can escape together. Just like we used to
do in high-school, right?"
                "I was in high-school, you were... not," Matthew said shortly.
                "What about The Pact?"
                "Oh, come on, Art! It's been ten years since The Pact! I was
just a kid, it was hardly binding."
                "Then why did it have the word eternity in it?" Arthur
countered. He folded his arms, mimicking Matthew's defensive posture.
                For a minute they glared at each other. Then a bubble of
laughter escaped Matthew and he doubled-over the counter, his head in his
hands. Arthur, too, laughed unattractively.
                "Oh my God, The Pact," Matthew said nostalgically.
                "The Pact," Arthur repeated, smiling now as well. He waited a
minute, then nudged Matthew's arm. "So—?"
                Sighing deeply, Matthew surrendered. "Fine," he said in self-
sacrifice. "I'll do it. I'll go with you."
                Arthur's smile curled deviously, eyes still snake-like in
triumph. "I knew you would. That's why I volunteered you and not Lovino. Oh,
and because the mere thought of spending a whole evening alone with a Frenchman
and that lazy Italian makes me want to start smoking again."
                "Charming," said Matthew sarcastically. He straightened and
readjusted his uniform, re-buttoning the sides. "So, who is this mysterious
friend of the French Casanova who convinced Arthur Kirkland to go on a date?"
                "I have no idea."
                "Well, does he have a name?" Matthew asked, grabbing his coat.
                "Presumably, yes."
                "Well, do you know what it is?"
                "Not a bloody clue. Sorry, Matt, I was a little, uh...
preoccupied when Francis suggested we make it a double. But," he brightened,
wrapping an arm around Matthew's shoulders as they walked to the side-door, "he
can't possibly be worse than Francis the Frog, so that should be some comfort.
Oi," he added, ruffling Matthew's curls, "I'm sure it'll be fine. It's a free
meal, if nothing else. And if it really is unbearable, we'll just go through
the fire-escape, right, pet?"
                Matthew looked at his older cousin, his best-friend, and
surrendered again; this time, for real. Affectionately, he leant against
Arthur. He had to slouch a bit because he was taller, but the effect of their
sides pressed together was comforting. It was familiar. The truth was, he would
have agreed to anything Arthur asked.
                "Right," he said.
===============================================================================
                                    LOVINO
About time!" Lovino complained when Arthur and Matthew arrived at the flat,
toting prepackaged sushi for supper. It was a little out-dated, but half-price
because of it. ("Don't eat the wasabi," Arthur advised.) Matthew handed Lovino
a pair of chopsticks, which the Italian wielded with gusto, like an angry
orchestra conductor.
                "I'm starving!" he whined. "What took you so long? Actually,
never-mind. Get this. You guys seriously won't believe who had the balls to ask
me out tonight—"
                "The Spaniard?" his roommates guessed in union.
                Lovino blinked, taken aback. "Uh, well, yes," he admitted,
deflating. "How did you know?"
                "It's been forty-eight hours and you haven't shut up about
him," said Arthur irritably. "I bet I could guess his bloody measurements."
                Lovino scowled, then looked to Matthew, expecting him to
disagree. "Matt—?"
                Hastily, Matthew shoved a piece of sushi into his mouth to
avoid answering.
                "Well, whatever. I'm only mentioning him now because he's a
fucking pervert," said Lovino defensively. "I'm the victim here, okay? He's a
sneaky bastard. He even gave me his fucking number!" he said, shoving a piece
of paper across the countertop, as if it offended him.
                Matthew looked at it. "Okay then, Ferrari," he said, reading
the note, which called Lovino by his stage-name.
                Lovino bristled. "Oh, shut up, Mercedes," he countered.
                Matthew rolled his eyes. Arthur said: "What did you say? To the
Spaniard, I mean."
                "I said no, of course. I'm not going out with that stupid
letch, even if it does include a free meal," said Lovino indignantly. "Speaking
of, I'm broke—again. So, what's the plan for eating tomorrow?"
                Tomorrow was the trio's only day-off because Club 69 was closed
on Sunday. But though they all cherished their Sundays, it meant no pay-check,
which often meant a questionable meal. Especially if they were due for a loan
payment, like this week. Aunt Madeline had left a considerable debt to a very
shady loan-shark, who hounded Arthur and Matthew each month. As such, sometimes
a simple day off meant not eating at all.
                "It was so fucking slow tonight. I barely earned bus-fare,"
Lovino exaggerated sulkily. "So—tomorrow?"
                "Oh, uh, actually..." Arthur and Matthew exchanged a guilty
look. "Matthew and I are going on a double-date tomorrow evening," said Arthur.
                Lovino was rendered momentarily speechless. "You? You two have
dates? With who?"
                "A couple of club patrons. Look, it's not a big deal—"
                "Oh, holy fuck! Call the fucking press! Arthur Kirkland has a
date!"
                "Oh, sod-off, Lovino," Arthur snapped. "Of course I date."
                "I have literally never seen you go on a date."
                "Well, I do. I just haven't been out for a while. Not since I—"
Arthur stopped abruptly, but it hardly mattered. Lovino knew what he was going
to say:
                Not since your director forbid you, Lovino knew. Apparently,
Arthur's on-screen performance was better if he wasn't getting regular
attention off-screen. It made him more desperate for it while working, more
likely to come.
                "Fine, whatever," he reversed the topic. "Date away, Romeo. I
just want to know what I'm supposed to do for supper tomorrow if you're both
gone?"
                There was a moment of silence, then, sheepishly, Matthew pushed
Antonio's phone-number back across the countertop.
                Lovino sighed in defeat. "Fuck."
***** Three *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
                                    ARTHUR
That's what you're wearing?"
                Arthur clenched his jaw, counted to three, exhaled, and turned
to face Lovino's disapproval. Since the Italian had moved-in, Arthur faced
sneers and jeers about his wardrobe almost daily. Just because Lovino cared
about his looks and followed fashion fads, and just because he was
overindulgent and spent his paycheck on clothes and cosmetics didn't mean that
Arthur did—or even wanted to. There were much more practical things to buy in
his pragmatic opinion. Besides, he never could have worn the styles Lovino did.
He would have looked ridiculous. No, the Englishman's style was timeless and he
liked it that way. But as Arthur turned to face Lovino, ready to defend his
choice of attire, he realized that it wasn't he who had incurred the Italian's
artistic criticism. Not this time.
                "What?" Matthew asked innocently, staring down at himself.
                "What?" Lovino repeated in disbelief. "That's what you wear on
a first date? Seriously, Matt, jeans?"
                Matthew shrugged. "I like jeans, they're comfortable—"
                "They're threadbare," Lovino countered, plucking at a fraying
string. "And you," he pointed at Arthur, "don't think I didn't notice you."
                "Oh, bloody-hell," Arthur grumbled. "There is absolutely
nothing wrong with my clothes. We've been over this a dozen times, Lovino,
they're classic."
                "Classic is an understatement," Lovino scoffed, "they're
prehistoric. When is your date, Grandpa, the 1800s? And I'm sorry, Mattie, you
look absolutely perfect... if your date is taking you to a sketchy back-alley
to pass a bottle around a flaming trash bin. Don't you have any clothes that
actually fit you? Oh!" He snapped his fingers. "Yes, you do! I know exactly
what you're going to wear tonight! Don't move, I'll be right back."
                "Lovino, we don't have time for this!" Arthur called, but
Lovino ignored him.
                "It's called being fashionably late, Gramps," he said,
returning with several articles of clothing flung over his arm. He looked like
an exuberant shopkeeper, ordering Matthew to strip down and re-dress. When he
was finished he stepped back to admire his work, like an artist gazing upon a
completed masterpiece. "Ha! There!" He smirked in self-satisfaction. "That's
much better. Now you look like a real catch, Matt."
                Shyly, Matthew looked to Arthur for approval.
                Admittedly, the violet-eyed boy looked wonderful. Lovino's keen
eye had dressed him in clothes that worked to preserve his natural pale beauty
while accenting his tall, slender figure. He looked as graceful as a willow
bough. In a few short minutes, the boy had been transformed from a threadbare
street-urchin into a heartbreaking film-star.
                "It's fine," Arthur said grudgingly. "It has to be, since we
don't have time to change."
                "But—" Lovino reached for Arthur, who swatted at him.
                "I said no, you fiend! My regular clothes are perfectly
acceptable for meeting the frog-eater. It's barely even a date. I'm not going
to spend all night dressing to impress a bloody Frenchman."
                Lovino sighed in mock-exhaustion, as if Arthur had missed a
critical point. "But that's exactly why you need to look your best!" he
insisted. "Don't you want him to eat his heart out? Don't you want to make him
drool over what he can't have? Don't you want to make him suffer?"
                Rather than regale Lovino and Matthew with the restroom episode
and the fact that, technically, Francis had already, ahem, indulged in Arthur,
the Englishman shifted the conversation to focus on Lovino.
                "You are pure evil, aren't you?" he asked rhetorically. Lovino
merely shrugged. "Is that why you're dressed to the nines?" Arthur asked,
referring to Lovino's carefully chosen attire. He had spent quite a long time
in his bedroom preparing for his date with Antonio, and he, too, now looked
like he belonged on the Silver Screen.
                Lovino narrowed his eyes, but before he could reply, Matthew
interrupted:
                "We really are going to be late, Art."
                "Yes," Arthur agreed, ensnared in a staring-contest with
Lovino, "you're right, let's go."
                "Have a good night, Lovino," Matthew called in goodbye.
                "You too, Matt! Have fun on your double-date with Grandpa!"
                Arthur slammed the door closed behind him as he ushered Matthew
out.
                "Dear Lord, he's persistent. I mean, really, who does that
little tart think he is?"
                Matthew shrugged, keeping quiet. It was then the Englishman
paused on the sidewalk and cast his cousin a considerate glance. His freckled
face softened. "I'm sorry, pet. You really do look very nice.
                "But really!" he resumed, stalking down the filthy street. "I
think that bloody frog would shag a fire-hydrant if he fancied it, so what the
fuck does it matter what I'm wearing? He's the one who asked me out, after all.
If he didn't like my looks, he shouldn't have proposed a date. This is all the
effort he's getting from me. The day I dress to impress a Frenchman is the day
hell freezes over."
                Matthew chuckled. "Yes, Art," he said obediently, following him
down the street.
===============================================================================
                                    FRANCIS
No," said Francis, opening the door to Gilbert. They had agreed to meet at
Francis' flat before going to the restaurant, where Francis had texted Arthur
to meet him. And I thought Arthur would be my only problem tonight, he thought,
looking upon the German's unfashionable attire. He shook his head vehemently.
"You are not wearing that tonight. You absolutely cannot wear jeans on a first
date."
                Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't start, Fran. I'm twenty-
seven-years-old, I'll wear whatever the fuck I want."
                "Gil, please?" Francis whined. "This is important. You've got
to make a good first impression, and right now you look like a gang-member. Do
you own anything that's not pitch black? Oh, come on!" he begged when the
German shook his head. "You've got to meet me halfway here. Please? We're going
to a very nice restaurant."
                "I know," Gilbert acknowledged, thinking himself very clever.
He gestured at his jeans. "See? These are black jeans, so at a distance they
look like dress trousers."
                "No," Francis repeated, pinching the bridge of his nose, "they
really don't. And you can't keep your date at a distance, Gil. Don't you want
to look your best to meet Mathieu? It is a blind-date, after all. Aren't you
hoping that he looks nice, as well?"
                "He could wear a paper-bag for all I care," Gilbert deadpanned.
                "Gil," Francis whined. "I know you own a suit, so why aren't
you wearing it?"
                "I hate suits."
                "But you look so good in a suit," Francis complimented.
                Gilbert shrugged. "I never said I didn't. I said I hate them."
                Francis frowned. "Could you please at least pretend to enjoy
tonight? It's important for the mission, Gil. This is what it's like to go
undercover. It's absolutely imperative that you make the target believe you,
even if you have to cheat and lie. He has to trust you if he's going to tell
you anything. He has to trust that you'll protect him if he betrays his
employer, and this," he poked at Gilbert's weathered leather jacket, "does not
inspire trust. At least let me fix your hair," he begged, picking at the short
strands that hung in roguish disarray.
                Gilbert's silver hair was exceptionally fine, like spider silk.
Francis had always wanted to style it, because the German didn't do it himself;
he merely pushed it back out of his eyes. But he refused to let the Frenchman
touch it. In fact, the headstrong German refused to take Francis or Antonio's
advice at all wherein his appearance was concerned, too sure it was a waste of
time. "What does it matter?" he argued. "I'm not prettylike you two." For as
long as Francis had known him, Gilbert had always avoided mirrors and shiny
surfaces, refusing to meet his own red-eyed reflection. He often made self-
degrading jokes about his albinism, but Francis was an apt people-reader and
guessed that Gilbert joked to hide how self-conscious he truly was, wearing his
malady like armour to protect himself. It was sad, Francis thought. He,
himself, had a talent for seeing the beauty in others, especially the
attractive German.
                You just need to stop hiding behind all of those black clothes,
he knew.
               But nothing that he or Antonio said could change Gilbert's mind.
Nothing they advised could make him care about his appearance.
                It's not our approval he needs. We're his friends, so by
default our opinions don't count.
                As if on-cue, Gilbert slapped at Francis' exploratory hand.
"No," he said in annoyance. "Leave my hair alone, it's fine. Let's just go,
okay?"
                Francis sighed in defeat. "Yes, fine. But if they refuse you
entrance into the restaurant, I'm not helping you."
                "Quit worrying so much, Fran, it'll give you wrinkles," Gilbert
teased, flicking Francis' forehead to lighten the mood. "They're not going to
refuse me entry." He grinned wickedly and flashed Francis a glance at his
inner-pocket.
                "You're armed?" Francis gaped in alarm. "Not only are you
wearing jeans on a first date, but you brought a gun along, as well? Oh, dear
Lord. For his sake, I sincerely hope Mathieu isn't skittish."
===============================================================================
                                    GILBERT
Gilbert was leaning against the restaurant's facade in the busy parking-lot,
wondering if they weren't being stood-up—he hated tardiness—when a winded
English accent suddenly called-out:
                "Oh, so sorry we're late!"
                A green-eyed blonde in a tartan overcoat hurried across the lot
to meet he and Francis, his wheat-blonde hair a mess of short, wind-swept
locks. He was the maybe-drug-dealer from Club 69, and he was toting the
bartender with him. Except, the younger boy no longer looked like the slutty
bartender whom Gilbert had indirectly met a few nights previous. He was, as
Francis had promised, really cute. Like, really fucking cute. Yet, as he was
being introduced—
                "This is my cousin, Matthew," said Arthur.
                Francis replied: "It's a pleasure to officially meet you,
chéri. And this," he waved for Gilbert, "is my very good friend, Gilbert."
                —Matthew looked fragile, as if a harsh word might break him.
But not because of his physique.
                He was a tall boy, taller than everyone except Gilbert, with
long limbs and a gently sloping figure that swelled with subtle curves—nothing
alike his skinny English cousin. And nothing like the other dancers at Club 69.
He wasn't made-up and he didn't look fake. There was nothing crafted about his
appearance, except for a keen choice of attire. (Suddenly, Gilbert wished he
had taken Francis' latent advice and worn a suit.) Maybe Gilbert had been in
his line-of-work for too long, but he couldn't deny that the boy had a figure
worth paying for. Even with the angel curls and that innocent smile, the
slender height that qualified him to be a runway model and the curves that
looked like a pinup poster were more than the German had bargained for.
                He's not just cute, he admitted in secret, he's beautiful.
                And yet, Matthew still somehow managed to look smaller and less
significant than everyone else present. It may have been his demure expression
or his timid mannerisms. Or maybe it was that he didn't make eye-contact with
anyone—yes, that was it. It was in the eyes, Gilbert decided. Violet eyes that
revealed Matthew's unease.
                At first Gilbert thought it was because of him—and it might
have been; he wasn't the kindest looking man—or, it might have been because of
the bruise darkening Matthew's cheekbone. Concealer had been applied so
expertly to cover it that Gilbert wouldn't have noticed it if he didn't already
know it was there, but he did know and it made him feel guilty for not stepping
in sooner.
                I guess you really are that bartender, he acknowledged, still
baffled by the boy's transformation. But there was no mistaking those
frightened eyes.
                "Nice to meet you," Matthew said in the soft, timid voice
Gilbert remembered. Briefly, his gaze met Gilbert's and he blushed shyly, and
in that moment Gilbert was glad for the cover of sunset, because he felt his
face redden un-awesomely in reply. Matthew reached out to shake Gilbert's hand,
but the German misread the intent and took his hand and half-raised it to kiss,
like a courtesan.
                "Oh, uh... yeah, me too, with you..." he said as he fumbled and
quickly dropped Matthew's hand. "So, uh—?" Ineloquently, he bobbed his head
toward the restaurant's entrance.
                Francis cast him a curious look, which plainly questioned the
German's ability to interact with other human-beings. It seemed to say: What is
wrong with you?We're not even in the restaurant and you've already fucked it
up!
                Or, maybe that was Gilbert's imagination based on how he felt.
                Aloud, Francis said: "Shall we?"
                Politely he offered Arthur his arm, which the Englishman
hesitantly took. Both of them looked rather smug about it, but Gilbert didn't
think he could pull off the same gentlemanly trick so smoothly, so he merely
held the door open for his date, and was rewarded with a pretty smile in
thanks.
                His heartbeat pounded like a marathon runner's as he willed all
the blood out of his face. He followed at the back of the  small party as they
were led into the restaurant, trying to regain his composure and map a better
strategy, but found himself staring shamelessly at his date's backside.
Heedless of the wait-staff or direction, he took advantage as long as his
indiscretion went unnoticed and the foursome were seated at a table beside the
windows. Despite the host's disapproving glare, Gilbert indulged in a private
grin. He might have been cohered into Francis' plot against his better
judgement, but—
                He returned Matthew's shy smile as they sat down side-by-side.
                —at least he had something really fucking cute to look at for
the date's duration.
===============================================================================
                                    ARTHUR
Tell me now," Arthur whispered to Francis as they sat, "is your friend a
copper?"
                "Yes," Francis replied, removing his coat.
                Arthur tensed. He stared indiscreetly across the table, feeling
overprotective as the red-eyed albino sat down next to Matthew. Having met
Francis, Arthur had been expecting another smooth-talking playboy, not—he took
note of the German's black street-clothes and his rough manners, looking very
out-of-place in the upscale restaurant—the fierce-looking man sitting
disconcertingly close to Arthur's teenage cousin. If Gilbert had of been like
Francis, Arthur would not have worried. Matthew had learnt to keep a polite
distance from Club 69's patrons, who were much more alike Francis than Gilbert.
However, the boy seemed to be receptive to Gilbert's casual posture and
arrogant grin more than he would have if Gilbert were trying to flatter him,
and that's what made Arthur worry.
                Don't get too comfortable,Matthew, he thought. He's a bloody
copper,they both are. They're just using us. This whole night is nothing more
than a ruse.
                "I don't want Matthew getting mixed up in whatever game you're
playing," he warned Francis.
                Francis smiled gently in reassurance. "He'll be safe with
Gilbert, I promise."
