Work Text:
💜 🧡
(1)
Why can’t we laugh now like we did then?
How come I see you and ache instead?
How come you only look pleased in bed?
Let’s climb the cliff edge and jump again.
Wind whipped through his clothes and hair as Pavia looked over the short cliff’s edge, elation in his outstretched arms and battle-tainted giggle ripping through a dazed Collins. He watched him, the unabashed sunset over his shoulder kissing his arms, and the eagre sparkle in his eyes when he threw his head back to look at him.
“Come! Come, come!” An unrestrained lilt of amusement teased Collins’ lips. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard that word from him, “The view’s vast! Don’t worry, I won’t push you,”
He would’ve said a snide snip back as he caught up, but the view way below stole his breath away entirely.
The glittering oceans of Santa Coleo. One of the many hidden gems in Spain, Pavia had told him. Where their tentative walk together turned into an exciting sprint – Or tag, really, Collins had no trouble keeping up – where sweat glistened on Pavia’s skin alike the glittered, pure-blue ocean winking from below, a turned comfortable shade as it welcomed the setting sun, falling in salt-scented droves around them.
“Wow.” Collins had muttered, carried in the fast wind.
Whether or not Pavia heard, it didn’t exactly matter. What did, though, was the cheeky shoulder against his ribs he grunted in annoyance at, “Say. Jumping down, right from here – We’d survive.”
Collins deigned on not listening until the word ‘ survive ’ had him shoot a sudden, alarmed look, “What?”
Pavia’s sunglasses had been put to rest on the collar of his lax shirt, and Collins had an unprecedented view of those eyes that have seen – In wayward nights, bathed in cold blood with licked lips of faint gelato, or the abject assault of smoke blowed into his face, or gunshots that rung in his ears, or the soft, tender kiss on forehead where they locked gazes, rarely so quiet in bed – glint with mischief, “Jump down!” He said, in a voice much too loud this close, “What, is the blasted wind too much for you? I can yell–!”
“That’s enough.” Collins said back, in the appropriate level of tone. He would have given a cold glare, too, if not for the sudden fear glistening his gut for the depths he appraised below, “You… You sound childish. Like a child, you stupid cunt. Don’t you have other toys to play with?”
“ Live a little.” The touch on his shoulder caused him to flinch a gaze back upwards, too little a time to school his weary face into a cool look. Pavia’s own suddenly felt warm as well as his own tone, revenant in all the ways he can’t comprehend, “Don’t wear such a face, mio amico coraggioso . I’ll catch you,”
Collins sputtered too much to feel the increased beat of his heart, “Catch– No, no, fuck no, you’re fucking stupid–”
Pavia barked out a laugh, “A genius, I’d argue, amore! ” He’d been inched slightly outwards, and he clutched unto his hand with a squeak he couldn’t control as if it’d save him, “ Fear reveals one’s innermost centre– Hell, if you want, I’ll even hold you. So you don’t die, see?”
“Fucking crackhead–” A crack into his voice when he looked down again, violent flashes of – her. Him. A crazed grin, sharpened as if it was made to poise for his neck, or, fuck, blood on his hands that weren’t his– no, they were, of his lifeless kin– and the jagged cuts of the rocks below flaring like sinuses of rapid crackling fire–
“ Cazzo– Collins, look at me.”
He does. He isn’t being pushed anymore, in fact – He’s stuffed into the musk of leathered spice and, promptly, Collins chokes himself awake. Just about anyone could shake themselves awake with that damned smell of what felt like every manly smell (like AXE, if he were any less dignified) crashed like stars into one, smug, shit-mouthed assassin. One who’s, admittedly, not exactly being that right now.
He’s shaking, he realized, into the sudden heat and hair-woven comfort of his hand that made him feel like he could... Relax. For just a single moment. He breathed, steeling himself in with just that one. But he didn’t rise from the embrace, not just yet. Besides, Pavia had a hum – aching his cheek, sounding like it came from his core, rumbling his body with a feeling he’d rather ignore – and a song he was obliged to make fun of.
Collins swallowed dryly, and weakly croaked out under the slow hum, “Hnh… Fuck.”
Pavia huffed an exhale above, undeterred in his calming hum. A song achingly too familiar for him. Didn’t say anything else. Admittedly, Collins gets it; any word would’ve felt wrong. If they said anymore, he feels like they could’ve said something they’d regret, in the coming spells of time. Of quiet, of loud, of ache, of longing. Pain had a place, surely.
So Collins watched the falling sun, in the slowing moments of which his hand hovered of it’s own volition into Pavia’s tucked-in shirt. Mindless enough to even wander there, mindful enough to not thumb the waistband of his shorts. Collins didn’t linger on the surprise of it’s purpose. Too frightened to explore it’s mundanity, it’s intimacy;
(He didn’t even want it to fall off Pavia’s waist, if he did.)
He did say something, eventually, when Pavia’s hum slowed to a stop and they’d fallen to sit on the rocks. Overlooking the view of the glistening ocean, untouched and beautiful where the sun had crested behind hills and moonlight rose to meet their skin. Aware enough that that wasn’t the only thing he was staring at.
“Coraggioso …” Collins said, quiet with chin atop gathered knees and gaze wondering what laid beneath the boundless depths of the ocean, “What does that mean?”
He watches the way Pavia peered at him. In that subtle way of his Collins knew was in no way actually subtle. He’s beautiful, he realized. Shoulders bare where he whisked away his button-up shirt for them to sit on wordlessly, moonlight cascading all over his skin and contemplative face. He could lie, his thoughts say next. Tell him he called him a bitch, or whore, to taut the rare moment of peace to thin into a line sharp enough to stab through bitterly into anything he felt.
But Pavia looked away, off to pick at a blade of grass intertwining with another. And Collins felt the familiar plea of yearning prick his heart again.
He had a short laugh, before he said quiet and achingly truthful in a way he couldn’t see; “Brave.”
(2)
Five thousand footsteps in your wet dress
Back to the house with your arms ‘round my neck
We drank pork soda with tangled legs
I won’t forget how you looked at me then
“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”
It’s said with scaldingly rigid conviction. Pavia answers with a refreshed cackle off the rim of the bottle, something breathless on the water or something else inbetween, “Quite the flatterer, aren’t you? Forgive a man for his thirst every now and then.”
