Moth Mortuary @moth-mortuary - Tumblr Blog

When I get old, I wanna sell you my soul

Rating: Explicit Category: F/M Relationships: RE9!Leon/Reader, RE9!Leon & Reader Words: ~11k Language: English

✘ Masterlist ✘

Leon is slowly falling into retirement; he can feel it. The missions are sparser and fewer in between; he’s at home more and more often, and life just generally feels… slow. He’s old stuff now; the DSO is of the youngster roaming its neon-lit halls, and he’s fine with it, as all he can do is make room and wonder how did he get to see his fifty. What he’s not fine with is the blasting music coming from two doors down his own. Apparently, being home more often does not always equate to serenity. And shaking his fist at his barely-out-of college neighbour might just be the point at which Leon has to stop and ask himself the scary question: Has he, indeed, turned into a grumpy old man?

[⚠️SAFE TO READ, NO RE9 (GAME) SPOILERS. Author only saw the trailers.⚠️] Just snippets of your and Leon’s lives as neighbours. Starting with a bang and ending with something softer, surely warmer and definitely more chaotic. So sorry, you have like 8k words of plot and only THEN some smut (3k of it). Super sorry idk how to do pwp 😭 Maybe I'll come back later and add more to this. Ao3 Link

To wake up to the loud bass of God knows what kind of grungy music someone’s kid is playing at full volume a couple of doors down from his apartment is not exactly how Leon wants to be woken up on a random Sunday morning after another gruelling mission. It really is not.

But it’s exactly what is going on right now. With an insufferable beat stomping in his ears and making his walls tremble with edgy tones and a nausea-inducing, messy rhythm. It’s stupid that he instinctively reaches for his gun; it’s even more stupid that he points it at the closed door of his apartment. And by the time he actually understands what the hell is going on, anger pools behind his eyes. Fucking kids.

He’s still in his sleeping clothes when he bangs on your door. And, judging by the messy hair and three sizes bigger t-shirt you greet him with, so are you.

«Oh! Hi, can I help you?» «Lower that damn music down, do you have any idea what time it is?» For a second, you blink dumbly at him, with the edge of your door in hands and the sweet smile frozen on your face, and Leon is almost proud of how impolite he has come across. Then something in you snaps, and your face turns into a scowl; a pissy, youthfully-judgemental scowl. «Like… 2 pm, dude?» What?

Now that you have mentioned it… the hallway does look suspiciously lit. He must be looking completely lost, and a good portion of dumb, if even you — the most terrifying of monsters, a young adult — after a piercing eye-roll, find pity for him in the depths of your cold, cold heart. «Alright, I’ll tone it down a notch, but you have to go to sleep earlier next time. 2:15 is genuinely fair game.» And with a hip propped against the doorframe, you arch an eyebrow and deliver the last painful jab at his dignity: «grandpa.» For a second, Leon is so out of depth that he genuinely gapes. Well, there goes his resolve. «I’m sorry—»

Not that you step down easily with the derogatory sass, on the contrary, his sudden nervous behaviour seems to spur you on. «Don’t have a heart attack over it,» you cut him short, before swinging your weight from leg to leg and fixing him with a sour expression. «I’ll cut the music out, so you can have your afternoon nap in peace. Old man.» And with that, and a last dismissive huff, you close the door in his face, and he’s left standing on your “go away” doormat that does nothing but rub salt into his wounds. Well, that was brutal. It’s only when he’s back inside the safety of his apartment, too awake by shame to go back to sleep, too physically taxed to do anything else, that he finally realises he never stopped to buy coffee yesterday, coming back from his latest mission; and the nagging feeling of having forgotten something gets dethroned by pure despair.

He has to do some serious mental gymnastics to convince himself to throw on his leather jacket and walk in his pyjamas to the store, but he cannot function without coffee. It still takes him 20 minutes to hype himself up enough to even slip on his shoes. No socks because he hates life.

And today, life hates him back apparently, because as his door slams shut, his eyes connect with yours under the rim of his baseball cap and you’re simply there, at the end of the hallway like a sphinx guarding his freedom, between him and the stairs for the outside world, one yellow package in one hand and the handle of your door in the other. Your eyes scurry to his, attracted by the loud sound of the closing door, and something wicked splits your lips in a grin. «Well, well, well… aren’t you up bright and early?» You mock, crossing your arms and dangling the forgotten package from the hiding place tucked against your hips. «I finished coffee.» Is the only thing he can murmur, surprisingly truthful and plain. For a minute or two in the brightly lit hallway, nothing but silence lingers in the air; then, suddenly, as loud as gunshots, your laugh ricochets through the walls. «Man, today is not your day at all. Get in, 12B, I’ll make you a cuppa.»