                Arthur's look was skeptical. He's not even safe now, he
thought, eyeing Matthew's cheek. The boy had done a good job of concealing his
bruise. No one would see it if they didn't know it was there, but it still made
Arthur anxious. Gilbert was a relatively large man. He was tall and—the German
removed his jacket—corded with lean muscle. He was very athletic-looking and
strong. Arthur could feel it in his dominating presence and the heat of his
pale body. He had known many men like Gilbert before and he didn't trust a
single one of them. Men like Gilbert loved power, and they loved to display it
even more. It would be nothing for the bold German, the police detective, to
abuse his position and hurt Matthew if he wanted to. And Matthew, Arthur knew
from experience, would let it happen. He wouldn't fight to defend himself. He
never did.
                If Matthew gets hurt,it'll be my fault, he thought uneasily.
                Just then, Arthur felt Francis' hand squeeze his knee beneath
the table. His blue eyes seemed to say: Don't be anxious,it's okay. Trust me.
                Slowly, Arthur relaxed.
                The waiter arrived to deliver menus and take drink orders.
                "The wine list, please," said Arthur and Francis in perfect
union. They glanced at each other in surprise, then both pretended it hadn't
happened. Together, they chose a prime vintage (Francis because he liked
expensive wines, and Arthur because Francis was paying for it).
                Gilbert ordered beer.
                Matthew ordered water.
                They mused over the menus for a little while. Francis
recommended a selection of appetizers and entrées, all rather pricy. If he was
showing-off, it was working. Arthur hadn't been treated to such an exquisite
menu—well, ever. When he couldn't decide between two entrées, Francis simply
suggested he order both and take all the leftovers home.
                "Order whatever you like, chéri," said the Frenchman
generously. "I want you to enjoy tonight."
                That's when a wonderful, wicked idea struck Arthur. As long as
he chose entrées that wouldn't spoil quickly, then he could order enough food
to last several days. It wasn't as if Francis couldn't afford it, after all. He
smirked.
                Oh,you really shouldn't have said that,frog-eater.
                When the waiter returned to take their meal orders, Arthur
prattled off a long list of entrées without taking a breath. Then he stifled a
laugh when he saw the disgruntled look on Francis' face. He was feeling rather
pleased with himself, until Matthew gave his order. The boy ordered a small
salad dish, which was the cheapest thing on the menu, and insisted that water
was fine.
                "Are you sure that's going to be enough?" Gilbert inquired,
looking skeptically at Matthew.
                "Oh, yes. I don't really have much of an appetite."
                Liar. Arthur stared suspiciously at the Canadian. You usually
eat more than I do.When he caught Matthew's eye, it was ice-cold. Arthur
frowned. What are you angry with me for?What did I do?
                "Matthew—? You're sure that's all you want?" he asked, goading
the boy.
                "Yes, Art, that's all."
                Arthur nudged Matthew's foot under the table, trying to convey
a silent message: For God's sake,order more to eat!We don't have to pay for it!
but Matthew just kicked him in return.
                Before Arthur could retaliate, a very familiar voice broke the
peaceful ambiance.
                "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me!" said Lovino
unhappily.
===============================================================================
                                    ANTONIO
ONE HOUR AGO
Hey, Lovi!" Antonio yelled, waving to attract the Italian's attention. He had
been pacing back-and-forth in front of the dry fountain in the park for half-
an-hour, waiting impatiently for his date to arrive. He was starting to fear
that he was being stood-up when he spotted Lovino sauntering at a leisurely
pace. He strode off eagerly to meet him on the gravel footpath, his impatience
evaporating as his eyes drank in Lovino's beauty, illuminated by a lamppost's
flickering glow.
                "Oh, wow!" he said in appreciation, green eyes ravishing his
date. "Lovi, you look fantastic!"
                Lovino crossed his arms and cocked a hip, body angled
arrogantly, yet failing to hide a blush behind a bored eye-roll. A silky lock
of dark hair fell over his forehead. He pushed it back and sighed, full lips
pouted (intentionally?).
"That's stating the obvious, but thank-you," he said, eyeing the Spaniard in
exchange. His hazel eyes were flecked with gold and framed with thick black
lashes that gave them a catlike slant. "You, uh... look nice, too," he
muttered, cheeks blushing redder.
                Antonio smiled. It felt unbelievably good to have Lovino's
approval—especially since he had spent the better part of late-afternoon
glaring at his reflection in frustrated indecision. Just because his date with
Lovino was a ploy to extract information about Club 69 didn't mean he couldn't
look good while doing it.
                He's so beautiful, he thought, ulterior-motives flung out of
mind as he offered the Italian his arm in escort.
                Lovino narrowed his eyes suspiciously before taking it. Then he
hugged close to steal the Spaniard's body-heat.
                "So," he said as they set off, "where are you taking me, Green
Eyes?"
                "Uptown," Antonio replied, hoping to impress Lovino. However,
the dancer made a noncommittal noise and changed the topic. He was not someone
easily flattered, Antonio realized. He was a dancer at a strip-club: he
probably spent all night dodging cat-calls, wolf-howls, and suggestive
compliments from strange men. He wouldn't be flattered by words. He wouldn't
let himself be bought so cheaply. Despite his illicit profession, Lovino was a
very classy young man who carried himself with an air of superiority that one
did not acquire living in poverty. Who are you really, Lovi? Antonio wondered,
studying the Italian. Beautiful street-urchins with Lovino's entitled attitude
were rarely self-made. They lived by attaching themselves to a rich, powerful
man and relying on his charity.
                Antonio's step faltered as he thought of Lovino being a rich
club patron's pet. He didn't like it. He didn't like thinking of Lovino that
way, exchanging some man's pampering for—
                NO.
                Antonio shook his head to expel the unappetizing mental-image.
It would only upset him, and he had to keep those negative feelings locked-up.
He took a deep, therapeutic breath and let it out slowly. He hadn't realized
that he had closed his eyes or slowed his pace almost to a stop, until Lovino
said:
                "Are you okay?"
                Antonio's eyes snapped open and he looked down at Lovino, who's
face revealed concern. Oh,fuck. He had gotten lost in his head again, sinking
into painful memories. Stupid!Get a hold of yourself!
                "Yes, of course!" he said to Lovino, forcing a cheerful smile.
It wouldn't do to show his true (possessive) self so early. It would only scare
Lovino. Instead, he nudged the dancer gently. "I'm flattered that you care,
Ferrari."
                Lovino scoffed and playfully punched Antonio's ribs. "Don't
call me that!"
                Antonio laughed and hailed a taxi-cab.
===============================================================================
                                     LOVINO
Lovino didn't know what had caused Antonio's sudden change in demeanor, but
based on the Spaniard's reaction, he guessed it was something unpleasant. And
private. Lovino had no desire to play therapist to yet another head-case. He
didn't want to be burdened with anyone's emotional-baggage but his own. His own
was more than enough, and it was all rapidly returning to him as the taxi-cab
took them into the heart of uptown. As the streets became cleaner and the city
brighter, white lights reflecting off glass skyscrapers, Lovino felt a fist of
unease clench his stomach. Suddenly, he didn't feel hungry. He felt car-sick.
                "Are you okay?" Antonio asked. He looked worried.
                "Yes, fine," Lovino grumbled. "I just... I don't like long car
rides," he lied.
                "Oh, okay. Driver!" Antonio called.
                The taxi-cab let them off in front of a large department store,
which employed a doorman who used to call Lovino young sir whenever he visited.
                "I'm sorry," said Antonio, misreading Lovino's nostalgia for
nausea. "I didn't know."
                "Oh, you don't have to..." He trailed off, looking up into
Antonio's earnest green eyes. Ah,fuck it. "Thanks," he said softer, leaning
into the Spaniard's warm body.
                "The restaurant's not far," Antonio promised, leading Lovino.
"I think you'll like it."
                I like this, Lovino thought, gently squeezing Antonio's bicep.
It felt good to have the Spaniard's strong, solid body so close. In a moment of
weakness, he found himself hoping that they would never reach the restaurant,
freeing them to walk the city together all night. And yet... Every step down
Main Street brought back bitter-sweet memories of his life before Club 69. He
remembered the streets and shops, the feeling of being weighted down by bags;
the cafés and hotel lounges, where he had learnt to drink at too young an age,
getting tipsy on cocktails served in fine crystal; the parks and gardens, where
he used to waste his afternoons painting. He felt a pang of regret when he
spotted the University he had once attended, it's artistic rooftops rising in
the distance like cathedral spires. He fought down an unexpected wave of
emotion as they passed a favourite café, where he and his younger brother used
to have supper after a day of shopping; gossiping about people they knew;
criticising the men the other was dating. He remembered how their chauffer
would have to circle the block half-a-dozen times while waiting for them. But
most of all, Lovino remembered the exact street-corner where he had met him.
                "Lovi—?" interrupted Antonio. "You're awfully quiet. Are you
feeling okay?"
                Lovino sucked back a sob. Antonio's voice was so soft in
concern. It was protective. Unexpectedly, it touched the Italian's guarded
heart. "Mm hmm."
                "Oh, this is it!" Antonio smiled, his pace quickening.
                Lovino knew the restaurant, though it had been a long time
since he had dined there. (The last time had been for Feliciano's thirteenth
birthday.) It was a nice place.
                They left their coats at the coat-check and then followed the
host, who ushered them to a table near the back windows, which overlooked the
harbour. Lovino was comforted by the feeling of Antonio's hand laying between
his shoulder-blades. It wasn't at all possessive, only reassuring. It said: I'm
here,right behind you. Lovino really liked the feeling. He began to relax,
thinking that—maybe—the night would be salvageable after all. That is, until he
recognized the party seated directly across from he and Antonio.
                "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me!" he said unhappily.
===============================================================================
                                    GILBERT
Toni?" said Francis in bewilderment.
                Gilbert twisted in his seat and saw Antonio staring back in
confusion. Oh,fuck, he worried, glancing between them. Francis looked as if
Antonio had just single-handedly ruined his plan of espionage; Antonio looked
as if he had just swallowed a bug. Gilbert sat back, hoping to avoid taking
sides. He glanced at his wristwatch. It had only been a matter of time before
something went wrong, of course, Francis' plan was far from fool-proof. But
even Gilbert didn't think it would happen so quickly.
                It's okay, he thought logically, Fran and Toni are both pros at
improv. They're both actors,they'll come up with an excuse. It'll be fine.
They'll put on a show and our dates will totally believe it. There's nothing at
all to worry about. It's all going to be fine.
               Gilbert waited. And waited. And waited.
                Any time now,guys.
                Maybe it was the surprise that crippled them, or their
inquisitive young audience. Whatever the problem, Francis and Antonio continued
to stare at each other in bewilderment, until Antonio finally said:
                "Uh.... hey. What are you guys doing here?" He glanced
fleetingly at Gilbert, then to Francis for an answer.
                 "What are we doing here?" Francis repeated. He glanced quickly
at Arthur—who was frowning—and forced a smile, as if seeing Antonio was nothing
but a pleasant surprise. (A little late on the uptake, but better than
nothing.) He stood to greet his friend, each kissing the other's cheeks to hide
a hushed exchange, but Gilbert was seated close enough to hear them:
                "I told you anywhere but here!" Francis said sternly.
                "No," Antonio corrected, "you said you were going anywhere but
here."
                "What? No. Why would I say that? I said—"
                As Francis and Antonio argued, feigning pleasantries, Gilbert
took note of Antonio's date. The Italian looked equally as disgruntled, though
his face was red. Maybe he was blushing, maybe he had high blood-pressure.
Gilbert didn't care. Nor did he care about Francis' date, who's eyes were
narrowed indignantly, ready to place blame. The only person Gilbert actually
cared about—the only person he was responsible for tonight—was Matthew. The
boy's blonde head was cocked in curiosity, trying to piece the puzzle together.
That's when Gilbert realized, if he was close enough to hear Francis and
Antonio's conversation, then Matthew was, as well. Doubtless, the bartender
recognized both men from Club 69, which is why they had intended to keep the
dates separate. If he or anyone else started to ask questions, though...
                Oh,fuck.
                Impulsively, Gilbert leapt up. "Hey, look!" he said too loudly,
drawing attention. "They have an aquarium at the bar! Let's check it out!"
                Over-eager, he yanked Matthew up and ushered him out of ear-
shot, throwing his partners an annoyed look over-the-shoulder as he did. Fix
it! he mouthed, frustrated with them both as he led his charge away.
Fortunately, Matthew didn't fight. He simply followed Gilbert's insistent lead,
a look of mild bewilderment on his face.
===============================================================================
                                    ARTHUR
What's going on here, frog?" Arthur said, squeezing between Francis and
Antonio. "I'm Arthur Kirkland, by the way," he introduced himself with mock-
sweetness. "And you—well, you must be Antonio," he drawled, eyeing Lovino. The
Italian was waiting at his and Antonio's table, red-faced in embarrassment. He
looked surprisingly vulnerable, as if he had just realized he was the punch-
line of a cruel joke. Arthur actually felt bad for him. Maybe that's why he
lowered his voice to a threatening whisper, and added: "Should I call you
Detective, as well?"
                Antonio's eyes widened. "He knows?" He looked at Francis, who
nodded. "Why the fuck does he know?"
                "Never-mind that now," Francis dismissed. He cast an anxious
glance at Lovino, who was eyeing the trio self-consciously. "Arthur, do me a
favour, won't you,chéri? Take Lovino to the restroom for, like, five-minutes.
Toni and I need to get something sorted."
                Arthur clenched his jaw, feeling defensive. He disliked taking
orders. "Tell me, frog," he said coldly, "are you planning on using all of my
friends for your game?"
                Francis flinched at the verbal-blow; Arthur saw it. He saw the
panic in the Frenchman's blue eyes. "I'm sorry, of course not," he said gently.
"I—I'll explain later, okay? I promise."
                "You'll what?" Antonio gaped in disbelief. Francis ignored him.
                "Right now, I really need you to play along," he said. "Please?
It's to everyone's benefit, I assure you. Arthur," he repeated impatiently. He
lowered his voice. "Do you want Lovino to know that his date with Antonio is a
ruse?"
                Arthur paused. He recalled how excited Lovino had been while
getting ready that afternoon; how much time and effort he had spent making
himself look perfect; how much he had talked (complained) about the Spaniard
whom his thoughts were completely preoccupied with. Arthur and Lovino might not
have had the best relationship, but they didn't dislike each other. In fact,
Arthur was rather (secretly) fond of the colourful Italian. He had spirit,
which Arthur admired. He didn't want to see Lovino get hurt.
                If anything you do hurts Lovino or Matthew, he thought, eyeing
the detectives wearily, I'll make certain you regret it.
                Francis had hit on a nerve: Arthur's need—selfishness, even—to
protect those in his care. It was bad enough that the detectives were using the
three of them like pawns, but at least Lovino and Matthew were ignorant of it.
And perhaps that was for the best.
                "Fine," Arthur agreed. Glaring at Francis, he started toward
the restroom and signalled for Lovino to follow.
===============================================================================
                                    MATTHEW
Do you, uh... want a drink?" Gilbert asked, indicating the bar opposite the
aquarium.
                "No, thanks," Matthew replied, trying to look cavalier without
sacrificing gratitude. He didn't want Gilbert to think that he was a bore, but
he had also forgotten his (fake) ID in his bedroom. He couldn't risk getting
carded. He alwaysgot carded no matter where they went. Besides, drinks were
expensive, especially at nice restaurants like this, and Gilbert—cool and
devil-may-care as he seemed—didn't look like he was made of money. He looked
good, though. Really good. Matthew couldn't believe his luck. Surely such
handsome blind-dates were not the norm? He's got the most beautiful eyes I've
ever seen, he thought, trying to stare at him without Gilbert noticing. Matthew
wanted to say something clever or interesting to counter his unimaginative
drink choice and grab Gilbert's attention, but all he came up with was:
                "So, do you like fish then?"
                Gilbert was leaning forward, nearly nose-to-nose with the
aquarium glass. "To eat or look at?" he asked.
                "Uh, both?"
                "No."
                "Oh," said Matthew in surprise. "Sorry, I thought..." He
stopped when he saw Gilbert's sideways grin. The German was teasing him.
Matthew smiled in reply.
                "So, Arthur's your cousin?" Gilbert asked conversationally. He
straightened to his full height as he spoke. He was tall, one of those people
who habitually had perfect posture.
                "Yes, technically. He's actually more like my brother," Matthew
replied. "We've always been together."
                Gilbert smiled. "I have a brother, too, so I kind of get the
whole overprotective big brother thing," he added.
                "What do you mean?" Matthew feigned ignorance.
                Gilbert cocked an eyebrow in a yeah-right fashion. "Okay," he
said sarcastically, "so Arthur's been glaring at me since you arrived because,
what? He hates Germans?"
                "Well, yes," Matthew joked, "but I get what you're saying. It's
not his fault though. The over-protectiveness, I mean. He's a wonderful person,
really. It's just... it hasn't always been easy for us," he said ambiguously.
"I think Art's just forgotten how to trust people. He assumes the worst of
everyone, don't take it personally."
                "I'll try not to," said Gilbert, inclining his head with mock-
cordiality.
                An awkward silence settled between them, which Matthew broke by
saying:
                "That's Antonio?" He bobbed his chin toward the Spaniard.
"Lovino's been talking about him for three days."
                "Oh, yeah? Toni must have really made an impression," Gilbert
smirked, glancing back at them. "Then again, so did Lovino." He tapped his
cheek in example.
                Matthew laughed, then quickly covered his mouth. "Oh, poor
Antonio," he said in apology. "I'm so sorry. Lovino's got a bit of a temper,
but he's a great guy, too—really. He's just a bit defensive before he gets to
know you. But he really does care about people. He's very sweet."
                Gilbert eyed Matthew for a moment, a studious look on his pale
face. "You've got something nice to say about everyone, haven't you?"
                Matthew blushed and lowered his gaze. He didn't reply.
                "Matthew," said Gilbert hesitantly. "Can I ask... how old you
are?"
                "Nineteen," Matthew lied. To hide the fact, he
immediately—playfully—asked: "How old are you?"
                Gilbert chuckled. "Not nineteen."
                Matthew waited for a less ambiguous reply, but received none.
If he was guessing, he would have said mid-to-late twenties, though it was hard
to tell. Gilbert's looks were unique. In truth, he looked ageless. He's so
handsome, Matthew thought. Yet, he didn't miss the way Gilbert actively avoided
his reflection in the aquarium glass. He could see the reflection of the
German's striking eyes, always looking away from himself. Matthew wanted to say
something complementary to him, but Gilbert interrupted before he could muster
the courage:
                "It looks like the storm has ebbed," he joked, indicating their
fellows. "I think it's safe to return. Come on."
                Matthew followed, but before they reached the table, they were
intercepted by Arthur and Lovino, who were returning from the restroom. Leaping
at the opportunity to interrogate his cousin, Arthur subtly grabbed Matthew's
elbow, and whispered:
                "No appetite?" It was an accusation. "Why aren't you eating?"
                "Because it's not my money," Matthew replied, feeling
disgruntled. Frankly, he had been embarrassed by Arthur's blatant disregard for
his date's pocketbook. But Arthur, apparently, was more disconcerted by
Matthew's lack of enthusiasm. This was clear when he stopped in the middle of
the dining-room, forcing Matthew to stop with him.
                "Just a moment," he said, reassuring the others. Lovino didn't
even acknowledge them as he returned to his date's side. Gilbert paused, then
walked on. Arthur smiled for the party's benefit, but his tone was scolding
when he said: "When we return to the table, you're going to ask for a menu and
place a real order. Not a side-dish, okay?"