He flicked the water bottle off someplace he could care less about, dusting off his clothes as if any lint could manifest. Collins felt his eye twitch. Fingers itching to wring his pretentious ass a new one.
“Pick it up.”
They had a mission. A reluctant one, but an existing one that could threaten their necks all the same, and Pavia still had the gall to not make this any easier. Hell, it had landed them in a cruddy hotel of all places, scouting their three targets that decided to stay there. He turned around and – Oh, fuck me – looked endlessly amused, raised eyebrow glinting atop his sunglasses with an air as if he was already right, “Ah, say something, mio amico coraggioso ?”
эта самодовольная сучка. Collins balled his fist, wondered all to himself why he’d even care for something so little as blatant pollution, but Pavia looked like he had the upper-hand in the game and he wrenched himself at the abject feeling of inferiority, culling into a dead-set glare, “Are you deaf? I said; Pick. It Up. ”
Pavia’s eyes flashed brightly, “Correct me if I’m wrong. But I thought you were the one who liked to bend over.”
His noses flared. A rage that wasn’t for the bottle seething like lightning trapped within, “Pavia.”
He leant in, slow and languid like a viper poised to strike. Devastating, “Oh, amore. Make me.”
Collins saw red. Literally. Gathering the red lollipop that had somehow manifested itself in Pavia’s mouth between his fingers, and jamming the short end to his throat as if it was a weapon as their breaths connected furiously and amusedly. Pavia couldn’t help but laugh, but pulling him back and slamming him into the wall again caused him to sputter into a sudden, manic glare.
“ Caaareful, Collins...” His accent grew prominent as Collins squeezed him higher, “You’re writing danger into your story.”
“By all means, he’s welcome,” his tone was entirely cold, “Welcome to try, that is.”
Pavia’s throat managed to squeeze an exhale that sounded like a laugh, and– Collins yelps as the world seemed to invert in and of itself, inertia pulling him backward with a hand solidly in his head as he’s slammed into something soft. Sharpness arching his back as he coughed, and the fog in his mind clearing enough to register Pavia’s loomingly predatory look, “Like prey evading all signs … Amore. You make it too eas– Ah!”
He’s wrestled into what Collins now realized were sheets, straddling him smoothly where they wrenched and writhed with undignified cackles and hands that pushed without hurt. It inspired him to throw his fingers to his ribs, and – There.
A booming, unintentional laugh rips out of Pavia’s throat, and he wiggled himself rapidly to promptly evade, only making the problem worse, “Wh– S-Stop– Merda, fuck– Stop it! Whahahaaa–! ” Collins grinned like a maniac and only tickled him further, Pavia’s legs kicking like useless fish drying up in the sun as he revelled in the genuine way his face twisted in agonized laughter, “You fucking– Haahaha! I’ll get y– Hah–!”
He wheezed painfully at that, and as suddenly as it happened, Collins granted mercy and let go. He remained resolutely on his lap as Pavia coughed into a fist, belatedly realizing he was trapped when he glared a scorned look into him. Collins just grinned. Having got his fill. Hm. Turns out it was just a genuine laugh he wanted to see.
It dawned on him the same moment the silence spoke volumes, and when Pavia shot forward – Collins was faster, a triumphant cackle falling out of his lips as he pinned Pavia on the bed by the wrists, the sound of which slowly dying in his throat when he realized just what kind of look he had.
Hunger– No… Intrigue, wait, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t much of that, rather… The eye of the storm. It’s tender, doting look as it prepared to thunder down on it's unsuspecting plains, like some absolute form of love. Created to destroy. Light spilling rapidly through clouds, loud, yet quiet in it’s darkened depths – His slightly parted lips. Glistening eyes from the remnants of laughter, roaming heatedly through his skin, face, where their arms connect, and… down to the bow of Collins’ lips. Prickling where his gaze met it, as if he already felt him, phantom-like, there.
It curved his insides like a springling vine wanting to flower, and Collins’ swallow was deafening.
“You got me.” Pavia said, low in his register yet teased into a faint wheeze, and Collins knew that. It was truth, “Death, staring me down… Straddling my hips… What will you do with me, then?”
He yaps too much. Collins huffed, lowering himself to meet that god- awful AXE-like smell again, mingling with the leftover comforts of his cats’ smells and said, unimpressed, “Poetry doesn’t suit your face much, you know.”
That was a lie. Pavia’s lips started to grin, “Then tell me. What’s it for, then?”
Collins hummed, a hand wandering on his chest, “It’s better if you close your eyes.”
Pavia’s face hardened, for just a moment. But when his fingers flicked at a button, it suddenly softened. He did, eyelashes fluttering behind sunglasses, with only the barest of huffs, “This better be goo–”
He’s quiet when his lips ghosted his. Just the faintest tease. The faintest taste. An exhale breathed on the welcoming twitch of his lips, and Collins grinned against such obvious want.
Desire. This he can play into. The hand wandered down, lips barely aiming far as he noted each muscle on his face, wrenching itself into a standstill, for him. Back arched like a taut bow when he sought for his touch on his thigh, the softest of whimpers let out, Collins engraving such a sight behind his eyelids. Then…
Suddenly, he’s off, and standing back on his two feet. He watches Pavia blink himself awake, a frown growing on his lips. When he sat up, incredulous and treated to Collins’ shit-eating grin, he answers the question with a pointed finger.
“Like I said,” Collins said, much more calm. Much more teasing. In control, “Pick it up – And I’ll give you what you want. Treat you.”
He’s given a myriad of emotions on that dastardly-gorgeous face. Confusion, hesitance, reluctance – If he were more vain, he’d think fear had a place in there too, but it was soon replaced with his most favorite; resignation. Although, it was actually surprising. The way Pavia staggered to his feet and Collins unashamedly gazed downwards. Making a whole show of walking towards the water bottle, as deliberate as he could.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Collins tut, to Pavia’s stilled form, “No, go on– Faster, now. Don’t keep me waiting.”
Pavia grunted, more annoyed than smug, “Some damsel you are, aren’t you?”
It grew silent. Collins knew he didn’t imagine the shrinking shoulders.