And on a normal basis, Leon would have never accepted, but today, nothing feels normal. So he follows. The apartment is furnished the way Leon would expect a 20-something girl’s apartment to be furnished, perhaps leaning a bit on the side of 90s grunge; the one he lived on his skin firsthand during his own youth, and now echoed in his neighbour's cramped living room/kitchen/music room. It’s a weird transitory space that feels lived-in, as if its purpose had shifted and changed during the years, settling into an impractical mixture of old functions and newer ones. «Do you play?» The row of guitars and what he assumes are bass lines the wall over a mismatched old piano that screams “old lady” rather than college student. All different colours and shapes, a particular one even having two necks and some glittery finishing over the body. Those too feel lived-in, with scuffs and scratches across their varnish. «No, I like to spend my paychecks caring for these bitches out of the kindness of my heart.» sassy, «I’ve been playing since I was seven or so.» It should feel like hostility, but Leon knows what true hostility feels like, and that is not it. You’re more like a hissing cat swaying your tail dismissively, deeply offended. «You’re a mean one, aren’t you?» The coffee machine sputters to life, a low buzz indicating a long life of usage. You turn and tilt your head, unimpressedly looking at him through your lashes, «Me? Are you having a senile moment? I was sunshine and rainbows when I opened that door; — your hand does something incoherent with itself in the general direction of the exit, then, coming back to him, a finger points square at his chest — you were the mean one. It’s truly not on me this time… As you sow, so shall you reap.» You pronounce at the end, like a mantra, spinning on your heels, chin up in pride, messing around with pots and coffee pods.

«I had a rough night. My bad, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.» It’s really easy to slip onto the stool at your small kitchen island, as easy as asking for your forgiveness. It feels almost… normal, a well-oiled machine that has finally sputtered back to life after years of neglect.

It sounds stupid. «Don’t stress about it.» The comforting aroma of coffee fills the air, the sound of poured coffee curls around the edge of your words, mixing and fusing. «There is space for my piano and then some inside those eye bags.» Your figure turns, your smile settles back into the soft one you had opened your door wearing, and something soft tugs at Leon’s heart. His cup clinks onto the kitchen island, you sip your own, the day outside slowly moves on. «Sugar?»

It gets really easy to talk to you, like sipping the sweet coffee cooling in his mug, like huffing at your playful jabs and hiding his smile under the rim of his hat as you question and probe to get a rise out of him.

It’s well past four when his stomach grumbles loudly, and you once again laugh at his expense. His joints creak as he rises from the stool, hands hoisting him up «Well, that’s my cue to leave. Pardon me, my lady.» Your laugh is a kneecap shot; Leon has dealt out his fair share of those, he knows how effective they are. You take no prisoners, stretching lazily over the counter dividing you two, your hands shooting from across the island to cup his own. «No, no wait! I’m having fun.»

His legs give up, and he crumbles back into his seat. «Tell you what, pretty eyes.» Your hands don’t leave his. «If you don’t have coffee in there, it’s hard to believe you have actual food. I’ll make you a deal: I cook you up something de-fucking-licious, and you tell me why I thought you were dead in your apartment, and your cat was eating your face to survive.» Your voice is light and cheerful, your back straightens, and your eyes glimmer in the afternoon orange light pooling from your windows. He’s suddenly two sizes bigger than his own skin, so out of place in your serenity, «I’m not usually around.» he chews in between his teeth, unable to avert his gaze but willing to try. Yours, once again and unsurprisingly, feels steady. Unhurried. «No shit, Sherlock, but if you want food, you’ll have to be a bit more loose-lipped.» «Why?» It’s an honest-to-god question, perhaps a bit too honest for his training. It feels like a layer of his soul is being peeled. You shrug your shoulders and let go of his hand, almost sure he won’t attempt another flight, and turn on your heels to start the late lunch. «'Cause I’m nosy as fuck.» you offer simply, putting a small pot on the stove and bobbing your head as if to punctuate each word now that he can no longer see your expressions. «Well I— I’m truly not… around… that much.» if you wish to humiliate him for the dumb repetition, you don’t let it show, simply huffing a somewhat derisive sound and arching an eyebrow from behind your shoulder. «How so? I thought people your age had achy knees, not travelling desires.» Yeah… why so? But most importantly, why is he around now? And why does he have the feeling he’ll have to make peace with the idea he’ll be around quite a bit more?

To put it simply, Leon is slowly falling into retirement; he can feel it. The missions are sparser and fewer in between; he’s at home more and more often, and life just generally feels… slow. He’s not getting any younger, tons of new agents are getting recruited every month, and his experience is starting to get outweighed by the constant ache in his knees. He’s old stuff now; the DSO is of the youngster roaming its neon-lit halls, as all he can do is make room and wonder how did he get to see his fifty.

His silence must have been interpreted as offence as you quickly cast a glance behind you and rectify: «Alright, I’ll quit it with the old man jokes. You did piss me off tho. Did the coffee taste of peace offerings and spite? Because that’s what I was aiming for.» You’re cute. All words and sassy remarks. A chatterbox with a cute scowl and an even cuter irritated frown. «Mmmister?» He gotta put his ass in gear, «It’s Leon. It’s stupid I haven’t told you yet.» God, he’s out of practice. But that doesn’t seem to faze you, little does apparently. «You’re fine, Leon.» You concede, pulling open the cabinet over your head. «You feel like the mysterious type. Plus, I liked “grandpa”» Grandpa. His eyes trail your back; you’re difficult to pinpoint. There is something unmistakably weird about you, the way you talk, the way you act, but Leon doesn’t really get what’s tipping him off; you’re just weird. It’s plain in the way you laugh, and it’s there when you say some absurd thing, bending backwards on a logic that is all your own, but it doesn’t stem from those. It just permeates them. His eyes catch yours, once again over the edge of your shoulders, and he finally notices you’re quiet. «Sorry, I wasn’t— I was paying you attention… I just got lost in thoughts.» and those same eyes shine, not with malice but not with innocence either. «An open-eyed nap? Alright, that was the last one. Tomato sauce or pesto?»