                Matthew sighed, but he said: "I'm not going to take advantage
of my date, Art, not when he's treating me to supper. It's bad enough that he
got roped into a blind-date with me—and don't even deny it, because you know
that Francis just dragged him along to appease you. But even so, Gilbert's been
really nice to me. I don't want to ruin it."
                Arthur scoffed. "Oh please, Matthew! It's barely even a date,
regardless of what the frog-eater says. You think they can't afford it?"
                "That's not the point," Matthew argued. "The point is—"
                "Hey, are you two coming?" Lovino's loud voice interrupted. He
was standing awkwardly between Antonio and Gilbert and looked very small.
Matthew noticed how Antonio kept a hand on Lovino, as if to remind everyone
else whose date the Italian was.
                "Eat something!" Arthur insisted as they returned to the table.
                Matthew reclaimed his seat and ignored him. As a courtesy, the
restaurant staff had pushed two tables side-by-side so that Antonio and Lovino
could join the now triple-date. Lovino seemed unhappy about it, but Antonio's
demeanor was cheerful. He talked—loudly—and asked Matthew lots of questions
that were, perhaps, a bit too private for a public setting. Eventually, Gilbert
gracelessly told him to "cut it the fuck out." Antonio merely rolled his eyes
and moved on to harassing Arthur, much to Lovino and Francis' amusement.
Matthew nodded gratefully to Gilbert, who smiled in reply.
===============================================================================
                                    LOVINO
Lovino was glad when the wait-staff brought their meals, because it gave him an
excuse not to talk. It was impolite to speak with your mouth full (not that
Gilbert had gotten that message). The night had began so wonderfully, but it
had not proceeded as expected. Of course Antonio was a friend of the annoying
French patron from Club 69. Of course he fucking was. And the fact that
Matthew's date was an obnoxious potato-bastard? Yeah,super. Besides, if Lovino
had wanted to spend the night with his roommates, he would have stayed at home.
He sat quietly—moodily—and avoided eye-contact with everyone, bitter about his
interrupted date. Not that he actually cared about dating Antonio. It was just
a free meal, and he liked to be spoiled. Though as he pushed the food around
his plate, uninterested, he realized that he wasn't hungry. In fact, he still
felt nauseous.
                "Are you sure you're okay?" Antonio asked quietly. Lovino
looked sideways at the Spaniard's earnest face. "If you want, we can leave."
                "No, I'm fine," Lovino said. Even though it was what he
desperately wanted, he didn't want to ruin Antonio's night with his friends. He
smiled in reassurance, but it was stiff, and Antonio looked skeptical.
Fortunately, he was saved from answering by Arthur:
                "Yes, of course we'd like the dessert menu, please!" he said to
the waiter without consulting anyone else.
                Francis frowned unhappily, but nodded in consent. His
expression softened when Arthur bobbed his head toward Matthew, conveying a
silent plea. Matthew was talking to Gilbert, not paying attention, but Lovino
understood the exchange. Matthew loved sweets, even Lovino knew that, and the
boy hadn't eaten anything except a small green salad and complimentary bread
all night. Lovino had considered pushing his plate toward Matthew—he wasn't
going to eat it—but thought it would be an insult to Antonio, who was paying
for it.
                "Matthew, what are you going to have for pudding?" Arthur
asked, smiling. It looked fake to Lovino.
                "Nothing," Matthew countered. "I'm fine, thanks."
                Arthur sighed in defeat. Francis said: "Gil, what about you?"
                Gilbert frowned. "Me? You know I don't like sweet things,
Fran."
                "Oh, I know," Francis mused conversationally, "but this place
has really great desserts. You should definitely order something," he
emphasized. "If you don't like it, I'm sure that someone else will eat it. It'd
be a shame to waste it, after all."
                The German merely blinked at him, perplexed.
                Lovino rolled his eyes. This is just fucking painful.
Helpfully, he kicked Gilbert's shin. The German glowered at him, but Lovino's
eyes shifted subtly to Matthew and back, translating the request. There you
go,idiot, he nodded when Gilbert's face revealed understanding.
                "Oh, yeah... okay then, dessert," he said, grabbing a menu. He
was a bad actor, Lovino thought. Especially when his dessert arrived—a
delicious ice-cream dish—and he ate a bite of it, proclaimed it too sweet, and
then offered it to Matthew. Matthew's violet gaze flitted accusingly to Arthur
and back before he accepted it. God, Lovino sighed in annoyance, Matt's young,
but he's not stupid. At least the teenager looked happy eating the sweet
dessert. (He loved ice-cream.)
                "Hey, Lovi," said Antonio, proffering a forkful of cake, "do
you want a taste? It's really good."
                No, Lovino did not want a taste. He could smell the decadent
chocolate from where he was and the sweetness nearly made him gag, but the
Spaniard looked so hopeful, and he was trying so hard to cheer Lovino, that he
ended up saying: "Yes." The minute the chocolate touched his tongue, however,
he wished he hadn't. The nausea that had been churning his stomach suddenly
crept up his throat, filling his mouth with sour fluid. Lovino's eyes widened
as he leapt tactlessly up, pressing a hand to his mouth.
                "Lovi—"
                Lovino ran to the restroom, ignoring the shouts that followed
him. He pushed his way inside, threw open the stall door, and vomited into a
pristine toilet. Once, twice, thrice. He gripped the porcelain edges as his
stomach roiled, rejecting everything he had eaten within the last twenty-four
hours, which mostly consisted of rank, digested sushi.
                "Lovino, are you okay?"
                Matthew's voice entered the restroom, echoing. He spotted
Lovino bent over the toilet and knelt behind him. "Oh, no..." he said
sheepishly, rubbing the Italian's back. "Was it the sushi? I told Art it was a
bad idea, but he thought it would be fine—"
                Lovino coughed. "What about the sushi?"
                "Oh, uh... it may have been a little past its expiration
date..."
                Lovino groaned and hung his head in despair. "Oh my God! You
fed me expired fish?"
                "I'm sorry! Art said it would be fine!"
                "That's because you two have stomachs made of cast-iron! I've
seen the crap you eat, it's disgusting! I've told him a thousand fucking times,
I can't eat—"
                His words became a garbled growl and he vomited again.
                "Uh, Lovino?" It was Arthur. "What's wrong?"
                "I think Lovino has food-poisoning," Matthew reported.
                "You fucking poisoned me!" Lovino cried—literally; tears filled
his eyes. "I'm never eating anything you give me ever again!"
                "Apparently his digestive-system is a bit... sensitive,"
Matthew supplied. "Someone needs to take him home."
                "I'll take him."
                Lovino tensed. Oh, no. Not you. Anyone but you. I don't want
you to see me like this, he thought as Antonio squeezed in between he and
Matthew.
                "Lovi, it's going to be okay," said Antonio's soothing voice.
"You should've told me sooner you weren't feeling well, we could've postponed.
Come here." His strong, warm hands landed on Lovino's shoulders and squeezed,
gently guiding him. As he pulled Lovino out of the stall, he draped the
Italian's coat over his shoulders. "I'll take you to my place, it's just a few
blocks from here."
                "No..." Lovino choked-out, shying away. He grabbed Matthew's
sleeve to prevent the boy leaving him alone with Antonio, intending to use him
as a shield. He didn't want Antonio to see him like this, pale and sweaty and
faint. He didn't want the kind, handsome Spaniard to see him throw-up. What if
he threw-up on Antonio? That would be so embarrassing! "Matt," he mumbled
instead. "Take me home..."
                He took a step toward Matthew, then swayed dizzily. Antonio
caught him.
                "It's okay, Lovi. It's just a short walk to my place."
                Uninvited, he scooped the slender dancer effortlessly into the
cradle of his arms. Lovino moaned weakly and squeezed his eyes shut. Oh my
God,I feel like I'm dying! The motion of Antonio's footsteps made him press a
hand to his mouth, afraid that he would vomit. His other hand kept a firm hold
of Matthew's sleeve, forcing the teenager to stumbled along behind them. Arthur
had gone back to their table to inform Francis and Gilbert of the development,
but he returned in time to pry Matthew free. Considerately, Antonio exited the
restaurant by the back-door so that no one would see them. No,wait—don't leave
me alone with him! Lovino panicked, but nobody understood his fear. To them, he
just looked sick. "Wait—!" he croaked, but a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He
pushed deliberately at Antonio and stumbled onto his hands-and-knees, gagging
on the roadside. By the time he caught his breath, Arthur and Matthew were
gone.
                "Fuck," he growled.
                As Antonio helped him stand, half-carrying him, Lovino made a
mental-note to chuck all of his roommates' clothes out the window when he got
home.
===============================================================================
                                    ARTHUR
Lovino looked absolutely mortified. Arthur pitied him, he did, but he also
agreed that taking him to Antonio's place was the best option. It was a lot
closer to the restaurant than their flat was, and probably more comfortable.
Maybe it even had medicine. Besides, there was something reassuring about
Antonio's concern that quieted Arthur's doubts. The Spaniard's expression had
gone from cheerful to worried when Lovino leapt up and ran to the restroom, but
his bedside manner was calm and considerate. He hadn't hesitated. He hadn't
shied away from Lovino's state, or asked unnecessary questions. He had simply
swept Lovino into his arms and strode deliberately toward the exit, and in that
moment Arthur doubted he could have stopped him even if he wanted to. Antonio
was on a mission, and that mission was taking care of Lovino. Frankly, having
nursed Lovino before—he was an absolute nightmare when ill—Arthur was more than
happy to step aside and let Antonio have him. (He would be sure to get
Antonio's address from Francis in the event of an emergency—or, if the Spaniard
regretted his choice.) Besides, Francis had assured Arthur that Antonio was
trustworthy, and, though Arthur didn't know Antonio, he didtrust Francis.
                Arthur returned to the dining-room just as Francis and Gilbert
were settling the bills. (Gilbert paid Antonio and Lovino's bill, dismissing
Matthew's needless apology. "I've got it, it's fine. Toni can just own me," he
said. Arthur would have called Gilbert's cavalier attitude smooth, if only the
German realized how impressive the act was. It was a very large bill.) It was a
congenial exchange with the restaurant staff. The waiter wished them a pleasant
evening and packaged up the leftovers, glad to see them go, then they retrieved
their coats from the coat-check. But before Arthur could follow Gilbert and
Matthew out, Francis cornered him in the hallway. He did not look pleased as he
proffered his bill.
                "You're paying for half of this."
                Arthur crossed his arms, the bag of leftovers hanging over his
wrist. "You're going to make your date pay for his own meal? What kind of
gentleman are you?"
                Francis' eye twitched. "It's five-hundred fucking credits."
                "Oh, please," Arthur feigned nonchalance (though, he honestly
didn't think it would be that much). "Like you can't afford a little splurge,
frog."
                Francis gaped at him. "Just how much money do you think I
make?" he countered. "I'm a police detective, I don't shit fucking gold!"
                "Well, I don't know..." Arthur shrugged, feeling guiltier by
the second. "But it's obviously enough to buy posh six-thousand-credit suits,"
he muttered, looking away.
                He flinched when Francis grabbed his chin and jerked his head
back. He knew the Frenchman was a handsy man, but, though his touch didn't hurt
Arthur, his posture revealed a whisper of aggression. Arthur tensed.
                "I don't know where you're getting your information from,
chéri, but it's wrong," Francis said, voice lowered for privacy. "I don't even
own this suit. It belongs to the department. I work undercover. Everything I'm
wearing right down to my fucking socks is borrowed. Did you actually think I
was rich?" he asked incredulously. Arthur bit his lip. "I'm not rich," Francis
corrected. "I play with the government's money for a living, okay? And then I
go home to a one-bedroom flat across from a 24-hour Quick-Mart, which is barely
an upgrade from the studio-flat I used to share with Toni."
                Arthur's lip quirked. "Seriously?"
                "Yes, seriously," Francis said. "I just moved out last year.
Until then, we had to split the flat down the middle with a Japanese screen. It
wasn't ideal. I love Toni, but nobody should have to live that close to their
friends."
                "Well, uh... surely your department will reimburse you for
tonight?" Arthur offered, trying not to laugh.
                He stopped when Francis took a deliberate step forward, closing
the gap between them and forcing Arthur's back against the wall. It may have
been a borrowed suit, but damn! Francis looked good in it. Arthur could feel
lithe muscles pressed tauntingly against him through the fabric as the
Frenchman leant forward. It stirred an unexpected yet familiar yearning in his
lower-body, the kind of discomfort no amount of self-ministration—or inept
actors—could satisfy. When Francis spoke, the faint note of challenge in his
husky voice made Arthur hunger for more:
                "No. The department won't reimburse me."
                Arthur swallowed. "Why not?"
                "Because I didn't get permission to take you out tonight. As
far as the department is concerned, this is just a personal affair. It's got
nothing to do with the investigation."
                "Then... why did you choose such an expensive restaurant?"
Arthur countered, trying to inject as much scorn as possible, but Francis'
proximity prevented it. He felt hot and bothered and couldn't help staring at
Francis' lips, so close to his. "Why this place?"
                "Because I was trying to impress you!" said Francis, as if it
was obvious.
                "Oh, I see... Well, uh... if it's any consolation, it worked
very well."
                "Too well, I think," said Francis grudgingly.
                An awkward silence stretched between them for a moment too
long, then Arthur broke it by uttering a small:
                "I'm sorry."
                Francis sighed; Arthur felt it. "It's okay," he said, stepping
back. "Just..." he cocked his curly head and those velvety lips reluctantly
smiled, "stop spending my money, okay, chéri?"
                Arthur nodded.
                Francis began to walk away, but Arthur impulsively grabbed his
arm. "Hey, listen," he said hesitantly, feeling a little desperate. "I can't
pay you back... with money, but I can pay you back." He eyed the Frenchman
suggestively.
                Francis' lips curled into a receptive grin. "Oh? Well, I can't
say I'm not tempted," he said, shamelessly letting his eyes roam Arthur's
unfashionably clad figure from head-to-toe, "but I don't trade sex for favours.
Not ever. Don't worry about it," he said, gently uncoiling Arthur's hand.
"Despite the bill," he frowned, "I don't regret asking you out tonight. You
don't owe me anything, Arthur. It's not like this was a real date anyway."
                "What if I want it to be?" Arthur blurted.
                Maybe it was the heady red wine, or the romance of twilight.
Maybe it was the memory of the Frenchman's talented hands, and the promise of
his body. Maybe it was the fathomless blue of his beautiful eyes. Or maybe it
was because Arthur hadn't had a good fuck in months. Whatever the reason, the
flushed Englishman reached out brazenly and hooked a finger into the waist of
Francis' dark trousers, drawing him closer.
                "What if we pretend that this is a real date?" he asked
seductively.
                Francis placed a hand on Arthur's slight hip. "Are you sure? If
we do this," he teased, his voice lowered, "you run the risk of falling
desperately in love with me."
                Arthur's look was doubtful. "It's just a shag. I'll take my
chances." He leant forward and let his lips brush the Frenchman's softly. "Take
me home, frog."
                They were halfway to the doors when Arthur suddenly remembered:
"Oh, Matthew!" But Francis dismissed his concern.
                "Don't worry," he purred, his arm wrapped intimately around
Arthur's waist, "Mathieu is safe. He's with Gil."
                "Gil—?" Arthur repeated skeptically.
                Francis chuckled. "Don't worry," he repeated, nipping Arthur's
neck. Arthur swallowed a groan. "Gil's not a scoundrel, I promise. No matter
what he looks like. The truth is," he admitted as they stepped into the cold
night, "the only one of us who actually canafford this kind of extravagance is
Gil. His family's loaded. He lives on the upper-west side—big house with
security cameras and dogs that eat better than I do. Trust me, Mathieu will be
just fine."
===============================================================================
                                    GILBERT
Gilbert's cell-phone vibrated, indicating a call. Francis' name appeared on the
screen. "Fran?" he answered, confused by the call. "Where the fuck are you?"
                "In a cab heading to my place," Francis replied. He sounded out
of breath. "Change of plans,Gil. I need you to make sure Mathieu gets home
safely,okay? Thanks!"
                "Wait, Fran, no don't—! Fuck," he sighed, shoving the cell-
phone into his pocket. He looked over at Matthew, who was patiently enjoying
the picturesque view of the harbour. The lights bathed him in a soft silvery
glow, making him look young and fragile and beautiful.
                I hate you so much,Fran.
                "Hey!" he called, more gruffly than he meant to. Matthew
flinched. "So, uh... Fran and Arthur aren't coming back with us."
                "Ah," said Matthew knowledgably.
                "I'm going to take you home, okay?"
                "Oh, sure. But you really don't have to," Matthew insisted. "I
mean, if it's out of your way, I can just take the metro, it's fine—"
                "Matthew," Gilbert interrupted, "get in the car."
                "O-okay. Uh... which car?"
                "The one we're standing in front of."
                "Oh." Matthew blushed. (He's so fucking cute.) Then realization
hit the boy. "Wait," he said in disbelief, "this is your car?"
                "Yeah, why?"
                "Oh, no, nothing, it's just... I just didn't expect you to...
It's really nice," Matthew corrected, gaping in blatant appreciation.
                "Thank-you," Gilbert grinned in self-satisfaction. He tried to
look nonchalant, but he loved the compliments his car provoked. "My brother and
I rebuilt her when we were in high-school... and may have made a few
adjustments to her original design," he said as he circled around Matthew.
Politely, he opened the passenger-side door. "She's a '58 Mercedes-Benz 300
SL—What?"
                "Oh, no, nothing," Matthew shook his head, failing to hide his
amusement. "I like Mercedes."
                "Yeah, me too..." Gilbert said, not entirely sure he understood
the joke. He shrugged and ushered the boy inside. "After you, schatzi."
                He was feeling confident—he liked showing-off—but his arrogance
died a swift death when Matthew looked back at him from the passenger-seat and
smiled.
                "Thanks," he said.
                Suddenly, Gilbert felt all warm and fuzzy inside.
                I'm going to kill you,Fran.
Chapter End Notes
     I know shit-all about cars. Just go with it. =_=
***** Four *****
                                    LOVINO
Antonio had a lovely washroom. Lovino had had lots of time to determine this,
since he had been confined to it for the better part of an hour. He guessed
that the rest of the flat, though small, was equally as nice, but he had not
stopped to ogle the wall-sconces when he had entered. Abandoning his pride, he
had groaned the word, "toilet—?" and been led to the porcelain haven of
Antonio's lavatory. At this point, he had had lots of time to survey the small
space, and lots of time to read every label on every bottle, tube, and dish
cluttering the countertop, and had deduced that, though the Spaniard used
several products to enhance his good-looks, those dark, glossy waves were
entirely natural.
                "Lovi—?" said the devil, himself. "Are you okay, cariño?"
                "Fine," Lovino barked, wishing the washroom door had a lock. As
it didn't, Antonio pushed it opened a crack and peeked inside. "I said I'm
fine," Lovino repeated, a little annoyed and a lot embarrassed. He had
undressed to his trousers and a sleeveless white t-shirt, which was damp with
sweat. His hair was lying lankly across his forehead and his pallor was a
sickly olive that was not his natural colour. His lips were parched, his
eyelids were heavy, and he had never felt more repulsive in his entire life.
Not even covered in bruises had he felt so ugly. "Just go away," he said to
Antonio, refusing to look at the Spaniard. But he could see the man's
reflection in the mirror.
                "I brought you a change of clothes," he said, smiling like a
puppy-dog whose master was sad. It was such an earnest smile, it made Lovino
misty-eyed, which in turn made him feel pathetic.
                "Thanks," he mumbled from his place on the tiled floor.