He walked forward. Made sure his footsteps were heard and not misjudged. He laid a hand on his back, and felt the shiver under his palm, but didn’t make any other move.
“Behave, собака.” Collins ordered, “Pick the bottle up, recycle. Properly. And I’ll be yours for the rest of the evening.”
Pavia took a deep breath, and Collins could barely stifle the grin he had. It’s quickly snuffed in surprise when a shadow – shit, a wolf, or what? – came to collect the damned thing, and was swiftly recycled. He opened his mouth to address the definite cheat, before gravity meets him again and a growl is in his ear as well as a heavy groin pressed into his opened legs.
“Looks like the prey thinks he’s in control,” A moan tears out of Collins’ throat as a hand pulled his hair into an arch, perfectly bowed to receive the bulge better, “I need to remind who’s exactly in charge, don’t I, amore?”
Collins breathily laughed into the air, “Mn– Atleast I didn’t need force you to beh– Ah… ”
“Moan like a whore for me.” Benign and unintentional, he does. The bed rocked cruelly under them in one, sharp thrust and Collins whimpered in the sudden feeling of want, “Good. Now I’m going to relentlessly fuck the reminder into you over, and over again. Until you only babble my name as you come on my cock untouched. We have a deal?”
Collins panted, and he nodded as best he could under the pull. Pavia only did it rougher, pleasure shooting through him like ocean waves, excited laughs and attractive backs, “Say it.”
“Yes.” He said, much too quickly for his own liking, “Fu–” He couldn’t help but add, “ Fuck yo–”
Collins wrapped his arms around Pavia’s neck at the next, feeling taken already as his moan loudly echoed in the walls. He didn’t actually mind this outcome much, he realized. The blows of his ego softened by the dizzying hardness of his own need. This was going to be a long night. And very, very sore morning.
He’ll never admit it, but; Damn it all. Worth it.
(3)
Maybe you’re fucking scum
Don’t you go psycho chum
I want you for the world
I want you all the time (stop)
He’s a filthy and cocky motherfucker, is what he is.
There's that sharp crook of a familiar grin. A little dimple – Agh, no, he looks older. An eraser nubbed the mistake quiet, and he started anew with a fainter, curved stroke. The pointed, curvature of a line he felt with a finger, the paper cold to the touch but warmth a solid memory he can't forget. That cocksucker just can't stop grinning for one second. And for a closeted man, damn was that tongue good.
When he laid back in his chair, he stretched all long, having been drawing for a long time as he thanked his cat, Kartofel, for the points on how to do such a satisfying stretch. His eyes open, and he saw him again. Only this time, wasn't to witness his unguarded expression.
Flashes of the night weeks before – A thumb on throat, pleasure blooming from his core, the heated expression of lust and want as the world rocked beneath them. On the rare occasion he held those eyes without protection, and they've gone on down without it either. He'd kissed his parted lips and he was fucked stupid, and, fuck.
How much of Pavia’s words were lies? Amore, coraggioso, amico, whatever fucking else. A funny take on love, bravery, and friend. How much of it wasn't?
A fuck buddies situation, he thought with a surprising note of bitterness. It's been years, at that point. He still remembered their first night like the back of his hand. That walkway in Paris, water dour under a bridge, glares pointed and tension that tasted like cake and musk on tongue.
“We’ve just enjoyed a sweet patisserie, haven't we?” Pavia had grinned, as if there wasn't a knife to his throat, “C’mon, don't be bitter.”
“I like it bitter, bitch.” Collins grit, testing the blunt edge of the knife on unafraid skin, “It was you who put sugar in my coffee, wasn't it?”
Pavia hummed, unperturbed, “Certainly looked like you needed it, amico mio.”
It didn't taste… bad. That was the part that scared him. That was the part that pinned Pavia against the bridge, to threaten a knife against his throat. Afraid he'd been poisoned. Afraid his death tasted sweet.
It's also what made him hesitate, a retort after the long day not manifesting as easy as it should be, “I …”
‘Not your business,’ is a stupid reply he was better than. The tiring mission that time before was certainly something Pavia was aware of. And he hated it. He hated it. He hated that grin. He hated the urge to rid his eyes of it. He hated the urge to kiss it.
Pavia looked at him, seeming to answer that thought for him. A hand had curled around his tie, that time, and Collins caught up to the realization they were the closest they had ever been. And their lips had met. And he tasted awful.
Disgustingly sweet.
His face before the kiss was on paper before he even realized it – Low-lidded, seemingly absent of it's usual smug, an emotion in those eyes he just can't put a finger on. Blasted, fucking eyes. When he came to, Collins grit his teeth and threw the pencil down to gather his hair into an annoyed rage. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck , he's beautiful, how dare he be in his mind!?
To think of the man that boasted he didn't need a team. Didn't need more companions than his wolves and kissed him good and fucked him good and had words so honey-like it dripped like searing wax on his skin, making his fists curl into a pillow in lonely nights as he thought and thought and fuck him. Fuck him.
Collins threw himself back into his bed, carried his sketchbook, stared at his visage and moaned into sheets when he relieved himself of his pyjamas to hold himself, already wet.
He thinks of the fingers that were there. Fingers that knew, breaching tenderly into his taint before it crooked knowingly into him. Somehow just knew where those bundles of lightning within him were, and – Ah.
“ Ебать… Fucking asshole, I…” Collins grunted into his pillow when he rocked back into his hand, already three fingers deep, loose and slightly wet from his quickie that morning earlier, “Pavia… ugh…”
Pavia either fucked him fast and full like an animal, or slowly. Slowly stretched him in each moment with each digits, one before two, three before four. Rarely ever was he fisted, but he remembers one such instance in Rome. Where as punishment, Pavia forced him to cum on just his fist after his dick filled him full, fucking it right back into him over and over, the Collins, now, cresting and wet quicker than he probably should've been at what definitely was just from fingers.
Fuck that slowness. He needs him out of his mind. Fast, and now. And he, maybe, needed to recycle three pages of the sketchbook where he could never see his face again. Until he inevitably does.