A couple of days later, he finds you at his door. Mail in hands and a new, silly, pyjamas hanging loosely on your body. «Dude, Kennedy? Really? Like the president?» Never mind “Confidential” is plastered all over the mail. The postal service managed to fuck it up regardless. «Gotta something to say about that?» Your shoulders shrug, your hand stretches, «Not really, it just sounds silly.» It’s out of his mouth before he can catch it, «My middle name is Scott if that fans you amusement.» It does, it really does, if the nasal and ugly laugh that escapes you is any indication. Weird. «Well, your mail got delivered to me mister president.» Yeah, he can see that; he got some neck to twist back at DSO.

He knows it’s not early, he won’t make the same mistake again and embarrass himself twice on the same matter, but he’s so fucking tired. «Dude—» This time you’re dressed, a black shirt of some band he had seen in concert, but that probably broke up before you were even born. Already on a war footing. «I know, I know, it is fair game, but— please, I just really need to sleep.» It must have been rude to cut you off like that; it definitely was, but he had been verbally digested once; he doesn’t want to have that experience again. You look pissed, eyebrows drawn, and hand gripping the door frame at your side, and for a second, Leon double-guesses his social skills, nonexistent, and his ability to not make you mad with his mere existence. But the sharp tones in your drawn eyebrows smooth, softly, almost out of habit, more than real softness. You look… gentle? «Aight. Fine. I’ll cut the music.» Leon can feel a sight escaping his lungs. «Thanks, really. I’m sorry.» Your head shakes, your shoulders do the same, and the myriad of bracelets on your wrist ring like bells. «Don’t be. I get it.»

That is the moment he should retreat, go back into his apartment and back to bed, the couch if he can’t manage the off meters separating the two. But something seems to prevent him from doing so. You are still there, scrutinising him like a mortician. He should take your doormat’s advice.

«Did you manage to buy coffee?» He didn’t. «Shit— no, I’ll go out tonight.» Last week had been a nightmare; spotty missions of a day or two, polluting his everyday life. Not hard at all, but gruelling. Your tongue clicks on your teeth, «Don’t bother, grandpa.» Fucking nickname, he won’t be able to shake it off, won’t he? «I gotta pull an all-nighter anyway. Just knock, and I’ll get you set up.» That’s odd, you’re odd. Oddly gentle, oddly kind. «You’re awfully nice for being this rude.» Even your laugh is odd. «Rude my ass, dude. Go catch your beauty sleep, princess; you look like shit.»

He does, catching up with his sleep — not look like shit, thank you very much — in a blissfully silent apartment, and then, not even bothering to put something decent on, he knocks at your door. «Damn, old man. Thought you would have been out for at least a couple of hours more.» Weird, but weird in a funny way. Like weird ha ha. «Thanks God you’re funny, girl.» Coffee at your place becomes a habit. You bitch and whine about “taking care of your elders”, but Leon eventually understands it’s an act. He does odd jobs at yours from time to time. The sink doesn’t work? You don’t even have to ask, he’s already two-thirds of the way to getting it repaired. The shutters don’t close all the way, and you hate sleeping with the light of the outside world? He’s already oiling them. It’s a nice balance. It makes him feel needed.

It’s not really clear, in the strict timeline he keeps tabs on in his head, how or when, did warm coffee became trash TV from the worn dip of your couch. It just happens. There is so much caffeine you both can ingest without seriously damaging your stomach before the ridiculous excuse to keep the moment going starts to feel old. The shared silences and the lively conversations weigh more than a possible ulcer on his part and a probable insomniac night on yours.

It’s not unexpected from his point of view; you’re full of life, a constant buzz fluttering around him, softening the blow of his mind’s reeling thoughts, spiralling in silences stretched too long in his deserted apartment. But it’s — once again — kinda weird for yours. For some reason unknown to him, you actually like him around, no, you want him around. He has passed his whole life noticing details, the true distinction makers between life and death in his missions. So it’s not really “spy work” to spot them as they surface. The room you have made for him in your life, nudging your clothes and rags away enough on the couch to make room for him, tugging them in the crevices of the seat. Not gone but folded enough to just let him exist in a spot that is all his. The shift is in the cup you always give him, blue and white, glazed wrongly, probably a failed art project of yours or a close friend. In the pack of cookies you have started to pull out of the cupboard every time he says, “I should go” without really feeling like going. Only to bribe a few minutes, he was already willing to give up, out of him.

Hell, most of the time you open the door of your apartment before he can even knock on it. It’s odd, and it’s even odder that you have stopped murmuring the ritualistic “what a coincidence” after the first couple of times, but somehow that puts him at ease. It’s clear that you want him to be there, in your apartment. And it’s a feeling so long forgotten he had thought he would have struggled more to recognise it.

And it’s not even such extraordinary company the one you offer, it’s mostly a quietly buzzing presence, sometimes a tad too much, but mostly enough. It’s enough when you sit at his side. You have one of those old TVs that, when you shake your hand in front of it, makes it look like you have twenty fingers or more. Per hand. And he’s sure that will probably be the thing that fucks his vision up once and for all — Leon is sure about that — but it’s enough.

Even with the eye-murdering TV, he cannot stop knocking at your door, sliding down the couch beside you as you pluck chips from the bag and hand him “the greasy ones” because you’re picky like that, and somehow you can feel the difference.

He doesn’t complain. When you are too deep into your film, you even feed him, aiming for his mouth without taking your eyes off the TV. It’s awkward, clumsy, and so irresistibly you.