                In retrospect, he should have accepted the clothes by hand. His
failure to do so invited Antonio inside. He placed the clothes—a t-shirt and
pyjama bottoms—on the counter, then knelt apprehensively at Lovino's side.
Lovino was grateful for Antonio's generosity, and really grateful that his flat
was so close to the restaurant, but he wished the Spaniard would leave him
alone. Lovino had already taken medicine. Antonio's medicine cabinet was better
stocked than any street pharmacy the Italian had ever encountered, which had
made him momentarily anxious. The last thing he wanted was to get romantically
involved with another addict. He briefly wondered what in hell Antonio needed
so many drugs for, but his curiosity was short-lived as nausea overwhelmed him.
Now, all he could do was wait for the medicine to take effect and settle his
empty stomach.
                He flinched suddenly when Antonio's knuckles gently brushed his
cheek. He hadn't realized that he had been dozing, half-asleep where he sat.
                "You're a bit flushed, but you look cold. Are you cold?"
Antonio asked.
                Lovino made a noncommittal noise. At first the tiled floor had
felt good as he sweat and vomited, but now he shivered.
                "Are you tired?"
                I feel fucking dead, he thought. He said: "Yeah."
                "Get changed," Antonio ordered. Then he left the washroom.
                Lovino hesitated, his stubbornness making a brief re-appearance
before he grabbed Antonio's clothes from the countertop. The fabric was
lightweight and soft in the way old, well-laundered clothes were. They smelled
like the Spaniard, too; a bit like his aftershave. Lovino pulled the t-shirt on
overhead, closed his eyes, and indulged in a deep whiff. A moment later, a
knock sounded on the door.
                "Lovi—? Are you decent?"
                Lovino frowned. I dance at a fucking strip-club and he's
worried about walking in on me naked in his own house? He's so fucking
weird."Yeah," he said, pushing open the door. A begrudging "thank-you"
followed, indicating the clothes.
                Antonio smiled.
                "I, uh... think I'm okay now," he said, avoiding the Spaniard's
puppy-dog gaze. "But I left my cell at home." It was useless anyway. He was
overdue on a couple of payments and the provider had cancelled his service—not
that he would tell Antonio that. "Do you have a phone I can use?"
                "What for?"
                "To call a cab—"
                "No," Antonio interrupted.
                "No, you don't have a phone—?" Lovino puzzled.
                "Not for a cab," Antonio clarified. "It's late. And cab-fare is
expensive. And what if you get halfway home and feel carsick again? And... I
don't mind having you here. You should..." his voice softened, "stay."
                Lovino couldn't help it, he looked up at the Spaniard. His
chest tightened and for a second he thought he was going to be sick again. Then
he realized his heart had leapt into his throat and the unsettling sensation
was affection. Antonio didn't look repulsed or inconvenienced by Lovino's
repugnant state. His smile looked genuine.
                "You don't seriously think you're getting lucky tonight, do
you?" he asked snidely, trying to maintain a casual distance—physically and
emotionally.
                Antonio laughed. "No," he acknowledged, then winked. "But let
me know if you change your mind, cariño."
                "God, you're weird," Lovino criticised, marching off.
                He marched about five steps before he was forced to stop and
acknowledge that he didn't actually know the flat's layout. His eyes
automatically spotted a couch, but Antonio opened an adjacent door.
                "Bedroom," he said, bowing Lovino inside.
                Lovino narrowed his eyes.
                "What?" Antonio grinned. "You want my hands tied behind my
back?" he mimed.
                Lovino smirked. "Is that an option?"
                Before Antonio could reply, a yawn forced it's way past
Lovino's lips. He covered his mouth, but couldn't stop the little sigh of
exhaustion that followed.
                "Go on," Antonio said, gently pushing Lovino into the bedroom.
"Go to sleep, Lovi. I'll stay out here."
                For a split-second, Lovino wanted to protest. He wanted Antonio
to accompany him to bed, if only to feel less vulnerable in an unfamiliar
space. But he thought better of inviting the Spaniard into his own bed and
merely stepped into the windowless room. He did, however, catch the doorframe
before Antonio could close it.
                "Leave it open, okay? I don't want to grope around in the dark
if I need to get sick again," he argued, though the truth was less practical.
                I don't want to feel alone tonight. At least with the door
hanging ajar, he would have a clear slight-line of the living-room couch.
                "Sure," said Antonio, smiling kindly. "Let me know if you need
anything. Goodnight, Lovi."
                Lovino was glad for the dark. It hid his blush. "Goodnight,
Green Eyes."
===============================================================================
                                    GILBERT
Gilbert watched Matthew out of the corner of his eye as he drove downtown, one-
handed. Being left-handed, Gilbert usually steered with his dominant hand, but
that would have placed his right hand awkwardly close to the passenger's seat,
so instead he drove with his right and let his left hang out the open window.
"Choose a radio station if you want," he said to Matthew, hoping he would. He
couldn't stand the silence, but he didn't know what to say to the quiet boy.
Gilbert wasn't a conversationalist. Most nights, he worked alone. As Matthew
played with the radio dials, he mentally mapped-out the fastest route back to
the bartender's flat. The sooner he dropped Matthew off, the sooner he could
start planning revenge on Francis.
                Why did you leave me alone with him,Fran? Without Francis'
guidance, he was afraid he would fuck it up. How long had it been since his
last date? And had it been with a man or a woman? Fuck, I can't even remember.
All he remembered was that it hadn't outlasted his short attention-span and
neither party had called the next day.
                "Oh, stop!" he blurted suddenly. "Go back—that one. This is a
great song."
                Matthew turned the volume up, then sat back to listen. His eyes
roamed the car's interior, absently bobbing his curly head to the music. He
slid his hand over the door, his fingers tracing the details. The city lights
flashed by, illuminating his pale face in a fractured glow. He looked very
content, a lot more relaxed now than he had been in the restaurant, as if he
was enjoying something a lot more thrilling than a simple car-ride. Again, his
violet eyes landed on the smooth dashboard, where a silver insignia was
engraved.
                "Hey," Gilbert said, struck by a thought, "do you want to
drive?"
                Matthew's violet eyes lit up. "I'd love to, but..." Sheepishly,
he looked down. "I don't have a driver's licence."
                "No—?"
                Gilbert considered the intersection he was stopped at. To the
left was Matthew's flat; to the right was the city limits and a long stretch of
empty highway. He looked sideways at the boy, his date, who finally seemed to
be enjoying the night. And he turned right.
                "Where are we going?" Matthew asked a little nervously.
                Instead of answering, Gilbert pulled over on the side of the
highway and got out of the car. "Go on," he said, opening the passenger-side
door. "Switch with me."
                Matthew looked up at him in disbelief. "But I—I can't drive,"
he worried. "I mean... what if I hit something?"
                Dramatically, Gilbert twisted from left-to-right, pretending to
survey the empty landscape, not another car in sight. "I think you'll be okay."
                "But I don't even have a learner's permit yet—" Matthew argued
as Gilbert took the liberty of unbuckling his seatbelt and pulling him out.
                "Matt," he interrupted, "do you want to drive, or not?"
                Matthew hesitated, then looked shyly up at Gilbert. "I want to
drive," he smiled.
                "Go on then. I'll teach you."
                "What if the police catch us?"
                "Don't even worry about it," he replied, hiding a chuckle at
the irony. "I've got a good reputation with the city police."
                They got back into the car, Matthew in the driver's seat,
Gilbert in the passenger's seat. Overeager, the boy ran his hands over the
indented leather steering-wheel and gingerly tapped the gas pedal.
                "Hold on." Gilbert leant over Matthew and grabbed the boy's
seatbelt. "Safety first," he teased. "Now, check your mirrors. Good. Brace the
clutch—there, on the floor. And put her in gear, like this," he demonstrated,
grabbing Matthew's hand. "Can you feel it shift?" he asked, holding Matthew's
hand over the joystick as he moved it from one gear to the next in practise.
                "Yeah, I can," Matthew replied. He was giddy with nervous
excitement.
                Slowly, the car eased back onto the road. "A little more gas,"
Gilbert advised. He left his hand on Matthew's and helped him shift, ordering
"clutch" every time (even so, they stalled out twice before Matthew managed to
get it). The boy's face relaxed into a bright smile as the engine purred,
propelling the car down the highway. Gilbert couldn't help staring at him. He
knew he should be watching the road, but the boy's childish excitement was
infectious. "A bit faster, that's good. Now, clutch. Don't clench the wheel,
don't jerk it. Hold it lightly." The commands came naturally to Gilbert, like
falling back into a routine. He remembered teaching Ludwig and Antonio how to
drive, and Matthew was much more receptive and patient than either of them had
been (a bit timid, too). "Are you afraid of the gas-pedal?" he teased. "Come
on, schatzi, give her a push. There you go," he praised as the car purred in
happy acceleration. Matt's eyes glowed in the light of the dashboard, a smile
on his face.
                "Take a left up here," Gilbert said after a while. "Slow down
and ease her into the turn—a little slower. Go in tight and out wide. Good,
that's really good," he praised. Matthew smiled proudly, but he kept his eyes
on the road. He was focused. He never took his eyes off of the road, and
Gilbert barely took his eyes off of him. It was late when Gilbert finally ended
the lesson.
                "That was so much fun!" Matthew laughed, leaping out. "I've
never driven anything before!"
                "A couple more lessons and you'll be ready for your driving
exam," Gilbert overstated. He ruffled Matthew's curls and then wished he
hadn't. This was a date, after all. He had forgotten this was a date.
                "I've actually never been out here before," Matthew said,
unperturbed. They were parked in the lot of a small strip-mall on the outskirts
of the next town over. The terrain was rugged here, and covered in dense
evergreen forests as far as could be seen. "I didn't know we lived so close to
something so beautiful," he said, admiring the wilderness.
                "There's a hiking trail up there," Gilbert pointed. "And—" he
swivelled, "—an observation point over there."
                "Really? I bet the view is—" Matthew stopped as his stomach
suddenly gave a loud, angry growl. He blushed.
                "Hungry?" asked Gilbert.
                "No, I just—"
                "Get in."
                They climbed back into the car and Gilbert pulled into the
drive-thru of a fast-food diner. "What do you want to eat?" he asked.
                "Really, it's okay. I'm not—"
                "If you don't tell me, I'm going to order for you," Gilbert
threatened.
                Matthew sighed. "A cheeseburger—?"
                "Are you asking me, or telling me?"
                "Uh, telling you—?"
                Gilbert chuckled. "You really suck at this," he smiled. "A
cheeseburger, okay. Just one?"
                Matthew's stomach growled again. "Maybe two. And fries. And a
milkshake."
                By the time Gilbert was finished ordering, they had six
cheeseburgers, two cartons of fries, a milkshake, and a diet cola between them.
                Gilbert smirked. "Not much of an appetite, huh?"
===============================================================================
                                    ARTHUR
Oh, mm... uh,o-oh yes... yes..."
                Arthur bit his bottom lip, but he couldn't silence the cascade
of breathy encouragement that poured from his mouth. His voice was soft and
laboured. He took fast, shallow breaths as his body rocked back-and-forth, his
back arched, lying sprawled on Francis' mattress. The Frenchman was bent over
Arthur's lower-body—Arthur could barely see the top of his head from this
angle. He squeezed a fistful of Francis' silky hair, pulling and pushing him as
his hips involuntarily bucked. His legs were flung over the Frenchman's
shoulders, and he inadvertently dug his heels into Francis' back. Fran—nn,uh...
yea... a-ah... ah..." Arthur let his head fall back, eyes closed as a wave of
climax crashed through him. At the last moment he jolted forward, cupping the
back of Francis' head urgently. "AH!"
                "Oh,God," he whispered in recovery. The strength went out of
him and he fell back. "Oh,blimey O'Reilly's fucking trousers."
                "In French," said Francis, leaning over him, "we just say
thank-you."
                Arthur opened his eyes. Francis deliberately—slowly—licked
semen from his lips.
                "I'm not going to thank you for blowing me. Or shagging me," he
added as Francis crawled eagerly forward.
                "I didn't think you would," Francis mused seductively. His eyes
looked strikingly blue in the moonlight. His hands slid teasingly from Arthur's
thighs to his taut backside and cupped it. He turned his head and brushed his
teeth against Arthur's leg, still wrapped around his neck. The Englishman's
heart skipped a beat when Francis pressed his parted lips tenderly to the
sensitive skin of his upper-thigh. "I guess I'll just have to try harder," he
purred, his voice a breathless whisper. He pushed his erect cock into the heat
of Arthur's wet entrance in one smooth, expert motion. Arthur produced a soft
noise—half gasp, half sigh—in reply. He reached behind himself and grabbed
handfuls of bed-sheets in excited anticipation. He could already feel his body
tensing again in desire. He opened his mouth and closed his eyes and felt
Francis' hot breath as the Frenchman began to move inside of him:
                "I love a challenge," he whispered.
===============================================================================
                                    LOVINO
Lovino felt his lover's rough hands coil around his slight waist, then slide
up, cupping his pectorals. He shivered at the intimate touch and leant back
against the man's warm chest. He felt the man's hot lips kiss his neck, suck
his neck—bite his neck. Lovino flinched, but he didn't protest. He felt the
man's naked body shift, felt the slide of his erect cock against his thigh as
his lover crawled on top of him, pinning the boy against the mattress. Lovino
stared up at him and instinctively tensed. The man's dark eyes were wide and
unblinking, the pupils dilated. Lovino swallowed. He touched his lover's
forearm, and anxiously said: "Wait—"
                The man's fist struck him hard.
===============================================================================
Lovino bolted upright, gasping. He pressed a hand to his mouth as he struggled
out of a tangle of bed-sheets and ran to the washroom, disoriented. He fell to
his knees and dry-heaved until the panic ebbed and he was too exhausted to
continue. He sat on the tiled floor shivering, trying to get the mental-image
of his ex-boyfriend out of his head. Oh,no. No,no,no,go away! He squeezed his
eyes shut and rubbed his temples. Go away!
                Eventually, he picked himself up off the floor, splashed a few
handfuls of cold water on his face, and left the porcelain sanctuary. He was
passing by the living-room when he spotted Antonio's languid figure sprawled
over the couch, his arms flung carelessly overhead, his legs stretched out, his
mouth hanging slightly open. A crocheted throw lay bunched on the floor,
kicked-off sometime in the night, leaving Antonio's naked torso on display.
Lovino's hazel eyes stared shamelessly at the shadowed contours and cords of
relaxed muscle in the Spaniard's fit body. He was so handsome. But Lovino's ex
had been handsome too, and he was afraid he had seen smiles like Antonio's
before: too happy, too carefree, too eager. Maybe he was just being paranoid,
but he felt like he knew what kind of secrets those disarming smiles hid.
                Clearly I have a type, he thought ruefully. He slipped his
fingers below the waistband of the pyjama bottoms he wore and felt the scar cut
low into his hip, and as he did he remembered what happened when those sweet
smiles turned sour. He closed his eyes and swallowed.
                I can't do this. Not again.
                And yet... he suddenly wanted to touch Antonio. Antonio, who at
that moment looked so defenceless, and so beautiful. I'd love to paint him,
Lovino thought as he tip-toed slowly toward the couch, staring openly at the
Spaniard. His fingers hovered over Antonio's warm, ochre skin.
                The Spaniard mumbled incoherently in his sleep, his thick
eyelashes fluttering. A peaceful smile curled his parted lips. They looked so
soft—so kissable.
                Lovino pulled back.
                He stepped back, retreating fast.
                He closed the bedroom door behind him.
===============================================================================
                                    MATTHEW
Matthew sucked French fry salt off his fingertips, savouring the grainy texture
that melted deliciously on his tongue. He tilted his head and licked his pinky.
Then he saw Gilbert watching him and stopped. He smiled coyly and blushed. So
did Gilbert. They both quickly diverted their gaze.
                "This is really beautiful," Matthew said, avoiding eye-contact;
drawing attention to the view instead.
                They were leaning back against the windshield sitting on the
hood of the car, parked at the observation point that Gilbert had described
earlier. The night sky was crowded with shining stars and the valley stretched
out far below them, moonlight reflecting off the river. He could see the black
ribbon of highway cutting through the flat landscape. It was late, but Matthew
didn't care. He was used to working late nights. Even though the evening had
begun shakily—he had been apprehensive about the double-date turned triple—as
soon as they left the crowded restaurant he had relaxed considerably, and now
he was in no hurry for the night to end. He liked Gilbert's company. It was a
lot easier to talk to him one-on-one.
                When Gilbert had produced a sleeping-bag from the car, Matthew
had raised a teasing eyebrow. "Well, aren't you prepared. Just how many guys to
do you bring up here?"
                Gilbert's pale face had blushed as he hurried to explain: "No,
none—! I mean, just you. But not for the reason you're thinking! I just—ah,
fuck," he gave up when Matthew laughed. "It's not like that. I just always keep
a blanket in the car."
                "Why?"
                "When I was a kid," Gilbert said, laying the sleeping-bag over
the hood, "my Vater and younger brother and I were out driving and the car
broke down. It was winter, really cold. I was nine, Ludwig—my brother—was
seven. Vater left to get help and told us to stay put. I guess he figured he
could go faster if he didn't have to tote us two kids along. I don't think he
planned on being very long. We had winter coats on, but to this day it's the
coldest I've ever been." He shivered at the memory. "So now," he concluded
simply, "I always keep a blanket in the car, just in case."
                Matthew leant back into the plush sleeping-bag, now. The night
was cold, but he was dressed in layers so he didn't mind it. In fact, the bite
of clean air felt good. Gilbert didn't seem to mind it either. He was a fairly
big man and produced a lot of body-heat; Matthew could feel it. They lay almost
shoulder-to-shoulder on the hood. The air smelled of crisp pine-needles and
greasy take-away wrappers. When a gust of wind ruffled Matthew's curls and he
shivered, Gilbert chivalrously offered him his jacket. Matthew didn't need it,
but he accepted anyway and sunk into the embrace of soft, weathered leather. It
felt good.
                "I'm glad you like it," Gilbert said, staring out across the
valley. "It kind of reminds me of home. Germany," he clarified. "My family is
from Berlin, but we have a house in the countryside. It's where my brother and
cousins and I spent our summers growing-up."
                "That sounds nice. I've always wanted a cottage in the middle
of nowhere," Matthew confessed. "Somewhere to disappear to, you know?"
                Gilbert nodded. "My family's house," he said, shifting to face
Matthew, "sits on a cliff that overlooks the lake. We loved the lake. I can
still remember the year Mick—my cousin—taught us all how to swim. Or, tried to.
I caught on quick," he grinned proudly, "but Ludwig was too afraid to leave the
shoreline. We practically had to drag him out. I had to hold his hand that
whole summer or else he refused to swim with us," he chuckled, eyes twinkling
fondly at the memory. Gilbert's smile was easy and honest; Matthew liked it a
lot.
                "One summer," Gilbert said, "we decided to prove how tough we
were by jumping off the cliff into the water. So it's me and Ludwig and my two
cousins, Mick and Lars. I'm ten, Mick is twelve, and Lud and Lars are both
eight. And we're all fucking terrified." Gilbert grinned wider. "Our knees are
knocking as we're standing there looking over the edge, but none of us wants to
admit that he's scared. So, we're all badgering each other and insulting each
other. They're all calling me a coward and I'm calling them worse, and then I
finally just go for it. I take a running leap and shout at the top of my lungs:
Geronimo!"
                Matthew chuckled. "Seriously?"