He's buried into his pillow when he fucks himself fast. Imagining him – Thick, stretched his walls and penetrated him far fuller than he could now, Collins whining his name over and over again as he abused his prostate. He doesn't know how much of this he can do. In his bedroom, alone. In the shower, reluctantly. In a blasted public bathroom, where he couldn't bare being hard any longer. Where he missed him – Missed his fucks, missed the tender nights, the fond looks. Their fingers interlaced. Genuine laughs, low and heated looks he can't understand. Missed him .
Collins’ eyes blew wide, “Fuck!”
He spends himself out with another hand, and he shuddered like a leaf against the full brunt of his orgasm, locking his ankles as he imagined trapping Pavia’s hips there, buried and filling him full with the whole meet of just him.
“Fuck...” He said, again. Sagged on the bed. Much more weighted. Much more scared .
Fuck, indeed.
He quickly checked his sketchbook. No cum, good. He quickly let a tear soak into the pillow, and sobbed purposefully into it to let what he felt the fuck out his system. Fuck love. Fuck being in love. Fuck him.
Collins knew, really – He was the better and actual liar between the two of them.
(4)
Maybe you still think of us
Phone buzz, and still I jump
Why don't I say it then?
I want you all the time
Collins Linnwick is a man of plenty. As well as, honestly, none. Books he never got the incentive to publish – messy, in a secluded corner hidden beneath novels of authors far greater than him – and lost pages filled to the ears with indulgent calligraphy. Scattered sketchbooks, abandoned manuscripts; Always filled. Never to be read.
He'd call himself a jack of all trades, but that'd mean he's a loser.
What he isn't – when he's pushed roughly to the ground with a snarl, the taste of rubble and copper high on tongue where he winced at a cheekful of boot – is, decidedly, some wayward slut willing to bend over all the time.
“You jest, il mio coraggio.” Bitterness shot at his unintentional whimper, the clash of where lust laid and fury did mixing at Pavia’s blunt heel, “ Pathetic, under my heel. I'm almost sorry to say you've run the end of the line.”
“F– Fuck are you going to do, then?” Collins gripped his ankles, made sure the nails dug like talons on those too-tight pants, “Kill me? Had enough?”
“No.” Pavia said, Collins choking into empty air when he'd wrenched himself off, the first breath in awhile untainted by gummy heels, “Remember what I said? Piedmont. Many moons ago.”
Collins wished he didn't. But it flashed crudely, like an eye maimed by a flashing tip.
“‘Course I didn’t lace it with poison, or someshit. You really think I’m that clever?”
“Frankly, yes.” Collins admits, unimpressed against his sharp-toothed grin, “All the world’s a stage if it means killing me.”
“Don’t be so down on yourself, amico mio,” Pavia waved a hand, relaxing even more against the wall, “I’d kill you grandly, slow and worth every drop of blood. Not anything of that swift bullshit – We’d fight. Fairly. Excitingly.”
“Aroused at the thought, are you?” His tone tried teasing, but it came out hardened and defensive instead, as if he felt every word lick into his skin like a knife, “I should kill you right here, and now.”
His grin sharpened into something dangerous, “You never cease to be such a charmer. C’mere, then. Time’s a ticking .”
He would've said something, but his knife did all the talking for him.
The fight went cruel. Fast. Enough for the reason of this starting driving his every swipe, his every dodge, every yell of faint power and every whisper of unshed tears.
Pavia’s cackles – the looming and predatory, always that with a fight – ingrained itself in the covet of his ears. He would've forgot himself. Forgotten why he left cuts, why it stung, why Pavia himself donned a knife too. But his eyes held something. And Collins was captivated, like this was just another game. Chased it.
Manic– No… Warmth. Unabashed delight, something demented or something… fond. Something that was just him. Something that came from just them.
How were they to keep on doing this? How long will this dance go on, until – Until –
Collins’ knees buckled and Pavia heaved against a tree, an unanimous break in the relentless outbreak. He felt Pavia went easy on him, weirdly, which felt insulting. But then again, he didn't have much form to his swings either. He just swung, as if he did it long enough, someone were to catch him.
Coraggioso . Brave. What a fucking joke.
“Had enough?” Pavia croaked, an echoing amusement of his own words, sweat alluring on his impressive brow, “Or are you're in for–”
“ Fuck you, Pavia.” Collins breathed, weak and impudent in his own throat, rough where his breath almost couldn't escape, “Fuck… you.”
Pavia hummed in his own, slightly less tired himself, “Seems creativity isn't in your long list of talents, eh?”
Collins raised his hand for one last strike – And the sharp end rips through the bark behind Pavia, unfazed by the deep split with his own grin home on that blasted, smug face. Unfazed under the way Collins’ face twisted. Unfazed where he couldn't control it anymore.
It's clockwork. The tug at his neck, the smell of rubble and dirtied gum on his nose, copper sure to stain his tongue for weeks if he even lived after this. The hand around his tie, the familiar exhale of sickening sweets. The falling.
The flicker was new. The obvious, barest sign of hesitance on that always-sure face.
He barely noticed. He can't breathe.
There's a pinch in his brow all poised to almost ask, ‘ are you okay’ which. What a question it would be. How does he look? How does one think?
He doesn't. More infuriatingly, Pavia says, “Collins–”
“I'm fine.” Collins rushed out in one, wheezed breath, as if he needed to know, “I'm. I– I need–”
“What do you need, amore?”
“Don't.” Not that. Anything but that. The physicality of Pavia wasn't there anymore, the knife is in the tree and he needed to go, “Don't call me that.”
Pavia doesn't. Fuck him. Fuck him. Collins hated that the feeling of want, how he wanted him to push through his refusal– Needed to.
He sees it, though. That quiet, contemplative face, littered with bruises and cuts, where he hoped of seeing it more clearly, once. It's a beautiful, sour sight. He could have stayed. Let the day go on per usual, fuck through wounds, hiss as they tended to it and hide smiles with biting remarks. Pavia wouldn't say a thing. He says everything, and yet nothing. He always does. And it'd be a perfect night.
Collins turned tail, sprinting away – fucking coward, fucking good-for-nothing – and didn't look back.
Towards anywhere but the alluring lie.
(5)
Those times that we got drunk
Maybe Jamaica rum
Maybe some Jonnie Dub
Maybe you still think of us
There's a certain threshold a masochist teases before he breaks. The test of a sharp edge of foot, before ice began to unfold in a spindling web of cracks underneath.