Somebody is trying to remove the door from its hinges. The gun is in his hands in seconds, low, ready. He gotta get out of the apartment quickly, he doesn’t know how many are there, he’s in civilian clothes, his ammo is in his bedroom— «Leon, open up, I don’t care if you’re asleep, come on!» Your voice sifts through the door, through the cracks in the crappy old wood as your fists bang on its expanses. The gun, from his sole lifeline, shifts into an imminent threat; he disarms it and tosses it away as fast as humanly possible, as if burning. God damnit. The door swings open; his frame must be towering over you if he can see his own shadow obscuring your entire body. «Kid.» If you’re intimidated, you don’t let it show, with a shove and a pull, you literally stumble into his apartment. «Dude, there is a fucking Porsche down the street!» Your gait falls jittery and excitedly, running at the window and throwing a glance out of it, down the street. «wha—» But you don’t let him finish, actually, you don’t even dignify him with a glance, waving a hand with chipped nail polish, at him still trying to merge yourself with the window screen, «Put some clothes on, I wanna go see.» Your logic is a fucked-up mess he’s not sure he wants to tackle this early, and this hungover. And yet he asks. «Why do I gotta be with you?» «I don’t wanna go ogle all by myself, I’d look like a creep.» Ah, yes, sure, now he understands. «Because with me you’ll look different?» At that, you finally turn, sharp gaze fixing him with impatience, and a tinge of… embarrassment? «No, but… you know, we’ll just be two creeps… like a flock, you know, anonymity in numbers and all that shit. Better than the lone creep anyway.» He doesn’t really know, mostly because if you don’t want to look like a creep to the owner, you don’t really gotta worry. It’s his. And he already thinks you’re a creep, or at least some other variant of plain “weird" «Alright, gimme a sec.» And yet he yields. «Hurry, I don’t wanna lose it.» You won’t.

«Duuuude, that’s so fucking sweet!» You look like an overexcited… you. It’s actually pretty difficult to compare you to something tangible, something he knows and can catalogue. Your wonder is fresh and childlike, but your excitement comes off of you in waves of low curses and keen eyes raking over his car. He shouldn’t have come home drunk last night, he shouldn’t have left the Porsche out of the garage, but for some strange reason, he doesn’t think the mishap bore horrible fruits. It’s actually pretty nice to see you like that. «You like cars?» «Not as much as I like guitars, but I can appreciate. I’ve never seen one of those before.» Let’s see if you’re telling the truth. «You only like French cars or like…» Your laugh rises airy and light, not in derision, not even mischievous, once again, only yours. «Dude, Porsches are German.» The key in his hand clicks, the car beeps to life, and you almost jump out of your skin. When you turn around, panic visible on your features, looking for the owner, the keys are already dangling from his outstretched hand, and for a second, he can gloat in the magnificent picture of your owlish eyes blinking, slow; as the cogs in your brain shift and clunk connecting the dots. When he speaks, it’s a low rumble, «Alright, teach, do you wanna go grab some coffee?» You look like a fish out of water, gaping at him, and if your eyes could pop out, they would. «Are you?» You don’t even finish the thought, your eyes dart back to the car, to him, «Is it yours?!» «Yup.» Joy jolts through your veins, zapping behind your eyes, raw and unfiltered. «Oh my god, can we— coffee? Can you—» but then something snaps, all that enthusiasm bubbles over, but it’s as if the means to feel it were suddenly taken away from you. And you shift, a bit awkward. Silence falls. «Have you… have you drunk…» your voice comes out low, very low, almost inaudible. Torn between jumping in and putting your feet down on something you won’t negotiate on. He did, he could actually say he got hammered, stumbling up the stairs well into the night and collapsing into his couch moments after, not even properly securing his door, passing out where you had found him this morning. A heap of crumbled clothes and the shadow of a legend. Slowly fading away. Yesterday had been… weird, but not your type of weird, sad-weird. His life had flushed down the drain, drowned in cheap alcohol because that gave the worst hangover headache, and at this point, “hurt” is the only thing that keeps him connected to that part of his life that is actually way more than a part and that without he doesn’t know how to function. So yeah, he’s had a drink, several actually.

But your weird — right now — feels so real he can’t find it in himself to deny you; contagious and fuzzy, like a bad case of the flu. And he feels all warm and sluggish as he stares down the path of voluntarily wrapping around your finger. To be commanded left and right, for the simple pleasure of keeping you content. Buzzing. Not the same buzz he finds looking for solace in the bottle.

You fidget in your spot, growing roots, not moving a single step to get inside the car. He’s weirdly proud of you for that. «I did, that’s why you’re driving.» And for being a sad excuse of an old man, he must have done something right because you suddenly shine.

The coffee shop you drove to that evening was a random one, the only one open this late into the hour, but somehow that became a usual spot. “Usual” is also the habit of letting you drive. For a couple of minutes, Leon simply kicks off and lets you drive, letting you guide him wherever you want. The both of you end up going there quite a lot. On weekends, on Mondays, on Tuesdays… every time Leon is not at work. So a lot. You don’t seem to mind the fact he’s mostly silent, he hopes not rude, but definitely silent. He can’t change in the snap of a finger.