                "Yeah. The next thing I know, I'm flying," Gilbert mimed.
"Like, actually fucking flying toward the water with no way to stop. I hit it
with an almighty smack!" He slapped his hands loudly together. "And I swear I
passed out for a second. But I surface and I'm okay, and then all I can hear is
my brother's voice screaming: Gil's dead! So, he and my cousins go running back
to the house to get my Vater, and by the time I reach the shore Vater is
running toward me, and—oh, man—I wish I had died. My Vater is a really scary
guy. You do not want to see him angry, and holy fuck was he angry. He yelled at
me for a solid hour once he realized I was okay. He yelled about pride and
safety and setting a better example for my brother, blah, blah, blah... Fuck,
you'd think I'd just murdered someone." He rolled his bright eyes. "Anyway, I
finally return to the house where Lud and the others are waiting for me, and I
just can't help it: I'm grinning like a fool, because I jumped and they didn't.
I mean, they all got supper that night and I didn't, but still... It was worth
it just to see the looks on their faces!"
                Matthew was laughing by then. Gilbert's face and his voice were
so expressive when he talked—storytelling—especially when the topic was
something he obviously cared about, like his family.
                "Okay, it's your turn," Gilbert grinned playfully. Gently, he
nudged Matthew. "Tell me one of your stories."
                Matthew thought for a minute before deciding on a story to
tell. "Okay, when Art and I were younger," he began cautiously, "we made a
pact. I don't remember why we made it in the first place, but we both solemnly
swore to aid or accompany the other whenever the pact was invoked. It could be
anything, any errand or adventure the other didn't want to do alone."
                "Oh, man," Gilbert laughed. "My family and I would've totally
abused each other with a pact like that."
                Matthew shrugged. "Art and I have always had an unspoken
understanding," he explained. "It's always just been us, so we've always taken
care of each other.
                "Anyway," he continued, "after my mother died"—brief pause—"the
pact took on new meaning without either of us realizing it. It started to mean
I'll stand by you no matter what.Art and I started getting into a lot of
trouble, but we never got caught. We were just desperate and stupid. So stupid.
One day we ended up in a department store. It was in the middle of the day and
we...." He shook his head. "We didn't look like we belonged. I was really young
and really stupid and..."
                "What?" Gilbert urged.
                Matthew bit his lip. "If I tell you, you won't report me to the
police, right?"
                "Well, that depends on what you did," Gilbert teased. (Matthew
hoped he was teasing.)
                "Nothing dire," he said. "Nothing even clever. I'd seen Art
shoplift before. I'd seen how swiftly he did it, like a magician. It was never
anything too big or expensive. And never anything with an anti-theft device on
it."
                Gilbert snorted. "Oh fuck, you didn't."
                "I did," Matthew admitted, covering his face in shame.
                "As soon as we stepped out of the shop the alarm started
blaring and Art knew exactly what I'd done. But he didn't say anything, and he
didn't stop to scold me or apologize. He just grabbed my hand and we bolted
down the corridor. The store security chased us from one end of the building to
the other, shouting at us the whole way. Then, on the seventh floor, Art ducked
out through an emergency exit—causing more alarms to sound—and pulled me out
onto the fire-escape. We made it all the way to the second-level before the
ladder got stuck and we both panicked. But I didn't even stop to think. I was
so scared that I started easing myself down, thinking I would just jump, never-
mind that we were twenty feet up. But before I could let go, Art grabbed my
arms. So then he was yelling at me and the guards were yelling and cursing at
us both and I was just hanging there, begging Art to let go. Then one of the
guards tried to grab at Art and Art got spooked and lost his balance. I fell
straight down and he came tumbling head-first after me, shrieking like mad.
Thank God there was four feet of snow on the ground, because we hit it hard. I
was so afraid that Art had broken his neck, because for a minute he just laid
there moaning, but by some miracle we were both okay. We got up and ran for it,
leaving the guards screaming at us from the fire-escape."
                Gilbert shook his head, chuckling. "Okay, I've got ask: What
did you steal?"
                Matthew felt his face heat in embarrassment. "Ice-skates."
                The German barked in laughter, half-shocked, half-impressed.
"You ran through the store and climbed down the fire-escape with a pair of
fucking ice-skates flung over your shoulder?"
                Matthew shrugged. "My coat was big enough. I didn't think
anyone would notice. I told you—stupid. But the heart wants what the heart
wants," he joked.
                "Fire-escape has since then become our safe word," he added,
making air-quotes. "It basically means there's no other way out but to risk
bodily injury. Though, it's become more of a dating joke lately."
                "So, I should count myself fortunate then?" asked Gilbert,
grinning. "At least you didn't risk bodily injury to escape us tonight."
                "Not yet," Matthew teased. "But Art did go home with Francis."
                Gilbert pretended to consult his wristwatch. (It was an
expensive custom-fit. The kind Art would have tried to pickpocket in his
youth.) "Yes, he did. About three hours ago. What are the odds he's hanging
from the fire-escape right now?"
                It was very late—or very early—when Gilbert finally parked his
car in front of Matthew's flat and walked him to the door, ignoring the boy's
dismissal: "It's okay, you really don't have to walk me..." Matthew was
secretly flattered by the German's blatant insubordination. He had never had a
date walk him to the door before. Not out of politeness, anyway. In fact, he
couldn't recall a more considerate date than Gilbert Beilschmidt. He's nothing
like the other guys I've dated. Gilbert's confidence was a telling sign;
Matthew liked it, thinking it the German's most attractive feature. It wasn't
the forced bravado of a coward, or the showy self-obsession of a playboy. It
was just honest. There was nothing polished or noticeably refined about the
German, and yet Matthew had never met a man with more self-respect, and he felt
flattered that Gilbert regarded him with the same degree of consideration. As
he ascended the building's front steps, Matthew intentionally lingered, hoping
that this late-night goodbye would not be their last.
                I want to see him again. If he's even interested, he thought
self-consciously. Itwasa forced blind-date,after all. He was just doing a
favour for a friend.
                Then again, it was after three o'clock am. He could've brought
me straight back after supper,but he didn't.
                "Thank-you for tonight, Gilbert," he said at the front door. "I
honestly can't remember the last time I laughed so much."
                "Me neither," Gilbert replied. "And you're welcome. I'm glad
you had a good time, and... maybe..." He rolled his shoulders, adopting a
posture so casual it betrayed his unease. A hint that that confidence was not
impenetrable. Matthew's stomach fluttered; he waited patiently. "Maybe we
could, uh... go for another driving lesson sometime—?"
                "Oh, well I don't know," Matthew teased, tapping his cheek
thoughtfully. "I think I might be busy sometime."
                Gilbert shook his head. "Cheeky brat," he grinned. "Tomorrow
too soon? Good. I'll pick you up at one o'clock. Here, this my phone number."
                Matthew smiled. "Okay. Oh, your jacket..." He had forgotten
that he was wearing it. He started to strip it off, but Gilbert raised a hand
in dismissal.
                "I'll get it tomorrow," he said, slipping the cell-phone number
into the jacket's pocket.
                Matthew nodded and coyly hugged the soft garment close, waiting
for Gilbert to move—waiting for Gilbert to makea move. When the German merely
stood there, oblivious, he lifted his violet eyes to briefly meet Gilbert's
reds, then let his gaze fall suggestively to his lips.
                Come on,Gil. Are you going to kiss me,or not?
                "So, uh... goodnight then, Matt," said Gilbert awkwardly,
thrusting his hand out formerly in farewell.
                Matthew blinked in surprise, then swallowed a bubble of
laughter. What an idiot, he thought. Graciously, he accepted Gilbert's hand,
then leant up and kissed the German's cheek.
                 "Goodnight, Gil."
===============================================================================
                                    ARTHUR
Arthur's legs, slick with sweat and semen and saliva, flopped weakly onto the
mattress. As Francis crawled to the head of the bed, Arthur noticed two things:
                One, that it was after three o'clock in the morning.
                And two, despite Francis' teasing and arrogant attitude, the
Frenchman was completely, utterly exhausted.
                In retrospect, Arthur could admit that maybe he had been a
little more, uh... rambunctious, a little more... eager and, uh... desperate
than he had originally thought. Maybe his appetite had been a little more
insatiable than it would usually be. Honestly all he had intended was a good
fuck—a quick no-strings-attached one-night-stand—but as soon as Francis' door
had closed behind them, Arthur's desire had taken over. He hadn't wasted any
time undressing the Frenchman and himself like a horny teenager. It hadn't been
sweet or seductive or charming or tender—it was just desperate. Over and over
and over again. "You do realize that I am fucking you, right?" Francis had
asked after their second go, when Arthur had insisted he do exactly that the
entire time. ("Ah,fuck me! Fuck me,yes! Fuck me!") The third time, Francis had
fucked him from behind and Arthur's cries had been muffled in a pillow. Maybe
that was by design? he considered now. I can't believe I did that. I acted like
a bloody sex-starved teenager. Even so, Francis kept up. He didn't just obey
Arthur's insatiable demands: he fucked him from top to bottom, back to front.
He sated every single one of Arthur's desires and truly made the actor feel
things he had never felt before.
                "Okay," he admitted, gasping, heart palpitating. He looked at
Francis lying beside him. "You're not bad, frog. In fact, you're pretty good.
God,you're fucking good."
                Francis barely managed a breathless chuckle. He looked at
Arthur through heavy-lidded eyes. "I know," he said. He shifted and wrapped his
arms around Arthur like a body-pillow. "You're pretty good yourself, chéri.
That's... some endurance you've got," he added, baffled.
                A hiccup of laughter escaped Arthur. "Yes, well... call it an
occupational necessity. Hey," he continued when the Frenchman didn't reply. "I
should go. I need to get home. Let me up," he clarified, trying to escape
Francis' dead-weight embrace.
                The Frenchman mumbled in sleepy denial. He buried his head
between Arthur's shoulder-blades and sighed in contentment.
                Arthur frowned. "Did you hear me? I need to go. Let me go.
Francis..." he sighed. "What are you doing?"
                "Falling asleep..."
                Arthur considered his position—literally. It was after three
o'clock in the morning and he was uptown, an expensive cab-drive from his flat.
He was in a verynice flat in a very nice bed with a very nice-looking man
sprawled next to him. (Was there a chance at morning sex if he stayed?) Lovino
was at Antonio's, and Francis had assured him that Gilbert would see Matthew
safely home. In fact, Matthew was probably sound-asleep in bed. If Arthur
returned now, it would only disturb him. Besides, he didn't want to waste time
travelling back downtown knowing that he had to work late tomorrow, he would
rather sleep-in.
                Ah,sod it, he decided.
                He snuggled down into the inviting softness of the plush
comforter, the pillows, and the warmth of Francis' arms. The Frenchman's figure
was long and graceful in a masculine way that was not overbearing. His lovely
anatomy whispered a subtle strength and skill that Arthur's colleagues usually
lacked. They were too brazen. Too secretly self-conscious to show real
confidence. Arthur liked that he didn't feel small or weak or insignificant in
Francis' arms, like he did at work, nor did he feel like he was being
objectified for someone else's enjoyment. As his body relaxed against the
contours of his bedmate, he could feel the Frenchman's hair gently kiss his
freckled skin; he could hear his soft breaths, rhythmic in sleep; he could
smell the faint crispness of aftershave beneath the saturation of post-sex. And
he felt safe.
                For the first time in ages, Arthur Kirkland closed his eyes
knowing that nothing bad would happen to him.
===============================================================================
                                    MATTHEW
Matthew was feeling giddy as he slipped into the flat, noticing too late that
the door was unlocked. More accurately, it was broken. The door had been
kicked-in.
                "Hello, Matvey."
                A quick hand grabbed a chunk of his curls and yanked, forcing
his head back. His body went rigid. A tall man in a long charcoal overcoat
stood by the window, his massive width blocking the moonlight and casting his
face in shadow. Casually—almost playfully—he blew-out cigarette smoke as his
pale eyes swivelled to capture the boy whom his bodyguard held. If not for
their glaring intensity, they would have made a rather comical pair, and most
who met them assumed their roles were switched. But it was the big, brutish
Russian who was the employer, and the small, graceful Chinaman who was the
employee. Matthew had known and feared them both since childhood. Despite Wang
Yao being much shorter and thinner than the boy he held, there was nothing
delicate about his ability to incapacitate a victim. His swift speed and clever
hands held Matthew at an angle he could not escape from.
                "Forget something?" asked Ivan Braginsky, the loan-shark.
                All of the warmth and happiness Matthew had felt with Gilbert
suddenly fled, leaving him cold and exposed. "N-no, it wasn't on p-p-purpose,"
he stuttered. "I swear, we just—"
                "Where is my money?" Ivan interrupted, his tone polite but
merciless. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and stepped on it.
                "I-I—I don't have it, Art does. He does, really, but he's...
not here right now. But he has it. You'll get it. If you just come back
tomorrow—"
                "Oh, look at you," Ivan taunted as he drew closer. "You
givingme orders, telling me to come back tomorrow. Isn't that cute, Yao? Little
Matvey thinks he's in charge."
                Matthew cowered as Ivan neared, wishing he hadn't spoken;
wishing he could disappear. "I don't have it," he repeated softly, terrified.
He couldn't make eye-contact. He had been afraid of this man all of his life.
"Art does."
                "Well I guess I'll have to leave Art a little message, won't I?
And remind you both whom you really belong to. Isn't that right, Yao?"
                Yao didn't speak—he rarely did—but Matthew felt his grip
tighten.
                "Please, don't..." Matthew begged when Ivan stopped in front of
him and removed his gloves slowly, finger-by-finger. "Please—please,don't!" he
cried as Yao forced him to the counter and splayed the fingers of his right
hand. "I'm sorry! I'm really sorry,please!" He tried to fight the attack, but
Yao held him in a compromising position, using his own lightweight body as
leverage and trapping the boy's limbs to keep him in place. Ivan took one of
Matthew's fingers and began bending it back, teasingly slow. Matthew's heart
pounded and his body trembled in blind fear. "No,please don't—please,no—no—nn—
               "AAH—!"
                Matthew sobbed as he listened to his fragile finger-bones
break, one, two, three. Three fingers for the three-thousand monthly credits
they owed.
                He slid shakily to the floor when Yao released him and cradled
his broken fingers to his chest.
                "Tell Art," said Ivan, crouching down—Matthew felt his tobacco-
flavoured breath, "there will be interest on next month's payment. However he
wants to pay it," he added, a sleazy insinuation in his threatening tone, "is
entirely up to him." His gaze lingered for a moment on Matthew's tear-streaked
face and he licked his lips. He dragged a finger down the boy's cheek, then
stood in satisfaction.
                "Goodnight, little Matvey."
***** Five *****
                                    ARTHUR
It was late-morning when Arthur's groggy brain emerged from an erotic dream
that danced on the edges of reality. He realized why as Francis' body slid
suggestively against his, straddling him. Arthur was on his stomach, his legs
splayed, his hands gripping fistfuls of bed-sheet. He murmured in encouragement
as the Frenchman's hand coiled around his cock. "Mm,yes..." he whispered in a
drowsy voice, arching up as Francis' stiff cock plunged into him from behind.
He trembled and pressed his forehead into the pillow as Francis fucked him, his
moans muffled by the fabric. It smelled faintly of Francis' cologne. After a
bit, the Frenchman's rocking hips gave one final jerk and he came, filling
Arthur. Then Arthur's cock released and drenched the bed-sheet.
                "Bonjour, chéri," Francis whispered, pressing a kiss to
Arthur's bare shoulder.
                Soon after, they got up, showered—separately—and then dressed.
Arthur declined breakfast as he tugged on his shoes.
                "I need to go," he said, feeling guilty for staying so long. He
walked to the flat's front door, then stopped. "Uh, Francis?"
                Francis was leaning casually back against the kitchen counter,
his arms crossed over his bare torso, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of
loose-fitting trousers. He looked even better in the daylight. His long hair
hung loosely around his face, still damp; a single curl fell over his forehead
into his blue eyes. Arthur's eyes landed on Francis' lips, then followed the
defined line of his unshaved jaw down his neck, sliding over his fit torso, his
firm pectorals and abs, and down past his navel, where a dusting of fair hair
disappeared beneath his waistband. He was beautiful. He looked like an actor or
model, someone airbrushed to look perfect; someone genetically modified to look
like a fucking fallen angel. Absently, Arthur licked his lips.
                "I have a proposition for you," he said, recapturing Francis'
face. He felt himself colouring as he said: "You're good, okay? I admit it,
you're really good."
                Oh,bollocks. Could he look any smugger?
                Francis' grin revealed his satisfaction, but he merely said:
"Oh?"
                "It's exactly what I need... for my job," Arthur said. Francis'
grin stiffened; his eyes narrowed a fraction. "It's true that I'm not a good
actor, you said so yourself. I think it's because I haven't felt... that," he
alluded to last night's performance, "for a long time. Too long. And if I'm
being perfectly honest, I've never felt it quite like... that. I think it's
what I need. I need something to... reference... when I'm working. So what I'm
suggesting is, could we maybe do this again sometime?"
                Francis pursed his lips. "Let me make sure I understand you,"
he said haltingly. "You want me to fuck you so you can practice method-acting?"
                Arthur exhaled. "Well, if you want to make it sound creepy,
then yes. But it's not like it'll mean anything. It's just sex. Bloody good
sex, you can't deny it. I was there last night, dearest. I saw the look on your
face, too, and you're not thatgood an actor either. I'm not asking you for
anything more than that," he promised. "Think of it as a business proposal.
It's just to help my career."
                "Do you even like your job?" Francis asked skeptically.
                "No," Arthur shrugged, "but it pays the bills, which is all
that matters."
                Francis stared at him. Arthur waited, but when he realized that
a reply was not forthcoming, he continued:
                "You're allowed to say no, you know," he offered, feigning
nonchalance, "but it's not like I'm asking you to do something horrible. It's
not like you won't get anything out of it. If nothing else, it's a good shag
for both of us a few times a week, right?"
                "Uh, yes... I suppose. But I already told you," said Francis
firmly, "I don't trade sex for favours."
                "But it's not like that," Arthur argued. "It's not like you owe
me anything; it's not like I owe you. Just forget what I said about it being
business then, okay? Pretend we're just mates."
                "Friends with benefits—?"
                "Yes, exactly. So?"
                "So—?"
                Arthur regarded Francis expectantly. Francis stared
thoughtfully back, absently biting his lower lip. (Arthur wanted to bite that
lip.) He waited for the Frenchman to say something, anything. He waited,
feeling increasingly self-conscious given the intimacy of his request. He
waited until he finally lost his temper.
                "Oh, for the love of sodding Saint George!" he growled in
exasperation. "Do you want to shag me again this Wednesday, or not?"
                Francis fixed Arthur with a cool stare and wordlessly nodded.
===============================================================================
                                    LOVINO
Lovino woke up starving. He hadn't eaten anything in forty-eight hours and it
was the growling of his empty stomach that woke him. At first, he was
disoriented. The dark, cluttered bedroom was not his; the high double-bed was
not his; the clothes and books and albums and films and everything else strewn
haphazardly about were not his. (Is that the poster of a Spanish football club?