It's a hot, heavy shower. Scalding and digging deep into the hairs of his scalp just right , as he closed his eyes and focused on the weight. The quiet void welcome in the back of his eyelids. Swat away the flashes of memories like fireflies best he could, with every swathe and lather of his rapidly-healing skin.
He was a fresh new man when he towelled his hair to dry, and he was a man stifled before long. There's no mirrors in his flat. The only thing worth through all the clutter were his cats meowing for his attention. He obliged, like… clockwork.
The spell of night fell over the City, with what little light eventually spilt through the curtains. He gathered a jacket in his arms, and the decision to leave was unanimous.
Fate led him to familiar streets. Admittedly, some clockwork that didn't suffocate. Clockwork that had him twist a doorknob, cause him to breathe an intake of antique books and finely-pressed print. Welcome the faint music that washed over him and greet the familiar receptionist, who never questioned how tired he looked.
Pink Lily Library isn't vast; It was in a corner, no less. Just near his own home, a nice walk over that had you admiring the quietness of the port’s oceans. Peace, it gave. Against everything in his life.
Collins began the routine of scanning hardbacks with his finger, resolutely nearby his favorite spot. Anything worked, at that point. As long as he could read. And he could blur the lines of his reality until all he felt were pages and abject immersion. Though, maybe he'd do well to abscond from erotica for awhile.
No – Fate came to be a bitch, sometimes. And she comes knocking when Collins paused at something on a table. His table.
A thinly-pressed letter is illuminated by the warm light itself. With what… Wait, what the fuck is that. Thick black lint on it?
Collins came close and angrily reached over to grab it, before hesitating, poking it instead. It… fell through, as if the visage of it was merely such, something ghostly wet lingering on his fingertip. The fuck? It fell gently off the paper when he delicately picked the letter up, and his eyes scanned the back…
Oh, fuck him. He miraculously read the dreadfully familiar chickenshit.
To: Mio Amico Coraggioso.
Double fuck.
Collins paused, assessing the letter as if it could've exploded in his hands anytime. He… can't be the only one he called ‘brave.’ In fact, it can't be him in the first place. How did he know exactly where his favorite spot is? Sure, he may have fondly talked about the library more than once, but…
From, just this once: A fool.
Wait. Now he's interested.
Collins greedily opened up the letter, and was promptly disappointed when the contents looked sparse. Picked slightly up again when he read the first line.
It's not safe to discuss it here, lying around as some cuck of any sort could want interest. Andrea left a hairball –
Ah, shit, that's what it was? Ew.
– to ward off any thief… her words, mostly. Who am I to deny her, you understand. More importantly, I want it private. I want it… frankly, a little bit special. Judging how delicate our matters are.
Dread.
I won't beg your meet. But know I wait for you. Meet me at the place we've had our first Bourbon together. Crude name, killer red, you'd said. I'll pay. Same time, the hour of the devil.
Las Plagas Diner, 03:09 A.M. on a rainy, dour Saturday. Collins hated that he knew that. He hated that Pavia accounted for it, a bait he'd surely take. Hated the stabbing hope, at… such a memory, having still remembered it enough to mention.
Don't be late.
Ever a man for pleasantry. Collins wasn't, really, either.
Just that once – under the safe cover of the books nearby, shielding him from the world, enveloping him in that warm cocoon that dared him to hope – he held the letter to his heart and let himself swoon.
He'll think of the dread, later. That awful morning they've had together. He'd have much time, after all. Collins’ life spent itself ragged on it anyway.
Las Plagas. The plagues. Hm. Expensive debauchery that only really made it worth with the food they barely afforded and, yes, killer red. He wondered why he picked it – And he's paying? Well. Far be it from him to decline, bitterness aside.
Just… What a choice.
(6)
How come you only look pleased in bed?
Let's climb the cliff edge and jump again
Pineapples are in my head
Got nobody ‘cause I'm brain-dead
The letter didn't inform of him what else to do. Collins just had the sense to wear his most formal suit, since this diner wasn't… a joke. It was happenstance, the first time. Their takedown and first big pay, and they were drunk on cheap wine before they've dared it on higher stakes.
It didn't need to say more, turns out. He's ushered – ushered! – quickly inside with a pleasant tone of, “Collins Linnwick, we were expecting you…” that made him forget, really, why he was even mad in the first place. To who it was even directed at, the pointed smell of roses crisp on the edges of his nose and the bougie finally welcoming him in.
Until he saw him. There he is – Pavia.
He looked smug, reclined against his seat in a lax, unfairly candlelit place that smelt of him. The server had left him be, the slide of the door eerily familiar to being dumped into a wolves’ den. That may or may not have been fine – It erred on the latter, judging by the room positively dripping with the beloved gold of the Spanish.
A private room away from noise, and prying eyes. Those visible, anyway. Candelabras donned nearby dressers, filled no less with antiques. A portrait lined with gold, a picture Collins honest-to-god thought looked like a vagina. But the diner was called Las Plagas, so it may have been the rich’s funny, absent-minded depiction of a bacteria.
Smoke lined faintly in the room, curling in the air as Pavia took a long drag out of a cigar, a try for something formal ending up half-flayed open, the top button cursed to showcase his chest, the tie adorning his shoulders. It framed him, relaxed where he waited for Collins’ awe to subside. Relaxed against time. Relaxed enough to try smoking again, eternally amused.
And he… he looked beautiful .
Collins sharply remembered to be angry.
“You don't show much, Pavia.” He said, slow around his words, “But I would've thought buying me back is far beneath you.”
“Don't be so crass, amico mio.” Pavia said, tapping the cigar on a nearby ashtray as if he did it often. My friend , his mind yelled. And that was the first words he'd heard from him after a week, “Come, sit. Will you?”
“I don't know owe you anything.” Be angry. Be angry. “I'm not obliged to do anything you want.”
“You aren't.” A flame flickers from a lighter – Chaste, as it meets the end of the cigar he held, “But you came. And that must mean something, no?
A thin line replaces his lips. He saw the way Pavia’s picture of ‘ lax’ dim under the fire, a frown faint on where should've been a shit-eating grin.