«So… you like own this crazy car but live in that shitty apartment building. Are you like one of those dudes who spend all their money on flashy cars?» The asphalt runs smoothly under new tyres, your voice drifts through the car. «The apartment is good.» The eyebrow-rise is comical, Leon thinks he did laugh; «Leon, I live two doors down from yours. I know mould is growing in your bathroom as well.» It does, in fluffy cotton balls of slightly concerning black substance. But if he closes his eyes, head lolling on the window of his car, he can recall the memory of pristine surfaces, modern lines and oddly shaped high-end lamps looming over perfectly 90° corners, walls of egg-white paint, expensive furniture. Untouched. Waiting for him after endless missions. A solitary life in the guts of a place that screams “aseptic” from every cashmere quilt. «Not really. I have another— place. I just…» You don’t press, you don’t ask, you just let him find it on his own. «I just don’t like it.» Your hum is barely audible over the sound of the car, but it’s sweet, and it’s soft. «And you like that piece of crap? I heard there are loud neighbours on that floor.» At that one, Leon actually laughs, unguarded and raw. He has been like that for a while now, slipping into the habit of simply existing out of questioning in your orbit. A gravitational pull that lures him in. «I’ll take your shitty music over never-ending silence any day.» The corner of your eyes crinkles, that unfiltered laugh seeps into the car, and his heart skips a beat, but oddly feels like it’s falling into the rhythm of yours.

He’s heading down a very dangerous path, but you are driving, and he has no power over the destination.

Leon huffs, annoyance must be visible on his face, perhaps pulling at the worry lines littering his forehead. Wrinkles, there is no need to call them by any other names, they’re wrinkles. «I used to be able to bullseye a wind chimer a mile away.» The newspaper slaps against the table. He can feel the waves of tension rolling off of him, and so must you. One eyebrow arched, eyes unimpressed. «And now you can’t read the newspaper without glasses.» The deadpan lands harder than you probably intended, smoothing the rest of the phrase out of your lips with a softer edge to it. «Come on, grandpa, use this. My father forgot them here like a lifetime ago, I assure you, he won’t mind.» But it doesn't land where you must have hoped it would land. And you must have seen that on Leon's face, this time around, there is more than tension; there’s hurt.

Your voice comes soft and unhurried but firm nonetheless; you don’t reach, you don’t corner, and for that, he’s grateful. You just exist, and you let him do the same «Leon… what’s wrong?» «It’s fucked up.» There is not much more to it. It just is. He has grown old. Useless. The look you pull is weird. Why must you always be weird? So complex to read? Because for a second, you look hurt. Plainly, openly. For what he said. As if he had said it about you. «Leon…» Easily mistaken for pity. Not that he truly believes it. He knows deep down that’s an excuse. The clock over your stove ticks by, time falling slowly out of his reach. «How so?» Your voice rises steady and calm; in a sip of coffee still too hot for him to drink but apparently perfect for you. «What?» Your shoulders shake gently, eyes darting up over the rim of your cup, directed at him. «Why did you know how to “bullseye a wind chimer a mile away”?» «I’m military.» Safe, easier than explaining Raccoon City. Your face pulls, half displeased, he’s well aware how opinionated you can get on government stuff; he gets where you come from, he had wanted to become a cop — a lifetime ago now — for the exact reasons you had listed. Tone heated and annoyed, one dying day he had passed lounging on your couch. He had wanted to change the world back then, to make a difference, but life had yanked him away from that path, hard. And the cop inside of him had died that faithful day. More than thirty years ago. You eye him suspiciously, as if he had turned into the enemy all at once. «Hold the gun, I’m DSO.» «Meaning?» «Division of Security Operations» Your face scrunches up, a very cute frown that tips into displeasure ever so softly, hiding your emotions had never been your forte. «Wow, that gives me like… nothing.» His scoff flees his lips almost unwantedly. «Anti-bioterrorism.» You hum, the sound rippling the surface of your coffee. «Cool.» You relent at some point, as if admitting it cost you something.

The bitterness resurfaces suddenly, ugly and unwanted. It was cool. «Not that it matters now. It has been a while since I’ve been active on the ground.» If there is something that you are, it’s not subtle. Your eyes bore holes where they rest on his figure, intense and searching. «That doesn’t change the fact you had been… DSO or whatever.» «No.» He hadn’t been someone— hell, something in a while now. Aimlessly drinking his sadness away, syphoning your joy, your calmness from your company. You don’t speak, nor correct him. «No, you don’t get it.»

For the first time since he met you, Leon sees it all from an outsider perspective. Outside the bubble of comfort you envelop him in. He’s old, so very old, and you’re younger and brighter, with a future waiting just around the corner. What is he doing weighting you down? It flutters out of his mouth in an exhale. «Of course you don’t. You’re young.» Then the right word to describe it boils down: «It’s humilia—» «Normal.» Your voice cuts him off sharply. Two steps, the clink of your cup to the kitchen island separating you. Your hand falls to his shoulder, and you look at him like you need him to believe you. Unmovable. «It’s normal, Leon.»

Something, in the deepest depths of his soul, is cracking open; he can’t actually pinpoint it, but he can feel it. It doesn’t scare him this time.

Falling for you is soft and graceful, then all of a sudden, it's messy and horrible. Jittery and unsure around you. Like he had lost the balance of your shared existence. So Leon does the next best thing than confessing: he withdraws. Because you don’t feel what he had found himself feeling for you, and it’s a fool’s hope to think of you as anything more than a weird acquaintance.

Days of isolation turn into weeks. You don’t knock on his door, and you don’t go looking for him.