Fuck, just kill me now.) Slowly, he crawled out of bed, Antonio's borrowed
clothes hanging off of his body, and shuffled to the door. He wondered what
time it was, absently finger-combing his hair on his way to the washroom, but
the sound of Spanish made him stop. Curiously, he reversed until he could see
the open kitchen, where Antonio's luscious body was on shameless display. The
Spaniard was half-dancing around the kitchen, cooking, wearing nothing but his
yellow boxer-shorts and an unbuttoned shirt. Spellbound, Lovino could do
nothing but stare at the rippling muscles beneath the man's beautiful tanned
skin as he moved. His steps were fluid, shoulders and back stretching and
flexing as he reached for ingredients, and his hips—Oh God,his hips—rocked like
a dancer's, his boxer-shorts hugging low.
                "Hola, Lovinito," Antonio smiled.
                Lovino produced sounds, but no words: "Urm...mma...nf."
                Antonio reached overhead and turned down the radio's volume.
"Are you still feeling unwell?" he misread in concern. "You're a bit flushed."
                "I-I-I—I'm fine," Lovino barked too loudly. "I, uh... I'm just
going to, uh..." He pointed in the direction of the washroom, then stalked off.
                Once inside, he stuck the laundry hamper against the door
(because there was no lock), then splashed his red face with cold water.
                Oh my God, he nearly groaned, he's so fucking hot! I want to
touch him all over. I want to kiss him all over. I want to lick him all—
                No, stop! I can't think like that. It's dangerous to think like
that.
                He shook his head, trying to shake away the image of half-naked
Antonio. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched the edges of the countertop,
but that's when he heard the Spaniard's melodic voice singing faintly from the
kitchen. His singing-voice was as beautiful as his figure and both were having
a profound impact on Lovino's deprived body. Specifically, his lower-body. It
had been a long time since he had had sex with anything more than his right
hand. (Over a year, in fact, but he wasn't about to tell anyone that.) Last
night might have finally changed that, but he had missed his chance because of
food-poisoning—Dear Arthur,I hate you eternally,you cheap,selfish jerk-
bastard,love Lovino—and now his neglected cock seemed to be demanding
compensation. How embarrassing.
                In a voice he intended to sound casual, but which trembled, he
called: "H-hey, Green Eyes? Can I use your shower?"
                "Sure! Your clothes are clean, too. I'll put them on the
counter for you—"
                "No, no! Don't come in here! Just leave them in the hall!"
                "Okay, whatever you want, Lovi!"
                 Lovino was afraid of taking a suspiciously long shower, but he
needn't have worried because a mental-image of Antonio produced embarrassingly
fast results. (He only hoped that the shower was loud enough to cover his
voice.)
                Fuck.
                It felt so good to be clean. Lovino raided Antonio's washroom
for toothpaste, then got dressed in his clothes from last night—which had been
laundered with fabric softener! (Lovino missed fabric softener)—and returned to
the kitchen, feeling much more like himself. Or, as much as he could feel like
himself after having vomited and jerked-off in the Spaniard's washroom on their
first date. Fortunately, Lovino's lingering had given Antonio plenty of time to
get properly dressed, and he now wore enough clothing to hide enough of his
god-like body to save Lovino a hundred Ave Marias for impure thoughts. Still,
he was cautious as he sat down at the Spaniard's breakfast table.
                "I thought you'd be hungry," Antonio smiled, placing a plate of
considerately light-flavoured food in front of the Italian.
                "Thanks," Lovino muttered, blushing at Antonio's proximity.
                "So, Lovi," Antonio said, sitting down across from him. He
rested his chin on his folded hands, elbows on the tabletop, "can I see you
again?"
                Lovino choked on a mouthful of juice. "God, you don't waste
time, do you?"
                "I'm direct."
                "I noticed."
                Antonio chuckled. "I'd really like to take you out again. Will
you give me a second chance?"
                Lovino coughed again, then gave up and set the juice aside.
"You? It wasn't your fault I got sick."
                "I know, but it is my fault my friends were there," Antonio
admitted. "I'm sorry about that, by the way. Last night wasn't supposed to be
like that."
                "No shit."
                "I'd really like a second chance to try to impress you, Lovi."
                Then strip naked.
               "There's got to be something I can do to make it up to you?"
                NAKED.
               "Will you let me take you out properly, just the two of us?"
                Lovino swallowed. "Oh, uh..."
                Despite him panting over the prospect of sex with the beautiful
green-eyed Spaniard, Lovino knew he should refuse. It was the safer, smarter
option. The signs were all there: Antonio's distant gaze; the way his moods
changed so quickly,  from happy to stern in the blink of an eye; his effortless
commanding nature; his cabinet full of medicinal drugs. They were all red flags
that made Lovino nervous, because he knew exactly where they led. Yes, the
Spaniard was good-looking, but he was also potentially dangerous. That would
be—that had been—Lovino's luck.
                No,I shouldn't. I absolutely shouldn't say—
                "Yeah, okay," he said. "I'll go out with you. But, uh..." He
glanced down, losing his nerve. "Are you sure you want to go out with me after
last night?"
                Antonio blinked, perplexed. "Of course I do. Lovino," he said,
using Lovino's given-name properly for the first time since their introduction,
"I think you're wonderful."
                "O-oh," Lovino stuttered, blushing redder. Well,fuck. "Uh,
thanks. Thanks for... everything," he said shyly. "You're not such a bad guy
yourself, you know."
                "Ah, but Lovi," Antonio grinned wickedly, wiggling his
eyebrows. It took Lovino a second to realize that he was being playful, not
serious. "You only think that because you barely know me."
                "Oh, but I want to." Lovino couldn't help the teasing smile
that curled his lips as he threw Antonio's recycled words back at him.
                Antonio laughed and Lovino relaxed. "Wednesday, then?" asked
the Spaniard, smiling.
                Lovino nodded. "Wednesday."
===============================================================================
                                    ARTHUR
What the bloody-hell happened to you?"
                Matthew flinched. He looked like Lovino had when he had first
come to them over a year ago, bruised and battered, his forearm in a sling, and
wearing his ex-boyfriend's jacket, which was too big for him. Matthew mimicked
that timid posture now, looking small and defensive as if the volume of
Arthur's voice could hurt him. Did he sleep at all last night? Matthew had dark
shadows encircling his eyes that matched the fading bruise on his cheek, paler
than the fresh bruises—dark purple—on his right wrist. But it was nothing
compared to the ugly black discolouration of his middle fingers, which were
swollen and hanging stiffly at the wrong angle.
                "Let me see," Arthur said hoarsely, sitting on the bed's edge.
He had barely touched the boy's fingertip before Matthew yelped and pulled
back, crying: "Don't!" Arthur felt a stab of guilt, then rage. He remembered
the flat's front door, which looked like it had been kicked-in, the lock
broken. A horrible mental-image accompanied the evidence in Arthur's mind and
he swallowed in ire.
                "Matthew, pet," he said in a dangerous voice, "who did this to
you? Was it that German?"
                Matthew's head snapped up. "Gilbert—? No!" he gasped in horror.
"No, of course not!" Self-consciously, he pulled the leather-jacket tighter
around himself, like armour that could protect him. His eyes were big and
frightened. He looked sadly at Arthur, as if he didn't want to speak for fear
of it sounding like an accusation. "Art, you forgot this month's payment.
                "I'm so sorry," he added hurriedly, but Arthur barely heard.
His face lost its colour and his eyes widened in realization. He felt like
someone had just punched him in the stomach.
                "Oh my God, I didn't... I didn't pay the... I forgot... Oh my
God." He covered his mouth and sat back, the look of Matthew's injured fingers
now making him feel dizzy. "This is my fault," he whispered, feeling sick with
guilt. "I'm so sorry, poppet, I... I'm so, so sorry. I'll make it better," he
promised. "I'll take you to the ER, come on, I'll—"
                "No, not the ER," Matthew resisted. "They ask too many
questions."
                Both Arthur and Matthew knew what would happen to them—to
Matthew—if people started asking the right kind of questions.               
                "Okay," said Arthur resolutely, "then give me your hand, I'll
do it."
                "N-no," Matthew croaked in fear.
                "Matthew," Arthur said as gently as he could manage. "If the
bones aren't re-set, then your fingers won't heal properly and they'll be
crippled. It's going to hurt," he admitted, combing back Matthew's messy hair,
hooking a curl behind his ear, "but it has to be done."
                He didn't give Matthew a chance to argue. He got up and fetched
the First-Aid kit they kept in the kitchen cabinet, as well as a tea-towel.
Then he grabbed a bottle of Irish whiskey and set it on the bedside-table, no
glass, just the bottle. "Here," said Arthur, plopping a dose of cheap over-the-
counter painkillers into Matthew's uninjured hand and pushing the bottle toward
him. "Swallow, drink, bite down"—on the towel—"and for God's sake try not to
move.
                "Ready? One, two, three—"
                "A-AH!"
                Afterward, Arthur splinted and bandaged Matthew's fingers as
Matthew gulped down more whiskey. Then the Englishman made his exhausted cousin
a cuppa tea and tucked him into bed to rest.
                "I'm so sorry," he repeated, touching Matthew's forehead. "This
will never happen to you again, I promise."
                "It's not your fault, Art. Please don't think it is."
                Arthur nodded for Matthew's benefit, then left the bedroom. Not
my fault? he thought, fumbling in the back of the linen closet. How could it
possibly not be my fault? I wasn't here to stop it. He grabbed what he was
looking for and quietly slipped out of the flat, heading downstairs. As he
pushed the backdoor open and stepped into the alley, he thought about where he
had been and a flood of guilt submerged him. While he had been having the best
sex of his life, Matthew had been at the mercy of Ivan Braginsky. He had
suffered because Arthur had forgotten to pay. Because Arthur had been with
Francis instead of with his family.
                Of course it's my fucking fault!
                Gingerly, he lit the cigarette and brought it shakily to his
lips.
===============================================================================
                                    MATTHEW
Matthew grabbed Arthur's cell-phone and typed and re-typed the same message
three times before hitting send:
                HI, GIL. IT'S MATT. I CAN'T GO DRIVING TODAY. SORRY.
                Gilbert's reply was instantaneous:
                U OK?
                Matthew's fingers ached and his whole hand throbbed painfully.
His head pounded. He was half-drunk on whiskey and painkillers and knew he
would feel even worse  later when the effects wore off. And he was exhausted.
He typed:
                OF COURSE! I JUST CAN'T MAKE IT TODAY. RAINCHECK? :)
                OK
                Matthew set the cell-phone aside, feeling worse now than before
he had texted. He ignored the steaming tea that Arthur had courteously made him
and snatched the whiskey bottle instead. He chugged it until his eyes watered
and he coughed and felt dizzy. Then he set it aside, laid back, and passed-out.
===============================================================================
                                    ANTONIO
As Lovino was stepping out of the metro, a hurrying businessman bumped into him
and knocked him forward. "Oh, excuse me!" he said, and reached out in reflex.
He grabbed a hold of Lovino's belt to prevent him falling, accidentally groping
the boy's backside. Antonio reacted on impulse. He seized the man's wrist and
jerked it hard, twisting it back until the man cried-out. In one fluid motion,
Antonio shoved him aside and pulled Lovino against his chest, wrapping an arm
securely around the Italian. "Hey!" snapped the businessman indignantly. "It
was an accident—" He stopped the instant he saw Antonio's glare and hurried
off.
                "Uh, you can let go now," said Lovino awkwardly after a moment.
His cheek was squished to Antonio's chest.
                Antonio blinked. "Huh? Oh!" He let go and stepped back. "Sorry,
Lovi, I didn't mean to—"
                "It's okay," Lovino interrupted, straightening his clothes.
                Antonio nodded. He could feel his body starting to shake. "I
should go and apologize to him," he said, forcing a sheepish smile. "Would you
excuse me for a minute? I'll be right back!" he promised, jogging off before
Lovino could reply.
                As soon as he rounded the corner, he stopped. His heartbeat had
accelerated to a dangerous speed and he was sweating—panicking. He grabbed his
wallet and fished for a double-dose of medication with his shaking hands, then
clumsily ripped off the plastic and swallowed both pills in one mouthful. Then
he pursed his lips and closed his eyes and started to count backwards from ten,
taking deep therapeutic breaths. He coiled his hands into tight fists and
listened to the blood pound in his ears.
                Ten, nine,eight...
                I'm good. I'm fine. There's nothing wrong,nothing to worry
about.
                Seven,six,five...
                No need to panic,nothing to fight. Nothing to be upset about.
Everything is okay.
                Four,three, two...
                I'm fine...
                "Antonio—?"
                Antonio flinched, eyes flying open. "Hey, Lovi!" He plastered a
bright smile to his face. "I couldn't find him. I guess he already left. Oh,
well!"
                Lovino just stared, his hazel eyes revealing concern. He
reached tentatively out and laid his hand gently over Antonio's tight knuckles,
which stilled at his touch. Quietly, he asked: "What's wrong?"
                Antonio swallowed, then shook his head. "Nothing," he said,
softer. He took a deep breath and smiled more easily. "I'm fine.
                "Come on," he said, taking Lovino's hand. He held it loosely,
afraid of squeezing too hard, but more afraid to let him go. "I'll walk you
home."
                At the building's front door, Lovino stopped, turned, and
kissed Antonio. It was a sweet, chaste kiss, so quick and unexpected that
Antonio had no time to react.
                "See you Wednesday, Green Eyes."
                Dumbfounded, Antonio watched the Italian's naive retreat with
hungry eyes, his gaze going unabashedly to the tempting sway of his narrow
hips. He took a step forward, then another, and another... following Lovino
like a dog on a leash. When his foot hit the porch step and he realized this,
he stopped abruptly. Fuck. As soon as the door closed behind Lovino, blocking
him from sight, Antonio backed away and took off down the street. He ran as
fast as he could, heedless of those he passed. He ran until he gasped and his
legs ached and his lungs burned and he had nothing left in him to fuel the
Berserker. Only when he had put a safe distance between himself and the
tempting Italian did he slow to a jittery walk. Then he pulled out his cell-
phone and punched in a number. It rang twice before Francis' voice said:
                "Salut,Toni."
                "Fran, I—"
                "I had the best sex of my life last night. I kid you not,we did
it six times!It was exhausting,but totally—"
                "Fran!" Antonio snapped, short-tempered. "Not now. I-I-I—"
                "Toni?" Francis' voice changed, going from playful to parental
in a split-second. "Are you okay?"
                Antonio clenched and unclenched his free hand, wishing that he
had something to squeeze for stress-relief. "Yeah, I'm okay," he said, still
breathless. "It's just... getting bad again."
                Francis was quiet for a moment, then he asked: "How bad?"
                "Worse than it's been, but not as bad as it could be. I don't
know why."
                This was a lie. Antonio suspected that meeting Lovino played a
vital role in his shattered self-control, but he didn't want to tell Francis
that. He didn't want to admit that Lovino—wanting Lovino—was likely going to
cause him a relapse, because he didn't want to stop seeing the Italian. He
didn't want to acknowledge how weak-willed he was, too desperate for relapse to
keep his internal demons at bay. He knew he was an addict hungry for poison,
but it was a poison too delicious to refuse.
                "Toni,are you there—?"
                "Yeah, I'm here. It's not bad, Fran. Not yet. It's manageable.
I've got drugs for it. I'll be fine. I just..." Antonio paused; his voice got
stuck in his throat. "I just wanted to tell someone."
                "Okay,well... I'm glad you did," said Francis, unconvinced.
"Call me if you feel like you need to,okay?"
                "Yeah, okay."
                "Promise me."
                "Yeah." Despite his raging internal-conflict, Antonio smiled,
touched by his best-friend's worry. "I promise.
                "So," he added, because Francis hadn't hung-up yet. He never
hung-up first when Antonio called. Even if Antonio had nothing to say, even if
there was dead-air between them, Francis never left first. He always—always—let
Antonio do it, even if it took a long time. Antonio didn't know what the hell
he had done in life to deserve friends like Francis and Gilbert, but whatever
it was must have been something really, really good.
                "So—," he repeated, drawing it way out, feeling better with
every step, every breath. Feeling stable as long as Francis was on the line.
His smile curled into a conniving grin. "Six times, huh?"
===============================================================================
                                    GILBERT
Gilbert tried not to stare at his cell-phone, hoping it would vibrate with a
text. He tried to focus on his work, creating a list of witnesses to
interrogate, instead of a list of reasons why Matthew had cancelled on him. He
tried not to think of what he had done wrong, or why anyone—not just
Matthew—would reject him. (That was a bleak list, one that was too long and
depressing to think about.) It might have been professional suspicion creeping
into his personal-life, but he didn't believe for a minute that Matthew's vague
reassurance and happy-face was genuine. He hadn't even bothered to invent an
excuse, the stupid boy. Gilbert didn't know if he appreciated that, or felt
stung by it. He didn't know what he had gotten wrong, so he didn't know how to
correct it. He didn't know how to think about it. He didn't know what to do
about it. But most importantly, he definitely didn't know why, why, why it was
bothering him so much!
                Irritated, he grabbed his cell-phone and chucked it across the
lounge. It landed on the opposite sofa, beside the floor-to-ceiling fireplace.
One of the dogs' ears twitched, but neither one awoke.
                "Gil—?" said Ludwig, walking in. "I thought you were going
out?"
                "Change of plans," Gilbert grunted, silver-white head bowed
over his work. It was strewn across the lounge.
                Ludwig tut in disapproval and wordlessly began tidying the
large space. He collected a bag of pretzels, as well as a bowl of
Studentenfutter fruit—because Gilbert had eaten everything else, leaving the
candied fruit—and several empty beer cans; a discarded hoodie; a pair of socks;
a stack of messy notebooks, and a handful of gnawed on pencils ("You're going
to get lead-poisoning," said Ludwig, snatching a pencil from between Gilbert's
teeth. "No, I won't. It's graphite," Gilbert absently replied.). The only
things Ludwig didn't touch were the files stacked on either side of Gilbert.
Files containing data the detective had literally spent years collecting.
Finally, the younger Beilschmidt huffed in resignation.
                "You're working too hard again, Gil," he said, reprimanding his
older brother. "It's nearly three o'clock in the afternoon, haven't you eaten?"
                Gilbert waved absently at the discarded fruit. Ludwig sighed.
                "You can't live on beer and Studentenfutter like a college kid,
Gil, you're almost twenty-eight."
                "What?" Gilbert's head snapped up, a look of feigned shock on
his face. "I am? Does the press know?"
                "Gil," Ludwig deadpanned. He rescued another pencil from
Gilbert's teeth. "Please eat something that's not beer and pretzels. Or
graphite."
                "Yes, Mama."
                Ludwig rolled his eyes and left.
                Gilbert snickered, then noticed his cell-phone lying on the
opposite couch. He hesitated for a minute, testing his self-control, then
crawled across the room and grabbed it.
                NO NEW MESSAGES
                He sighed and went back to work.
===============================================================================
                                    FRANCIS
LATER
Mercedes! What the fuck is this?"
                Francis had snuck into one of Club 69's dressing-rooms in
search of evidence, and was rummaging through a vanity when he heard the loud,
abrasive voice. Quietly, he peeked into the adjacent room, the door hanging
ajar, and clapped a hand to his mouth to stifle a gasp. Matthew stood half-
dressed beneath the harsh lights, his body a canvas of fading bruises; his face
a signature of abuse without layers of makeup to hide it; his left hand swollen
and splinted. He looked like a fragile shell of the boy Francis had met the
night before.Just how much makeup was he wearing?
                Francis watched as the tall man—Mikkel's club manager—grabbed
Matthew's right forearm, making the boy yelp.
                "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he demanded, letting
go.
                "Uh, w-working?" Matthew's reply was quiet; Francis barely
heard it. Nervously, the boy glanced from left-to-right.