“Have your fill, atleast.” He held the cigar out, in an intentional invite. A peace offering. An olive branch, “Dessert’s about to be served. We both know that's sacred.”
Fucking idiot. It's supposed to be ‘ dinner’ in that phrase. Collins crossed the distance as Pavia stood, and he took a long, sobering drag instead. Welcoming the familiar smoke that filled his lungs.
Pavia had taken out the seat for him, and Collins sat as he breathed, smoke trilling out his lips with a tense he can't shake in his shoulders. It's a picturesque night, all looks considered – Daresay, the closest thing to a date for them. Pavia had swivelled back into his chair, chest somehow even more open. He had an easier smile on his face.
Collins tested the faintness of gelato on his lips. Crisp, a hint of citrus. He tried mint, for the evening. He offered the cigarette back, and prepared for the strike.
Pavia took it graciously between a thumb and forefinger, poised like a pen. Collins snorts.
“You don't smoke.”
A glint in this eyes, moving the thumb for his middle finger, “For you, I would.”
His heart pounded as he watched his lips close around the cigar, chest heaving in time with his obvious exhales. It's slow, he realized. A long, deliberate stretch of a moment, scrutinizing each furrow of his brow and searing the planes of his face with each blink, mentally comitting it to paper.
It jut his heart like an ink wanting to blot.
Collins opened his mouth to speak – ‘What do you need. Why am I here. What, invited me over to look at the pain up close, have you?’ – but Pavia’s sudden flick of his eyes dried the words in his throat.
“Do you remember,” he said, between slow tendrils of smoke lining each breath, “Santa Coleo?”
Flashes, glinting like sand particles on a beach; A cliff, a grin, a push. Unwanted memories. Collins tried for a glare, but the discomfort made it look like a pout.
Pavia didn't comment, pensive as he let him pluck the cigar out his fingers.
“I'm not much of a fan, either.” Pavia said, slow, still, as if he still held the cigarette, “Falling, much. Never been.”
The end was still wet from his lips. He held unto it like a lifeline. He furrowed a brow, then, shoulders still tense but retracted, still, at the thought of an answer, “Then why would you suggest it?”
Pavia exhaled. The first untainted one that night, so far, and he reclined back into that chair again with all the airs of someone who Collins realized, was remarkably human, “Santa Coleo is a place for those who dared. Seek one's own desires and quench the thirst for righteous courage, risk freefall and let man’s wings fly. It's where politicians thrive. It's where poets come to die.”
Collins furrowed brow furrowed itself further. Points for prose, but, “I don't see your point.”
Pavia snorted, “Much of what I said, too, to the poor, purple-blotted sod I was tasked to beat in my first visit. ‘Wise words from a dying man,’ – But a dead man, judging from the next shot, nonetheless.”
That should not have been attractive. It still doesn't make sense, but Collins knew then to wait. It's not much opportunity Pavia yaps this much either, anyway.
His lines are relaxed, slightly taut at what might've been the most honest he'd ever been. It's much like him when he's wild on red, too lost in debauchery to realize his vulnerability. It is a bit special, Collins realizes. How many men before him experienced this. Live another day to tell of the face, draw it in dog-eared ends of pages. The lack thereof.
The loner. Who boasted that he didn't need a team. Who was prideful that he didn't need any more companions than his wolves.
“Before I knew it,” Pavia said, and finally – finally – he looked at him, “My feet walked by itself. Right up to that edge. Looked over, felt your eyes at my back. And I felt…” He took a breath, second-guessing a word before promising, “The wind.”
Coragiosso. He suddenly remembers. Brave.
“You never told me why,” Collins said, lost in the faint smell of ash in his throat and the way it fell from his lips, forgotten, “Why you… Call me coragiosso, I mean.”
Pavia barked out a laugh, suddenly. Collins promptly rung by too much of it's bells to notice the ashtray approaching him, “Well. That'd be too honest, wouldn't it?”
Collins truly glared, the faint sparks of anger lighting his chest, jabbing the lit cigarette near Pavia’s neck, “Then tell me why– atleast– the reason that we're fucking here for?”
“Dessert,” Pavia said, looking at something behind his back as Collins heard the door slide, “ Andare avanti . Incoming,”
Collins swiftly nubbed the cigar into the ashtry, and numbly looked to the incoming server as he hid it on his lap under the table. The man was unperturbed, introducing the dish as two plates were placed down – Though, Collins was honest-to-something appalled more at the large-sized tub of gelato placed rightly between them.
Red was poured – Bourbon, 1401, he'll give Pavia credit for that – and the server was gone without further notice, making Collins swerve right back into biting anger, “Pavia–”
“I admire your conviction.” The lone wolf said, making the frightened deer stop in his tracks.
“I know.” Pavia continued, to Collins’ bewildered expression, “You didn't jump.”
“What– Why?” The night had a place for questions, and after years of risks and confessions he can't dare, it threatened to spill out of him in one breath, “You know I didn't jump. You know. Despite everything, everything, you know m–”
“Collins. We both know a man's truest self is revealed, in the face of fear.”
That doesn't make sense. “Nonsense. Goddamnit, Pavia, you're not making any fucking sense–”
“A boy lived in Piedmont, once. Like you, I know fear.” It was grit out as if it hurt to talk. As if those words refused to yield, crawling it's way out to be known. After what felt like of years being buried. After finally being given a chance to be heard. Collins slowly felt himself quiet, the surest frown on that smug, smug, should've-been smug fucking face. A peek in the cracks of a broken man, “You’ve held your own better than I’ve ever had, il mio amore coraggioso. I can't–” A pointed swallow, a bitter hint of tears. It was silent, for a moment. Before he slumped back into his seat, an exhale out of those lips. Barely loud. Barely-there, as he stared at the floor, “We're alike. In alot of ways. I've…”
And he's silent.
Collins thought. Let those words sink, entirely honest and tainted … Brave. Love. His.
Fuck .
He can't ask direct questions. He'd never get a direct answer. Not in the way he wanted it. Not in the way Pavia wanted it, either. They'd speak in tongues for however long it takes. Before inevitability crept, and the cycle could begin anew.