Your absence rings louder than he thought it would. It’s in every nook and cranny of his life where you have jammed your presence, and it hurts around the edges, like a sharp object pressing onto his ribs. «Leon?» clammy hands wrung around each other, pulled hair. Sweat glistening on a thin sheet on his skin. He’s too old for this. «I… I’m sorry, I can’t— I can’t be alone right now.» What a pathetic thing to say to your twenty-something neighbour at three am after you have tried to avoid her for nearly a month. You ought to kick him out, curse his name, and spit on him. Because he’s a coward, a pervert and a pathetic man looking for comfort in retracing a bridge he himself has burned to the ground. «Oh… Yeah, sure, come on in.» But you are just so fucking odd. The apartment buzzes with the soft sound of the fridge in the far corner of the kitchen, the TV glows with a very annoying static and a low crackling sound. You lazily stroll barefoot to the couch, crunched covers squished down, rummaging through the cushion for the remote and shutting the TV down. The room falls into an uncannily still silence, Leon’s heart stutters but stops the galloping it had done for the past interminable minutes of lone panic. The remote slides back over the couch, a thud in the otherwise silent room. You turn and lean into the backrest from behind it, leg outstretched, as if you had never sat in a damn couch. «I’m sorry…» Comes out of his lips small and unsure. «You can go back to sleep, I just— I’m sorry I shouldn’t have—» «It’s alright, do you wanna sleep? Or talk, or like, watch trashy TV?» The proposal is so stupidly sweet he can feel it in his teeth. A dull ache. «No, no, it’s—» What is it? «I just wanted to know you were— okay. Just… safe.» Your head lolls up and down in a sluggish rhythm, crossed arms, a foot coming up to scratch the back of your calf. «Do you wanna sleep over?» He must have heard you wrong. «What?» «Like a pyjama party, shame I just ran out of facemasks. Sleep here.»

«Knowing you’re there, it’s— it’s enough, you can go back to sleep.» It is. It really is because all of this has always been about how much your presence has come to ground him. Your voice lifts something heavy in his chest, soft and calm. «Will you be able to sleep at yours?»

Fuck no. «No.» «Then stay. Why torture yourself?» Because I deserve it. And I don’t deserve you. Too bold. Instead, he settles on: «It’s a loaded question.» Your shoulders draw in, a silent chill running down your spine in jarring shivers. «It wasn’t supposed to be. Stay.» A huff of a laugh filters through his teeth. «I—» «Leon. Please…»

«Yeah… okay… I’ll— sorry. I’ll settle on the couch.» Your face pulls; there is something you wish to say underneath the sleepiness, but you refrain. «Will you be able to fall asleep there?» «Yeah, I will… eventually.» You look less than unconvinced, but once again, your self-control puts his to shame. «Okay.»

It’s an afterthought, soft around the edges, as you pull away from the backing of the couch, sleep clinging to your judgment. You pull him in when you’re close enough, arm circling the small of his back and a palm guiding his nape to the crook of your neck. A soft embrace. Comfort seeping through his clothes, where your skin meets and burns through each other’s warmth. Your voice hitches, «Door’s wide open if you want to curl up and spill your guts.» Then, as if you wanted to drill the thought deeper into his understanding, you clutch harder. «I’m right here.» And with that, you retreat. And he’s left struggling against what that had meant. He can’t recall for sure if he clung back. He does eventually. Fall asleep. Around five or so. And wakes up at eleven, to the soft clatter of kitchen utensils. «Good morning, pretty eyes.» Your voice fills a very deep void he never noticed. I love you. «Good morning.»

Your eyes burn on his skin. Always so unsettling focus. «What?» «Something’s different.» The slurping sound of the straw in your glass announces you’re done with your overly sweet milkshake. He’s halfway through his steaming hot coffee. «The milkshake?» He doesn’t even know how you could be able to tell, all that sugar must have fried your taste buds. «No, dummy, you. Something is different with you.» An eyebrow arches, he sips slower, just because he knows it irks you. «I don’t know what you’re talking about.» It has been a week since the night he spent on your couch. And that has gone blissfully unacknowledged. On his part, you had simply behaved as if what had just happened was the most normal thing that could have happened. «Yeah, you look… better?» your voice cuts through, smacking the tackiness of the sugar away from your lips. «Is it a question or a statement?»

He doesn’t get to listen to your reply. A waiter, all sweet smile and bubbly attitude, approaches your booth. «Can I bring you anything else?» She asks, tapping a pen over an already filled notepad, looking directly at you; Leon has been the “scary guy” all his life, he’s not surprised the woman must feel better speaking to you instead of him. «Oh no, I’m all done.» So he folds himself into a smaller version of what he is, pressing closer to the window, head tilted down. Less scary, less imposing. «What about your father?» The words freeze something in the air, like a spell gone wrong. And all he can inhale is ice-cold dread. Until he has to mutter: «I’m fine.» before the moment drags out worse than it had started. «He’s not my father.»