                The manager took one scrutinizing look at his bandaged hand and
scoffed. "The hell you are. Not like this. Not looking like the fucking poster-
child for domestic abuse. You think the patrons want to see that? No. They want
to see something pretty, not a kicked-dog. And what the fuck happened to your
face? Actually, never-mind. I don't care. Just get out."
                "But I—"
                "How the fuck are you going to make drinks if you can't use
your fucking hand?"
                "Sir, please, I really need the money. I can still—"
                "I don't care what you fucking need, get out!" the manager
hollered. "You're lucky I don't fire your ass, you stupid, useless brat! Now
go! Get out of my fucking sight and don't come back until you look like the
pretty, empty-headed little fuck-toy we're paying you to be, and not a goddamn
punching-bag!"
                "Y-yes, sir."
                Francis waited for Matthew to grab his coat and leave the
dressing-room, then he followed him. On the street outside, he called-out:
"Mathieu!"
                The boy instinctively tensed. It was sad.
                "Oh, Francis. Hi," he said, bowing his head. He crossed his
arms, his left hand clenching his coat sleeve; his right hand hanging stiffly.
"I'm f-fine," he added defensively, noting Francis' pitying stare.
                Francis sighed. He placed a gentle hand on the boy's back.
"Come on," he said, guiding Matthew toward the street. "Let's get you home."
                Matthew didn't argue or fight. He merely nodded and let Francis
hail a taxi-cab, then climbed obediently in. Francis briefly considered sending
the driver off with Matthew's address and a wad of banknotes, but one look at
the shattered boy sitting alone in the backseat changed his mind.
                "Toni," he whispered into the hidden microphone, "I've got an
errand to run, I'll be right back."
                "Yeah,sure. Is everything okay?"
                "I don't think so, that's why I'm going."
                Cautiously, Francis ducked into the taxi-cab beside Matthew and
directed the driver to the downtown flat. Then he closed the bullet-proof
panel, separating the front from the back. It was a poor attempt at privacy,
but it was better than nothing. He wanted to ask Matthew what had happened to
him. Who had done it? When had they done it? Why had they done it? And was it
anything to do with the club? It was the perfect opportunity for an
interrogation. A dozen questions tugged at the police detective, whose
shoulder-devil told him to take advantage of the boy's state, but when he
finally looked at Matthew and saw tears, he simply said:
                "That place is a fucking hell-hole."
                Matthew nodded meekly in agreement. It wasn't until they
reached the flat and Francis was helping him out of the vehicle that he spoke.
"Francis? Don't tell Gil, okay?"
                It was sad, but Francis couldn't help smiling a little, because
it was hopeful, too. The look of a boy who didn't want to destroy a potential
relationship with ugly truths.
                Looks like you made a better impression than I thought,Gil.
                "Of course," he promised Matthew. "I won't say a word."
                Francis took the taxi-cab back to Club 69, but before he could
enter the building he was yanked roughly into an alley.
                "What the fuck happened?" asked Gilbert. The streetlight
reflected in his red, red eyes, making his face look chalk-white. The rest of
him was a tall black shadow. If Francis' didn't know him, the German's angry
growling would have frightened him. "Why was Matt crying?"
                 "I'm not allowed to tell you," Francis smiled. Gilbert
frowned. Gently, he uncoiled the German's fist from his jacket. "But if I were
you," he advised, "I'd swing by that flat tonight sometime before Arthur and
Lovino get home."
===============================================================================
                                    LOVINO
Oi, Ferrari!" said one of the regulars, slipping a few banknotes into Lovino's
waistband as he pulled the dancer onto his lap.
                Lovino rolled his eyes and began to move, grinding his hips
against the patron's pelvis. "Again?" he mocked.
                The man smiled as he cupped Lovino's backside. "Awe, you know
you're my favourite, Ferrari. When are you going to let me take you away from
all this, huh? I'd treat you real nice."
                "Pft, you don't even know my real name," Lovino criticized.
Also,blah!
                The man was twice Lovino's age with a wife and two pre-teen
daughters on the upper west-side. He had told Lovino as much, the smug idiot.
If Lovino wasn't so desensitized to sleazy men like this one, he would have
shivered at the man's repulsive, adulterous touch. Instead he played it casual,
channeling his temper into a hard-to-get act that attracted many competitive
patrons. Tips were tips, after all.
                "Besides," he added, leaning down seductively, "you couldn't
afford me."
                Lovino felt the man's engorged cock tenting his trousers. He
squeezed the dancer's backside and drew him in closer. "Oh, yeah? What is it
you want, baby? Clothes, diamonds—?"
                Lovino smirked caddishly. "What I want is—"
                SMASH!
                Lovino whipped around and saw Antonio sitting at a table beside
the bar, his green eyes wide and unfocused, holding the remains of a broken
glass.
                "Sir, are you okay? Oh!" said a waiter, clapping a hand to his
mouth. "I'll get a cloth!"
                Antonio blinked, as if waking from a daydream, and unclenched
his fist. When he turned it over to inspect it, Lovino saw several shards of
glass embedded in his palm. Wordlessly, looking dazed, he picked them out one-
by-one and took a cloth from the waiter, which he wrapped twice around his
hand. Even by the dim club lights, Lovino could see a dark stain soak into the
fabric as the Spaniard got up and quickly left.
                "Oi, Ferrari!" said Lovino's customer impatiently. "Why'd you
stop, huh? I'm not paying you to gawk at other men, so get on with it already!"
                "O-oh, right."
===============================================================================
                                    MATTHEW
Matthew was brewing tea when someone rapped on the flat door. It was a light
knock, but it still scared him. His eyes went first to the clock—it was after
midnight; who would be calling so late?—then to the broken lock. His whole body
tensed as he backed away from the door. Quickly, he scanned the room for a
serviceable weapon. He spotted a broom, but before he could grab it, a voice
called from the other side:
                "Matt, it's Gil."
                Gil—? Oh, thank God.
               Then realization hit: Fuck!
                Matthew pulled down the sleeves of Gilbert's jacket, then
yanked the tie out of his hair and furiously tried to re-arrange his curls in a
way that looked stylishly bedraggled while still hiding his face. Then he saw
his reflection in a wall-mirror and deflated. There was no time to put his
contacts back in. Shit.
                "Matt—?"
                "I-I-I—I'm here, I'll be right there."
                Slowly—cursing his luck—he plastered a fake smile to his
bruised, bespectacled face and opened the door. "Hey, Gil." (He didn't have to
fake surprise.)
                Gilbert was standing in the dingy hallway, looking big in the
narrow space. His hands hung casually from the pockets of his jet-black jeans,
though his posture was typically straight. He smiled at Matthew, then cocked
his silvery head and said: "I didn't know you wear glasses. Cute."
                Matthew felt himself blush. "Oh, yeah. My eyesight is pretty
bad. I wear contacts most of the time."
                "Do you prefer them?"
                "Not really," Matthew admitted shyly, "but I'm not allowed to
wear glasses at work. I earn more tips without them."
                "I see." Pause. "Is that why you're not at work tonight?"
                Matthew wanted to lie, but the look on Gilbert's face suggested
that he already knew, or at least suspected the truth. "Did Francis tell you?"
he asked, feeling betrayed.
                "No." Gilbert's stare was stark. He glanced from Matthew's face
to his crossed arms, his hands hidden inside the jacket's sleeves. "What should
he have told me, Matt?"
                "Nothing, it's nothing," Matthew shook his head. "I'm just
clumsy. I didn't even go to the ER—"
                "Can I see?"
                No, Matthew thought, I don't want you to see.
                Wordlessly he extended his bandaged hand and laid it lightly on
the German's upturned palm. Gilbert's hand was big and strong and solid, the
knuckles cross-hatched with scars. And it was warm. Matthew sucked in his
breath, trying to look nonchalant even as he swallowed a whine. "S-see? I-I-
I—It's fine," he said, focusing on those red eyes as Gilbert's thumb caressed
the underside of the boy's broken fingers, applying the gentlest pressure to
gauge the injury.
                "Who did it?" Gilbert asked, releasing him.
                "Art splinted it. He's really good at this sort of thing. He's
taken classes on—"
                "No, Matt," Gilbert interrupted sternly. "Who broke your
fingers?"
                Matthew paled. "It was just an accident. I did it. I slammed my
fingers in the door."
                "Just three fingers?" Gilbert deadpanned.
                "Yes."
                "Just the middle three fingers?"
                Matthew looked down in shame. "Yes."
                Gilbert sighed in reluctant defeat. "Fine. Get this door fixed,
alright? It's not safe." He tapped on the broken lock, the splintered wood.
                Matthew nodded. Please just go away, he thought, feeling
pathetic. Feeling chastised by Gilbert's stare and his reprimanding words. This
was hardly the lasting impression he wanted to make. It was bad enough that
Gilbert knew he was lying to him face-to-face, which made the boy feel even
guiltier. The last thing he wanted was for Gilbert to reconsider their
potential relationship and see him as nothing but a helpless kid (true or not).
Why did you have to come here tonight? Matthew had cancelled on Gilbert
specifically so that the German wouldn't see him like this, with no contacts
and no makeup to hide the bruises and no good excuse for his injury. And
scared. He didn't want Gilbert to see him scared. It was enough to kill any
hope he had had of impressing the confident older man. Goddamn it! He felt
tears prick his tired eyes.I didn't want you to see me like this—
                "Hey."
                Gilbert's hand brazenly brushed aside a curl to reveal his
face. "Don't be scared, okay?"
                A single tear rolled down Matthew's cheek. He couldn't stop it.
"I'm sorry... I didn't want you to..."
                "Yeah, I know."
                An awkward silence settled between them as Gilbert stepped
back. Matthew didn't—couldn't—look him in the eye. He was afraid he would start
crying for real if he did.
                "Do you want me to stay?"
                Matthew shook his head. "No, I'll be fine," he said quietly.
"Thank-you, though," he added, offering Gilbert a small smile.
                Gilbert returned it wryly. "You've got my phone-number. Call or
text me if you want, I always answer."
                Matthew didn't know what to say, so he merely repeated: "Thank-
you."
                For the second time in twenty-four hours he tried to return
Gilbert's jacket to him, and for the second time Gilbert refused to take it.
Instead, he  nodded conclusively and touched Matthew once more, laying his hand
atop the boy's head. It should have felt belittling, but it didn't. It felt
safe, the promise of his return full of hope.
                "See you later, Matt."
===============================================================================
                                    FRANCIS
"Salut, Gil," Francis answered his cell-phone, at the same time glancing at the
clock on the mantle. It was a half-hour later than he had expected.
                "I want in," said Gilbert bluntly. "You're investigating Matt
and Arthur,aren't you? Because something is going on with them,something
dangerous,and I want to know what it is, so I want in on this private
investigation of yours."
                Francis leant back and smiled in secret self-congratulations.
"I thought you might. I wonder what could have possibly changed your mind,
Gil?"
                "You're a fucking bastard, you know that, Fran?"
                Francis shrugged, though Gilbert couldn't see it. "You're a
visual person, Gil. And you're too good a detective to mix your professional
and personal life without a reason. A good reason. I needed you to see it for
yourself. Besides, I couldn't have told you anyway. I was sworn to secrecy."
                "Bastard," Gilbert growled. Pause. "Are you at home?"
                "Yes."
                "Alone?"
                Francis rolled his eyes. "Yes."
                "Good,I'm coming over right now and you're going to share
everything you've found so far."
                There was a bit of dead-air then, as if Gilbert had lowered the
cell-phone. When his voice returned, it was angrier than before. In a tone that
betrayed his feelings, he said:
                "Fran—?Who in hell would want to hurt the sweetest boy in the
whole goddamn world?"
                Francis sighed. "I don't know, Gil. But that's what we're going
to find out."
***** Six *****
                                    GILBERT
WEDNESDAY
Okay, what do we know so far?"
                Gilbert was lying on his back, upside-down, his long legs
kicked over the back of Francis' armchair. He stared at the ceiling and lifted
his fist overhead, stabbing one finger into the air for each point:
                "We know Arthur and Matt are first-cousins. We know that Arthur
was born in England, and Matt was born in Canada. According to Arthur's birth
certificate, his mom is a woman called Alice Kirkland, whose whereabouts are
currently unknown, and there's no information about his dad. Matt's mom was
Alice's sister, Madeline. She married Matt's stepfather fifteen years ago. He
died nine years ago, cause unknown; and she died seven years ago of cancer. We
also know they grew-up in the east-end and were poor as shit. Correction, they
are poor as shit. Matt's stepdad left them in crushing debt.
                "Are you sure there's nothing illegal about that?" Gilbert
added, glancing at Francis. "It sounds shady."
                Francis paused in writing. "I don't know," he said
thoughtfully, tapping a pen against his head. "It's not as if I don't have my
suspicions, but nothing I've found suggests foul-play. I know how you feel
about it, Gil, but there's no evidence. Mathieu's stepfather was simply
horrible with money."
                Gilbert's eyes narrowed. He didn't believe for a minute that a
shady gangster or loan-shark wasn't involved. He just couldn't prove it—yet.
                "We know that Arthur dropped-out of high-school in Year Three,"
he continued. "And that Matt graduated, uh... Actually, we need to contact the
school to confirm that he did graduate." He snapped his fingers at Francis, who
made a note. "And we need his birth certificate and medical records. It's weird
that he has no banking information either, or... anything. There's nothing in
his name. Frankly, if Matt wasn't related to Arthur it's like he wouldn't exist
at all. That's literally the only legal thing we know about him.
                "We know that they were evicted from their old house in the
east-end and moved downtown two years ago," he continued. "We know that Matt's
been a bartender at Club 69 for the last two years, and that Arthur is a porn
star. Oh,la,la!" he grinned teasingly at Francis.
                Francis rolled his eyes and bounced a paper-ball off Gilbert's
nose.
                "We know that Lovino moved in about a year ago. Side-note, we
need to search Lovino's file and see who that spoiled brat really is. I don't
believe for a fucking second he's from the east-end. Should we ask Toni to look
into it?"
                "No," Francis said, too stern to be innocent, but too
determined to argue. "Toni has enough to work on right now," he said evasively.
                Gilbert narrowed his eyes, but didn't pry. "O-kay. Then we
should—"
                "Oh!" Francis leapt up, abandoning his notes. "Is that the
time? Merde! Gil, you need to go."
                "Huh? Why?" he asked, kicking his legs overhead and landing
clumsily on the floor. The blood rushed back to his head, flushing his face. He
blinked, disoriented, then Francis was yanking him up.
                "I'm having company," he said vaguely, pushing Gilbert toward
the door while kicking the evidence of the investigation under the sofa.
                "Company? At two o'clock in the afternoon?" Gilbert cocked a
disbelieving eyebrow. "It's a hookup, isn't it?"
                "Just go,please," Francis begged.
                Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I'm gone," he chuckled,
opening the flat's front-door. "But you're wasting a valuable resource, you
know. I'm an excellent wing-man for—Oh, shit."
                He stopped abruptly. The front-door had opened to reveal
Arthur, his surprise quickly melting into disdain.
                "Oh," said Gilbert anticlimactically. "It's just you."
                Arthur side-stepped at the same time Gilbert did, locking them
in an awkward dance in the doorway. Finally, Gilbert grabbed Arthur's skinny
shoulders and pushed him gently aside. Or, he had thought it was gentle, but
Arthur stumbled into the doorframe, then glared at Gilbert in contempt.
Wow,he's even lighter than Matt.Gilbert knew that he was bigger than the
average man, but, even so, it didn't hide the fact that Arthur and Matthew were
malnourished and worryingly frail because of it. You could definitely use a few
extra pounds on you, he thought of Arthur. (So could Matthew, but it was better
if Gilbert didn't think about what the boy's body—his curves—would feel like
with a little more weight. Not right now.) He gave Arthur a half-shrug in
apology and then quickly took his leave. From the flat, he heard Francis'
flustered voice calling: "Bonjour,chéri!"
                Once outside, he texted Antonio: WHERE R U?
                It took a minute for Antonio's reply: WITH LOVI. FUCK OFF.
                Gilbert sighed in boredom. He had forgotten that Antonio had a
date today, too. (He briefly wondered if Arthur technically counted as a date,
but wasn't going to stick around to find out.) He thought about who else he
could bother: Ludwig was working, so he wasn't an option. He supposed he could
visit with one of his cousins, but Lars was studying for finals (the clever
bastard was in medical school), and interrupting Roderich's work to bully him
would be dangerous if that barbaric wife of his was home.
                Defeated, he dragged his feet back to his car, wishing that
Matthew was well enough to go out for—
                He stopped, struck by an obvious thought.
                Who says we have to go out?
===============================================================================
                                    MATTHEW
Matthew opened the door in his pajamas. Or what constituted his pajamas—tartan
shorts and a white hoodie that was much too big. It hung in folds to his mid-
thigh, but this time he didn't care. This time he didn't fuss and pull his hair
out of its tie, or try to hide his bespectacled face. This time he recognized
the rhythmic knock and opened the broken door in pleasant surprise.
                "Hey, Gil. What are you doing here?"
                "You're not working tonight, right?" Gilbert asked, discretely
eyeing Matthew's injured hand. "I thought you might be bored."
                And... you're the cure?"
                "Always," Gilbert grinned. He strode arrogantly into the flat,
giving Matthew a wolfish look. "I'm handfuls of fun."
                "Oh, I bet," Matthew said, playing along. "Big German hands,
eh?"
                "That's right," Gilbert chuckled, leaning in. "So, what do you
say, schatzi? Want to spend the afternoon with me—Gah, fuck!"
                Matthew clapped a hand to his mouth as Gilbert pitched forward,
having stumbled over Lovino's shoes.
                "Oh, shut up," said the German, blushing as Matthew's laughter
filled the flat.
                "Sorry, sorry," he gasped.
                "But for real, Matt," said Gilbert, dropping the mock-
seduction. He produced a shoulder-bag with his laptop and salty, buttery snacks
stuffed inside. "Want to binge-watch some bad T.V.?"
                Matthew smiled. "Always."
===============================================================================
                                    LOVINO
Lovino met Antonio at the dry fountain in the park and couldn't hide the smile
that immediately stole over his face. Antonio waved at him, even though there
was no one else there; it was only two o'clock in the afternoon.
                "Hola, Lovi!" he called jubilantly. "Wow, you look great!" he
added, raking the Italian's approaching figure.
                Lovino tried to keep his smile sweet and modest, but the
flattery was very well-received. He was glad that Antonio appreciated the time
and effort he took to get ready, because he loved dressing to impress. He loved
putting his artistic skills to use. And he loved the compliments he got for his
beauty, even from admiring club patrons... most of the time... "Call it
shallow," he had confided to Feliciano once, "but I like to be reminded how
good-looking I am." Feliciano came from the same ilk as Lovino and was also
artistically-inclined, so he understood. But how Arthur and Matthew could stand
to be seen out in public in ugly, outdated, faded, and oversized clothes—no
cosmetics, no hair products—made the Italian cringe. ("I'm not walking next to
you if you wear that," he had said to Arthur on more than one occasion.) He
didn't know what was worse: Matthew's complete disregard for his looks, or
Arthur thinking that he actually had taste. Lovino could only hope that Francis
corrected him, because the Frenchman was quite fashionable, unlike Gilbert, who
looked like someone had crossbred a priest with a criminal. Antonio, of course,
looked good in anything. He could wear a full bunny costume from head-to-toe
and still look delicious; one disarming smile was all it took. You just
couldn't hide that kind of handsome, Lovino thought.