But he's never seen Pavia honest like this. Honest as he can be. The room felt stifling with all it's roses and musk and mint and gelato, that blasted smoke and him. The wine was Bourbon and it was vintage. The night was spent with probably more than half of Pavia’s savings.
He can't let it go to waste. He can't. Pavia had made his move.
… So…
Collins nudged his shoulder, a finger falling to rest at the clothed space of his chest as he let the ashtray back into the table, “Do you have any more of these?”
Pavia suddenly looked at him. Surprised, “What?”
Collins couldn't really stifle his grin. There are rare times he truly caught the man off guard. And those are rare times worth cherishing.
“Another cigarette,” he wiggled the thing in his hand, snubbed as it was, “It can't just be one.”
There are times, rarer, that he gets a full good look of Pavia’s face. Unhindered by passionate nights. Unhindered by the influence of booze, or his own face obscuring his expression. It's a nice look, that one. The quiet, solemn man underneath it all, with an unhinged sort of crack for violence. Slit throats of many, held Collins tendernly on wayward nights (or roughly, depending how the night went). Beauty untapped by encumbrance. Of nothing, but the moment.
Pavia smiled. Really smiled, Collins thinks. It was a peace offering, wasn't it? An olive branch. A promise, of some sorts. A vow.
“You can fucking have it,” The pack was in his other hand in a flash, their locked fingers lingering there, “Those little things are such pieces of shits. How do you smoke so many?”
Collins laughed, resigned to a death surely caused by a heart attack in the future. He teased an early one – Holding Pavia by the chin, falling forward to kiss him surely on the lips.
Gelato-tainted, funny. With a new tub already ready to be devoured. If Collins was to die by smoking, Pavia was surely to die of cavities. He'd make that possible.
Perhaps they are similar in some ways.
(7; bonus.)
The night had proceeded on… casual. As casual as you could get with two assassins for fuck buddies, scorned and fated to be alone by the world. Collins would take this as any nice evening.
Gelato suddenly stuck on Pavia’s nose, Collins thumbed it away, and suddenly they were making out.
He would've handled it with more decorum, but honestly, ending the day with a nice, tired fuck would make everything. And he was too hard and drunk on red to pull away.
(And it's not like he really wanted to.)
Pavia’s mouth on his neck was hot, fast and experienced as he deftly undid the buttons of his suit, pushing Collins into his bed all the while. Thank whoever managed the universe’s bullshit that his house was merely a walk away, free to moan into his mouth when his clothes were wrenched free, dizzied by the musk of all of him as Pavia took care of his pants.
“Went tight, did you?” Pavia grinned, Collins wiggling his hips away from the choice, too aroused to prolong foreplay, “At ease, il mio amore. Not going anywhere.”
He better not be.
He ran a hand over the tenseness over his shoulders, working through it gradually as he rose, trailing kisses from the flush of his hips to the coiled hardness of his nipples. Unworking each knot little by little, Collins squirming as he whimpered at the simulation, arched upwards for each give of contact.
“Ease,” Pavia reminded, and Collins breathed, letting each kiss fall on his skin.
There's many nights like this. No less when tipsy, or hardcore drunk, where each give and take felt reckless and their core felt strenuous. There's lesser – where, yes. Exist, still – where each contact felt like a searing imprint on the cold of his skin. A boiling-hot magma lumping the glacier waiting beneath, thawing each shred of ice until he felt like liquid beneath Pavia, and it was deliberate.
But it's sometimes deliberate in the way of punishing. It's not usually deliberate in the way of… intimate.
He felt each shudder like a promise. Each quiet vow, counted in their fingers lacing together, or the drag of a hand splayed and dipping between his thighs, soft on the bruises and marks laid before.
Collins groaned. Bucking into the touch. Pavia laughed… frustratingly delicate.
Somehow… warm?
“Can’t relax to save your life, hmn, il mio coraggio ?”
“Fuck me until I'm relaxed, how about that?” Collins grit out. Couldn't help but grin for.
Pavia rose again, cupping his cheek, and kissing him whole in reply.
He wasn't even fucking naked yet. In silent rebellion, Collins rubbed him through his tightly-clothed groin, making the man groan above him and tightly grip his wrist. He half-bit his forearm, and the loud moan out of Collins’ lips was entirely unintentional.
Pavia had that smug look again, dutifully stripping slow before him, methodical and deliberately slowed to tease the seconds out. Fucking bastard. Fucking guy .
Fuck. He loves him. Wretchedly whole, and entirely where he knew air.
Collins sat up with one swift motion, maneuvering him to be pushed unto the bed. Surprisingly, Pavia did so, wide-eyed. Not exactly the picture of surprise when Collins teared through his clothes like a starving man, falling quickly to the floor in a messy heap. Forgotten until the morning. Forgotten until it's over.
Pavia placed a hand atop his, and he's only truly stopped when he kissed him quiet, again.
The familiarity of his warmth was there. The tenderness in each touch, every dragging touch before grasping his bottom – not to bruise – was entirely uncommon. Collins would know him blind in every breath, in every contact he gave and every crack piqued. Pavia had already found the lube in his dresser, judging from the wet digits teasing his hole as the other hand spread his cheeks. It can't be only him that yearned for this. He can't be the only one fantasizing how each touch fell and every kiss felt after this.
“Pavia…” he breathed, in the only way he knew how to. Desperate as the two fingers crook, desperate as he moaned, grasping him by the neck, levelling him into a meaningful stare, “Harder.”
Pavia growled. Though, was more an involuntary reaction than any kind of anger. He leaned in for a kiss, but Collins held firmly. His brows furrow as he fucked himself back into his fingers, moaning against his lips.
“Not now,” he reassured, “Not yet,”
Collins grasped his chest before kneading a nipple into a gentle roll. Wait, he said. Pavia’s eyes softened and he fingered him, adding the third, rougher.
Thoughts prick through his drunk-ridden mind like firelights within a moonlit daze. Winking, never straying for long, Santa Coleo, the yearning to see his face, the cracks as Pavia could barely get the truth past his throat that night. He seemed to belong in the moon. Beautiful, under it, mouth open in quiet groans just watching Collins please himself on his fingers alone. Collins loves him, he knows. Lingering there, even under the sunset. When he threatened, when they fought, when they laughed, when he looked down the cliff and he couldn't fall.