Your face is hard to read, soft-eyed, a simple smile on your lips, a genuine tilt of your head. You look at ease. You don’t look ashamed. «I’m so sorry—» «Don’t worry.» Man, you’re weird. «You drive like a madman, are you sure you’re not drunk?» You’re not even worthy of a proper answer, so you get a grunt. The road bends and twists in intricate backroads, “to avoid the insomniac rush hour.” you always say when you take it. «Leon—» but tonight you’re in the passenger seat. «I’m dry. Been a week.» Silence falls back, your head falls softly onto the headrest. «A week, mhm?» Fuck, you’re way too damn observant for your own good. «Yeah, been thinking of quitting for a while.» He steps on the gas, sidestepping a lone car going too slow for his liking. «What got your panties in a twist?» «Nothing.» And you let it be nothing for a couple of seconds, even a minute if Leon believes your magnanimity, «Was it the waiter’s comment?» But you’re not that nice, all things considered. «No.» And you’re not easily deterred either. «Then why are you trying to snap your wheel in half?» «You don’t know me.» The whiplash is painful. His own venom drips down his lips, poisoning his own thoughts. «Fuck— I—» «You think so?» Fuck, fuck, fuck… he fucked up so badly. Like horribly badly. «I—» «Stop the car.» That’s it. That is how the only good thing left in his life ends. Because he’s a sad man who doesn’t know how to stay in his lane. «Please, I’m sorry—»

«I want to know you. I do. And you can start letting me get to know you by telling me why you're mad right now.»

The car sits idly on the side of a deserted road. No other passerby in sight, you might as well be the last humans alive in the world. It feels like it. «I hate that she just assumed…» Your voice clicks, a low hum, almost like a buzz. «Why?» unkind. But not harsh.

You just sound demanding. No point in running. «Because I like you. And you deserve better.»

«Better…» Yes, better than someone edging on the void of the half-century mark with no other accomplishment to his name than destruction and blood. Yeah. Better. «Yeah.» «Better than you, but you still get to decide what I deserve and what I don’t.» «No, you—» You don’t even blink as you deliver your next line. «I’m the worst person alive.» And he falls for it like a dumbass. «You’re not—» «Then you aren’t either. If I like you, and you’re such worse, then I in fact do not deserve better. I deserve you exactly.» The air in the car grows heavy. Your words linger between your bodies. «You don’t like me the way I like you. Believe me.» «Boy, you’re dumb.» Your belt clicks, the car gives off a faint alarm, still on, still humming under you two. And for a second, panic sets in. He’s sure that next will come the bell of the door being opened with the car keys still inserted, yet another alarm blaring in his head. But it doesn’t. You lurch over the shift, hand fisting his shirt in your grasp, and then you yank him to your level and kiss him.

And then the rest falls into place with a satisfactory click. The odd-weird you’re dancing on the edge of infects him like a virus, and suddenly, he’s all jittery buzz and tingling fingertips as well. It must be all that sugar he’s tasting off of your tongue.

«Abso-fucking-lutely not.» his palms fall to your figure, harder than intended.

Your huff is playful; you rarely aren't. «Hard ass.» His hands grip harder. Your waist, your hips, your thighs straddling his lap. He guides you lower, harder, over the clothes you still cling to. «I am.» He still clings to. It’s hard to explain. He now knows for sure you won’t judge him; you have done plenty to deserve his trust, but the objective truth is that his body no longer looks like what it used to look 20 years ago. The scars have gone from “enough to feel mysterious” to ugly viper’s nests of leather-like damaged skin, varying in colour and texture; his muscles, no longer cutting, look defined, sure, but the definition of too strenuous work that had left marks deeper than stretch marks over bulging biceps. He looks used. Exhausted. And that scares him.

Your hand dips slightly lower than he thought you would, grazing the hem of his shirt, and his body goes rigid. «Wait—» Your hand retreats immediately, clasping behind your back as if demonstrating to him you’re harmless now; holding onto your forearms. Your lips land on his cheek, soft and steady, until you withdraw, but don’t leave him behind. «Sorry, love, got carried away.» The ease is so jarring he doesn’t even have the time to chastise himself. «It’s okay.» he mutters then, because he truly feels like he has won the lottery with you. Then a huff follows, as you litter his face with kitten kisses. «You sound like my mother when you call me “love”» Your feigned gasp comes with the definitive withdrawal, eyes wide open and false shock painted on your face. He had told you at least a dozen times. «You should know better than that.» you tut suddenly, popping your neck softly. You’re not wrong, his couch is kinda uncomfy. The smirk surfaces like a message in a bottle. Only reading “trouble” all over. «Aren’t you the one who got all grumpy ‘cause the waiter insinuated you were my daddy?» The tip of his ears warms up, and he’s sure that if he were in front of a mirror right now, he’d notice a soft dusting of red colouring them. «She did not say “daddy”» Your grin only gets wider. «She didn’t… I could tho.» Jeeze, he’s gonna combust. «Okay, you’re in time-out.» But he knows you have filed his reaction under the “for later shenanigans” folder inside your brain.

You dismount him like a saddle, swift and confident, not at all bothered by the interruption. He is tho. «Hey. Princess, hold on a second.» His fingers wrap around your wrist. hot versus cold. You always seem to run a bit colder than the rest of the world. Your eyes don’t. Pools of endless warmth zeroing on him. «What’s up?» So he blurs it out. «Does— I know it’s bothersome.» and he can no longer take it back. «What?» And if he can’t take it back, and you’re both already there… he might as well go with it. «The interruptions. It’s— frustrating, I know. I’m sorry.»

Your blinking is slow and deliberate, or maybe it’s just confused. «It’s not. I mean, not really; I do wanna jump your bones, you’re stupidly hot, I feel like I’m salivating every time I see you. But your comfort is the number one priority. So it’s actually not that hard a choice.» Oh…

Well, now he’s the one wanting to absolutely wreck you. It’s not fair. «Can I sleep at yours tonight?» «I’d be offended if you didn’t.»