                "Ciao," he said, smiling as he took Antonio's proffered hand.
                They left the park and took the metro to the theatre district
uptown. It was a narrow street that bustled with nightlife, but slept from dawn
to dusk except for the places that catered to tourists. Antonio led Lovino to
one of the theatres, which had a big marquis sign displaying the matinee that
was playing. However, he was disappointed when a teenager working the kiosk,
said: "Sorry, the three o'clock is sold out. Better luck next time."
                "Oh," said Antonio sheepishly. "I guess I should've bought
tickets in advance. Sorry about that, Lovi."
                "That's okay," Lovino shrugged. "Let's just do something else,"
he said, hoping he didn't sound too eager, but at the same time afraid of the
date ending too soon—again.
                "Like what?" Antonio asked. "All of the bars and restaurants
and clubs aren't open until later. I suppose we could get lunch—?"
                "I'm not hungry, I just ate."
                "Me, too," Antonio admitted. "Well, uh... Oh! I know!" He
fished a single coin out of his pocket and flipped it in the air, then caught
it and slapped it on the back of his hand. "Heads we turn right, tails we turn
left."
                Lovino frowned. "What?"
                Antonio smiled and nodded to the intersection. "Heads!" he
peeked. Then he took Lovino's hand and pulled him down the right side of the
street. "Come on, let's just see where we end up."
                "What if we get lost?"
                Antonio turned his head and winked. "I sincerely hope we do.
It'll be an adventure. I've never been to this part of town before."
                "Me, neither," Lovino lied. He looked from left-to-right,
recognizing the artisan shops and cafés. If he craned his neck, he could see
the spires of his old University over the chimneys. The theatre district—or art
district—was also the oldest part of the city (the oldest part that had been
conserved anyway), which attracted the most tourists. It looked quaint despite
its size, with cobbled pedestrian walks and street-sellers that peddled
overpriced wares. Lovino knew it like the back of his hand. It had been his
playground once-upon-a-time. He remembered toting his paints and sketchbooks
from one end of the long street to the other with his brother beside him
flashing photographs of everyone and everything. He remembered how much he had
loved setting up his easel in the plaza and painting the afternoon away, a
pallet in one hand, a cigarette in the other. (God, he'd kill for a cigarette.)
                "Tails!" Antonio said, redirecting Lovino's attention. They
were standing in front of a palm-reader. Antonio smirked and flipped the coin.
"Heads we keep walking, tails we have our fortunes told."
                Lovino grimaced. "Seriously?"
                "Tails!"
                Antonio ushered him forward. "Excuse me, signora? My friend and
I would like to know our futures!"
                "Ah, such handsome young men!" she smiled. "Please, come—come
and sit down, don't be shy," she said as Antonio pressed down on Lovino's
shoulders, making him sit in front of her. "Your hand, dear."
                Lovino felt foolish as he let the fortune-teller inspect his
palm, but Antonio's excited energy counteracted his embarrassment. He liked
that the Spaniard's hands were still resting on his shoulders.
                "A long, healthy life line," she traced, "and this one here
means you'll have good fortune. I see riches in your future, my dear."
                Lovino feigned delight for Antonio's benefit.
                Then the fortune-teller's smile curled slyly and she dragged
her polished fingernail down a particularly long line. "This is your love
line," she said, her gaze sliding between Lovino and Antonio knowingly. The
Italian felt himself blush. "This break at the beginning means you'll have a
broken relationship—a lost love. But do you see how the line mends itself here?
And how long it is? That means a life-long love. And these two lines beside it?
Those are your two children," she smiled.
                Lovino blushed redder and quickly withdrew his hand.
                Antonio plunged his hand forward. "Okay, now do me!"
                The fortune-teller laughed, but it was short-lived. The moment
she looked down at Antonio's palm she froze.
                "Oh," she said, frowning deeply. "Oh, my."
                "What is it?" Lovino asked. Even though he suspected it was all
a dramatic act, the fortune-teller's distress looked genuine enough to make him
uncomfortable.
                "My dear," she said to Antonio, "your lines are all confused.
They're all broken. This one is fractured beyond anything I've ever seen, which
is very upsetting. And impossible."
                "Why's that?" Antonio asked.
                "Well, because it's your life line." The fortune-teller looked
up sympathetically. "It means you should already be dead."
===============================================================================
                                    ARTHUR
Are you hungry?" Francis asked.
                "Starving," Arthur murmured, his voice muffled in a pillow.
"But I don't want to move."
                "We have that in common," Francis teased. He kissed Arthur's
bare shoulder-blade, then got out of the bed. "I don't want you to move either.
I'd keep you in my bed forever if I could."
                "Feed me first," Arthur countered, hiding a smile, "then we'll
talk."
                Francis chuckled and left the bedroom.
                Eventually, Arthur did pull himself away from the comfort of
Francis' big bed. He dressed in his boxer-shorts and groped on the messy floor
for a t-shirt, which happened to be Francis', and then ventured out. He needn't
worry about layering, because the Frenchman kept his home toasty-warm, which
was a nice change from Arthur's drafty flat. As he walked, he stretched his
arms overhead and felt the pull in his muscles from toes to fingertips. He
hadn't used them quite like that in a long time.
                Francis was in the large kitchen cooking something that made
Arthur's mouth water He, too, had opted for minimal coverage and only wore a
pair of light-coloured trousers that made his suntan look dark gold. Arthur
helped himself to a glass of water and then sat at the table. He waited a
minute, admiring the view, then said:
                "How's the investigation going—Detective?"
                Francis smirked, but said: "I'm afraid that's confidential,
chéri."
                "Even to a potential informant?"
                That gave Francis pause. He finished plating the food and then
joined Arthur at the table. "You'd be willing to talk?" he asked.
                "Maybe." Arthur shrugged, popping a crisp cherry tomato into
his mouth. But Francis didn't buy the cavalier act. He merely stared at the
Englishman, waiting patiently until he surrendered.
                "If I give you some names," he said hesitantly, "will you make
sure no one ever finds out it was me who told?"
                "Yes, of course."
                "If I do," Arthur repeated insistently, "will you promise to
protect us—Matthew and Lovino too? Promise that nothing bad will happen to us?"
                Francis' face softened. He reached across the table and took
Arthur's hand. "I promise," he said.
===============================================================================
                                    ANTONIO
After Antonio led Lovino quickly away from the fortune-teller—that could've
ended better—he let the coin take them into an art studio, a sweets shop, up
the city's historic watchtower—where he goaded Lovino into taking a photograph
with him; the cityscape made an excellent backdrop—and then to a vendor who
sold refinished guitars, which Lovino had to drag him away from.
                "I didn't know you play guitar," he said as they waited in the
queue for hot chestnuts, Lovino bouncing on his toes to stay warm.
                "A little," Antonio said modestly.
                Lovino snorted. "Yeah, sure. Joaquín Sabina only plays a
little, too," he teased.
                Antonio smiled. Maybe he had gotten a little carried away
playing in the plaza, a little lost in the music—and maybe he had wanted to
show-off a little, too—but it had been fun, especially when those two little
kids had started dancing at his feet. Their father had thought him a street
performer and had tipped him a fiver for the entertainment, which is what he
handed to the cook now in exchange for the chestnuts. Antonio had always loved
watching the street musicians as a child; he had always wanted to be one.
("What, a fucking minstrel?" Gilbert had laughed when Antonio confessed it.
"Like, fee fi fiddle dee dum?" Antonio had cocked a bemused eyebrow: "The fuck
kind of music do you listen to, Gil?")
                "You should sing next time, too," Lovino said, blowing on the
steaming chestnuts. "You've got a nice voice."
                Antonio couldn't tell if Lovino was teasing or not, but he
played along anyway.
                "Next time?" he said, arching an eyebrow. "But what would I
sing?"
                Lovino shrugged and took a bite.
                "How about—" Antonio thrust his hands out, jerked his hips, and
spontaneously burst into song:
 
                "Dale a tu cuerpo alegria Macarena
                Que tu cuerpo es pa' darle alegria y cosa buena,
                Dale a tu cuerpo alegria Macarena
                Eeeeh,Macarena!
 
"¡Aay!" he hollered before Lovino pressed a hand to his mouth.
                "Oh my God, stop!" he pleaded, trying desperately not to laugh.
"People are staring at us, you weirdo!" To silence him, he shoved a chestnut in
Antonio's mouth.
                "I thought you liked being stared at." Antonio swallowed, and
purred: "Ferrari."
                Lovino gave Antonio a look, then took the coin from the
Spaniard's pocket and flipped it. "Come on, Green Eyes, looks like we're going
to the arcade."
                An hour-and-a-half later, Antonio was standing at the prize
counter with a handful of vibrant tickets. "I like that one," he pointed to a
plush bull sitting on a shelf.
                Lovino rolled his eyes. "I'm not a five-year-old girl, you
know," he grumbled, though he accepted the toy.
                "Call it a souvenir from our first successful date," Antonio
winked.
                "Date's not over yet, Green Eyes. Don't jinx it."
                They were on their way to the exit, but had to stop to dodge a
trio of kids, who were running in the opposite direction.
                "Give him back!" shouted the littlest girl. "I won him! He's
mine, give him back!" She grabbed the legs of a plush elephant, but the older
girl—an older sister—gave the head an almighty tug and ripped it right off.
"Oh, no! You killed him!" the little one cried.
                "Whatever, it was stupid anyway. Don't be a baby," said her
sister, then dashed off with her friend.
                The little girl collected the pieces of her ruined toy and
stared down at them sadly, her eyes glassy with tears.
                Lovino hesitated for a moment, then slowly approached.
                "Hey there," he said, kneeling down. He smiled at the girl and
held up the plush bull. "My boyfriend won this guy, but I can't bring him home.
Will you take care of him for me?"
                The little girl nodded fervently, her big brown eyes aglow with
renewed hope and neon lights.
                Lovino handed the toy to her. "You're going to take good care
of him, right?"
                "Yes, I will," she promised, hugging it. "What's his name?"
                Lovino smiled. "Antonio."
                Antonio chuckled as the little girl thanked Lovino and toddled
happily off. Then he slipped his arms around the Italian from behind and rested
his chin on his shoulder. "I really like you," he said.
                "Oh, really—? Well, I'm glad you told me, otherwise I'd never
have known," said Lovino sarcastically. But he didn't step out of Antonio's
embrace. In fact, he turned his head so that their faces were only inches
apart—their lips only inches apart.
                "This has been really fun," he said softly.
                Antonio felt his heartbeat quicken. He pulled Lovino closer,
squeezing him tighter. His eyes lowered to the Italian's soft, enticing lips,
which were parted in anticipation. Antonio felt suspended in time for a moment,
a tunnel of time wherein nothing else existed but them, just he and the
wonderful, beautiful Italian he wanted desperately to kiss. Absently his hand
slid up the column of Lovino's neck and cupped the back of his head, silky
strands of chocolate hair sliding between his fingers. He wanted to clench it,
pull it. He wanted to drag Lovino's head back to expose his vulnerability, but
he needn't bother. Lovino yielded to Antonio of his own accord and tipped his
head up, closing the distance between them. His eyelids fell closed. Antonio
swooped down—
                "That's the man, Mum!"
                Antonio pulled back abruptly. Lovino's eyes snapped open and he
stepped away.
                The little girl was hugging Antonio the Bull and holding her
mother's hand.
                "I hope you said thank-you, young lady."
                "I did, Mum! I did!" The girl looked at Lovino for proof.
                "She did," he confirmed, trying to look cavalier.
                The woman smiled gratefully and then continued trying to corral
her daughters.
                Antonio's heart was still pounding. He tried to resist the
temptation, but he wanted to touch Lovino so badly. He hoped it didn't show as
he offered his hand.
                "You told that kid I was your boyfriend," he said, smiling
eagerly.
                "Well, I doubt she would've understood guy who weaseled a date
out of me in a strip-club," he replied.
                The moment Lovino's hand touched Antonio's, the Spaniard began
walking backwards, pulling Lovino with him. "I like boyfriend better," he
smirked.
                He led Lovino out of the arcade—away from people and
impressionable children—and into a garden: the closed patio of a café. It was
empty. There, he pulled the Italian into his arms and kissed him. It wasn't as
soft or sweet a kiss as he had intended, but Lovino responded willingly, so
Antonio didn't stop. He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the touch he
had yearned for since seeing Lovino on-stage. He wrapped his arms around the
dancer and pushed forward, bending Lovino backwards, arching his back. (So
flexible, he thought excitedly.) The Italian moaned into Antonio's mouth and
Antonio swallowed it. He took it as encouragement and let it fuel his basest,
animal desires. He wanted this man with every fibre of his being; he wanted to
kiss him and hold him and touch him and fuck him. Here. Now. God, he wanted it
so bad.
                "Tonio..." Lovino murmured breathlessly. It was such a
beautiful sound.
                He squeezed Lovino's hips and jerked him so that his pelvis
grinded against the Spaniard's groin. He slid one hand to Lovino's backside and
groped shamelessly.
                "Hey," Lovino pulled back. "We're in public."
                Antonio murmured dismissively and recaptured Lovino's lips. He
felt aggressively hungry. He pulled Lovino in and kissed him again and again.
                "Hey, that's enough," Lovino said, his words muffled by
Antonio's lips. "Toni, I said that's enough—get off!"
                Lovino shoved him hard.
                In reflex Antonio raised his hand, but he stopped himself in
time, seeing Lovino instinctively flinch.
                Lovino looked up at him, hazel eyes wide in shock.
                Then the panic set in.
                Oh,no. No,no, no—!Oh,fuck no!What have I done?
                "I-I-I—I'm s-s-sorry," he stuttered, stumbling back, lowering
his hand. He was shaking badly. "Lovi, please forgive me, I-I-I—I didn't mean
to, I—"
                "Lovino Vargas? Is that you?"
===============================================================================
                                    LOVINO
Lovino didn't know what was happening. One moment he was kissing Antonio,
eagerly engaging in a bit of harmless PDA; the next, he had felt like something
the Spaniard was trying to devour. He had felt trapped.
                Now, he felt panicked.
                "Lovino Vargas! It is you!" said the man, a former-classmate of
Lovino's.
                "No," said Lovino in a small, shaken voice, glancing quickly at
Antonio. "I'm not—"
                "It's been so long! Two years? What happened to you, Vargas?
You just disappeared one day, we all thought you flunked-out—"
                "I don't know you," Lovino interrupted sternly, eyes darting
between Antonio and his classmate. "You've got the wrong person."
                The man frowned. "What? Vargas, what are you—"
                "Sorry," Lovino said insincerely. He turned on his heel and
tried to escape the garden, but the man grabbed his forearm.
                "Wait a minute, I just want to—Ah! What the fuck?"
                "Let go of him and I'll let go of you," said Antonio darkly. He
had twisted the man's arm behind his back.
                The man let go and Lovino stumbled, freed. And concerned. He
had witnessed this same impassioned look on Antonio's face before; he had felt
it just moments before his classmate had interrupted them. His behaviour was
that of someone mentally unstable. Someone who's moods were unpredictable and
uncontrolled. Someone who was dangerous.
                I should walk away, he thought, rooted in place. I should
fuckingrunaway.
                Instead, he cautiously laid a hand on Antonio's forearm. "Come
on," he said, ashamed of the wobble in his voice. "Hey, Toni? Come on, let's
just go."
                Antonio looked at him—stared at him for a long time. Then
blinked.
                "Oh!" he said suddenly, and released the baffled man. "Uh...
sorry about that. But you really shouldn't grab people on the street, okay?"
                "But he's—"
                "No one," Lovino hurried. He took Antonio's hand and quickly
pulled him away. "I'm no one."
                The metro-ride back downtown was very quiet. Antonio had
searched his wallet and cursed colourfully when he didn't find what he wanted.
It was Lovino who finally convinced him to get in the empty train carriage,
hoping that Antonio was claustrophobic and nothing else. They sat side-by-side,
but didn't speak. Antonio just held his hand and squeezed it tight whenever
they whizzed through a tunnel, when the darkness swallowed the lights. Lovino
could feel the heat of the Spaniard's body and see beads of perspiration on his
forehead. His heart must be beating like mad, he thought, since the carriage
was unheated. For Antonio's sake, he felt much better when they were back
aboveground.
                "Shit," he said, noting the time in the station. It was nearly
eight o'clock pm. "I've got to go straight to work."
                "Oh," said Antonio, disappointed. His green eyes were baleful.
"I, uh... I wanted to take you out for supper."
                God,could he look more like a puppy that knows it made a
mistake?
                "Next time," he promised. Then impulsively added: "You are my
boyfriend, right?"
                Antonio's eyes widened and he smiled a little in disbelief. "If
you still want me to be."
                Lovino raised himself onto his toes and kissed Antonio's cheek.
"I do. But next time warn me before you try to devour my tonsils in public,
okay?"
                Antonio nodded, a helpless gesture that both said: I promise
and I'm sorry.
                For a minute they stood facing each other, both feeling the
weight of what wasn't being said, but neither one wanting to acknowledge it.
You almost hit me, said Lovino's eyes, but his lips remained tightly closed. He
had played this game of secrets before. This game of pretend: pretend nothing
had happened, pretend nothing was wrong. Once upon a time he had wielded his
fiery tongue like a weapon, fighting to protect his pride, but it had never won
him any battles, and eventually it was silence and submission that protected
him. He had learnt his lesson long ago.
                Finally, Antonio broke the tension by pulling the last of his
arcade tokens from his pocket, a small coin with a hole in the centre, which he
pressed into Lovino's hand. A memento of their first completed date, for better
or worse.
                "Anything for you, cariño." 
===============================================================================
                                    GILBERT
Gilbert opened his eyes. When had he fallen asleep? He never fell prey to
unscheduled sleep.
                The bedroom was entirely dark, except for the glow from his
laptop screen, politely asking if he—the viewer—was still intending to watch
the programme.
                He shifted and felt a weight. Matthew was lying in the bed
beside him, his head resting on Gilbert's chest, his breathing soft and
peaceful in sleep.
                Briefly he thought about laying back and closing his eyes and
falling asleep with Matthew's body draped over him, but the time at the bottom
of his laptop screen stopped him.
                "Ten o'clock?" he muttered. "Fuck."
                "Quarter past, actually."
                Gilbert yanked his laptop screen closed, which was obstructing
his vision, and saw Arthur's skinny silhouette in the doorframe. He stood with
his arms crossed, like a malignant parent awaiting an explanation.
                "Yeah, yeah," Gilbert groaned, "I'm going."
                He felt Arthur's eyes on him as he awkwardly freed himself from
Matthew's unconscious embrace. Gently, he lifted the boy's head and laid it
down on a pillow instead, then covered him with the duvet and snuck out of the
bed. Matthew rolled into the place Gilbert had just vacated, his curls sprawled
everywhere, soft lips parted as he breathed, then exhaled in sleepy
contentment. Gilbert rescued the boy's glasses from the top of his head and
placed them on the bedside table, then tore his eyes away. He stuffed his
belongings into his shoulder-bag and hastily took his leave. He was halfway to
the flat's door when Arthur said:
                "Thank-you... for staying with him today." He didn't turn
around.
                Gilbert paused. There was something undeniably sad in Arthur's
voice; something that sounded like regret. Maybe shame. Maybe fear.
                I'm going to make the fear stop, he thought in determination.
I'm going to solve this and fix what needs fixing. I don't know how,but somehow
I'm going to make everything okay.
                Wordlessly, he left.
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