Collins pushed him down, gentle. Pavia fell, easy, with just that small push unquestionably. Collins fell down himself to capture him in a kiss again, loose hair framing them as he tasted gelato, that hint of wood, an abomination of wolfy musk and him alone.
He shuddered, lips slipping slightly off as Pavia knocked into him with a fourth. He grinded himself down, patient for as long as he wanted him to.
“I want–” Pavia exhaled, hoarse, when they part, “I want to fuck you. Feel you, amor… il mio coragiosso.”
Collins felt himself swallow, nodding his insistence hastily. In more rowdy nights, Pavia would've been merciless, not making him cum until Collins admitted he wanted to be fucked. But tonight, Pavia just exhaled, kissing him again as he felt the fingers leave, only to feel a heady, thick prick of warmth replace it instead. Sweet as he circled around it, sweet as he tasted him on his tongue.
They moan into the other's mouth when he felt the first breach, and Collins lightly emerged, breathless, “You can call me that,” he admitted, heart frantic in his chest, “Th… Amore. Just please, if you'd be so kind as to not hold back, Моя любовь.”
A flush settles on Pavia’s cheeks, surprised enough to still in his entrance, the most adorable picture underneath. Collins made for a laugh, but a startled moan punches out instead as the familiarity of delicious pain surged straight inside and fuck, yes, he's finally filled.
Pavia knew how much of him he can take – So he follows. The sharpness of nails on his ass as he felt it bounce with each relentless thrust, Collins hiding loud moans into the hollow of his neck as he gets lost in the feeling of being filled over and over again with wet sounds of sex. A hand cards through his hair, before it roughly pulls him back, Pavia’s eyes lustful as he fucked him eagerly from behind.
“Y’fucking love that, don't you?” He slurred, growling as he enunciated with the fast buck of his hips as Collins panted like a whore, “ Fuck– Amore mio. That face of yours, you'll make me cum–”
“ Ah–” He won't say please, he won't, but damn was it tempting, “Mnf, yes, Ебать , Pavia, like that–”
Gravity pulls him backwards. And he's dizzy, late and lost in the daze of pleasure as he realized Pavia was looming above him, having pushed him into the bed with legs locked around his hips. Collins moaned, as the thrusts had deliberately slowed. Merciless. Feeling each drag of his cock in his hole drag out, before punching back into him sharply. A methodical entry that had his core ignite anew with euphoric flare, vulnerability etched unto his face as Pavia watched him, taking his chin with ringed fingers.
“Like that, mio coraggioso fiore?” Slowly, out, then sharply back in, a whimper trilling out of his lips as he felt his chest and being unfold with every unworking within him, “Love taking it like a little whore?”
Degradation. Fuck, his favorite. The next thrust spread him wider and he felt himself moan louder.
“More,” Collins choked out, “Tell me how it feels.”
Pavia hummed, pace unchanged as he fell to take his neck with sharp teeth and wanting throat, “Feels like if Earth had met it's core.” He said, sincerely, a breathless break from his bit throat as Pavia continued against his skin, increasing his pace with each meet of their hips, “Tight. Unyielding. Wetter with each thrust, perfectly warm and perfectly…” it's growled into his ear, every exhale causing him to roll his eyes back into his head.
“Fuck, please.”
“Perfect.” Pavia thrusts, hard, “Like falling – The binding of ocean welcoming me with open arms. Cards falling into place. Euphoria destined to hold me in it's embrace.”
God. That's sappy as shit but maybe, maybe poetry does suit his face.
Collins breathlessly laughed, a flash of teeth lightly biting his lip, “Where'd you– Ahh, yes– W-Where… Where the hell d’you learn all of that?”
“I read. Sometimes,” Pavia lightly laughed his own way, Collins humming before losing it in the next pleasurable noise as the bed creaked with their love-making– wait, what– “Collins, you inspire me– Being pathetic isn't the only thing you’ve tempted me for.”
Collins moaned, his gut unfurling like light splitting into two, a coming freight train of ideas, a fall that he didn't come to dread but looked for in the planes of Pavia’s face and didn't fear anymore, seeking and prodding there, “Pavia, Pavia, lo– I– Fuck, I'm close–”
“Come on just my cock, amore mio.” Pavia demanded, growing rougher, deeper, harder and faster with frightening precision within him, “Come with me.”
Stars danced in his eyes, taking Pavia’s lips and moaning his name into his mouth as he squeezed his eyes shut and spilled all over themselves. He locked his ankles behind Pavia’s back and euphoria familiarly made home into his body, feeling him cum in hot spurts of blinding white Collins struggled to blink back. He may have been screaming, he realized. That was for Pavia to say, help explain, hopefully, why his throat felt extremely hoarse when he came down from his high, sagging like a sad sack of esoteric bones underneath him.
Fuck. That was worth it.
Pavia grunted as he slowly slipped out of him, a laugh he may have exhaled into his cheek, there through his dazy afterglow as he said, smug, “Feelings mutual, amore mio. Falling asleep?”
Ah, shit, did he say that out loud? Oh well. It didn't seem like a big deal to Collins then, felt an awful lot like a boundless, meaningless shape of embarrassment that he promptly ignored. A weak sound out his throat as Pavia settled beside him, sitting up. An action familiar enough for him to realize he was going to go and clean up for them.
Collins held his hand, Pavia looked back at him.
He felt himself smile. Mmn. There he is. Beautiful.
Consciousness slipped away from him like silk falling gently into the floor. He didn't know he said that out loud, either, entirely unconscious as Pavia felt another blush fall on his cheek. Huffing above him, imprudent. Delightfully sated.
Ah, questo adorabile, ipocrita idiota. He thought, laying a gentle kiss on the top of his forehead, before anything else.
Collins was going to wake up very, very sore. But Pavia is going to be right there beside him. And that was enough. This was going to be one night – like this, perhaps with the opportunity of being more honest – of many. Of, even, better.
And really (Collins would soon think in the dark, as he slept soundly on his bed with a small smile, Pavia en route to cleaning them both up); They were going to be okay.
Maybe there is a place for two loners – a liar and a maniac – after all.
🐺 🦌