This is silly. You are silly, your ideas are silly. It’s silly that you’re lying facing each other on your comically small bed. «Your mattress is minuscule.» «But he’s very hard. He’s compensating.» A hand lifts from the cramped space between your bodies, and a snap of his fingers hits the side of your forehead. «Dirty mind. If I knew it was this small, I would have stayed on the couch.» A smile at the edge of your lips pulls slightly. «I think he’s average size.» Typical. «Plus, I got rid of the bigger one to get you all close and cuddly the day you’d finally accept to nap with me.» Leon huffs. This close, he can see the strands around your face moving by the action. You look stunning, groggy with sleep and illuminated by the low light of the outside world. «A mastermind, I see.» Your giggle settles into a comfortable background noise, mixing with the sounds of the street below you; mischievous glint shining behind your eyes. «I got you in my bed, didn’t I?» You did, hell yeah, you did. «What’s next, Emperor Palpatine?» That grants him a full laugh, a soft sound falling precisely between embarrassing and sweet. «I’m swaying between making you cut that beard of yours and letting me shoot a real gun.» Silence falls softly over you, like a blanket pulled under your chin.

Leon’s the first one to break it. «Can I kiss you?» Your eyes soften. «How many times must I tell you, Leon: you don’t have to ask.» One too few. He will never stop doubting himself. «Only once more, I promise.» It’s not once more. He asks every single time, when you wake up in the morning, when he circles your waist at the stove, when you part ways to go to work, when he comes back and finds you curled up on the sofa, reading or plucking at the strings of the guitar of the day. It’s a routine that settles into a type of comfort that eggs him softer and softer into an edge he’s not sure he’s bordering until it’s too late.

The desire slams into him all at once, like a brute force pressing from every direction into his very soul. He has just returned home, to your apartment that had somehow morphed into your shared quarters, and you are just standing there in the kitchen, spoon in hand, and your work clothes draped over the back of the counter stool, messy as always, one of his T-shirts so old it probably predates you, hugging your figure, logo dry and faded. You’re doing some shenanigans with the stove, fire too high, he can already tell from the doorway, and you look so… cosy.

The desire hits hard. The need to act on it hits even harder. He barely shrugs his coat off, throwing his briefcase to the side and marching toward you. The sound slightly startles you, your shoulder jumping slightly, but you turn lazily, eyes focusing on him. «Shoot, I didn’t even notice yo—» He doesn’t let you finish, he just really wants to put his hands on you and grip tight enough to convince himself you’re real. This time, he doesn’t ask for permission; he still thinks he should have, but the want is too much. The kiss is hard and full, one hand flying to the back of your head and the other finding something to grip on your waist, skin, clothes, whatever he can put his hands on. He holds you there, gripping you tight and kissing you deeply. The room fills with smacks, you open up like a flower to sunlight, initially shocked, then melting to his touch. The hand on your waist flies to the knob turned to the highest setting and shuts it off. Something simmers in the background, finally cooling down. Your lips part with a wet sound, a strand of saliva still connecting you. You look at him sheepishly, still panting, still wide-eyed, lips red and glistening; something mischievous bubbles deeper. «You’re gonna burn down the whole building.» his own voice sounds strained. Desire is on a rampage inside him. Your eyes narrow, focused and predatory. «What can I say, fire must be in the air tonight.» Cocky. He still snorts. «Dinner’s busted by the way. In case you haven’t noticed. Beyond salvageable.» He noticed. It’s alright. He’s not hungry. Well, he isn’t for food. «We’ll survive.»

The moment stays charged, or at least he thinks it does; it has been a while since he had been comfortable enough with somebody to let the passion bubble. He had been an awkward teen, a lifetime ago now, a somewhat clumsy rookie, and then he had been a traumatised recruit. Not the best state of mind to let loose.

Sure, he had overcompensated at some point in his youth; when he had been younger and prettier, when the girls in bars had found his scars attractive and not concerning. But even that had gone stale quite early, and the shame of lying had outweighed the brief relief of a one-night stand. And Leon had gotten older, and the wrinkles around his eyes had deepened, his eyes had darkened, and the worry on his forehead had settled into deep lines. He had started to frequent the bars solely for the booze, and the pretty girls had started to steer clear of him. Leon’s not a saint, but it has also been a long time since he deemed himself worthy of such comfort.

Panic seizes him once more, and the urge to ask for permission flutters agitatedly in his chest. «You okay with this?» You’re not even doing anything. Your hand falls to his, slid from the back of your neck to your cheek, and it just rests. «Are you?» He knows you well enough to know this is not a throwaway line; you actually expect a response. «I am.» «Good, then I’ve been okay with this for months.» This time it’s your turn to jump him. Quite literally, filling the inches separating you two with thrown arms around his shoulders and on tiptoes that barely makes you tall enough.

The fire lights back up. And it’s with such ease that you kiss him that his brain doesn’t even go into performance mode. It just lingers in a blissful state of want and warmth. He’s pretty sure he’s the one who hoisted you up, but you might as well have been the one who decided to climb him like a fucking tree. He’s not sure anymore; he just knows his hands are suddenly full of you, and he’s pressing your body on the kitchen counter, mouth on yours and your soft noises buzzing in his head.

God, you sound divine, wrapped around him and kissing him like that.

There is a certain abandonment in you that urges him on, the way you cling to his shoulders, hands raking through his hair, kissing his worries away, one soft lick at a time. «Can we— bed… Now… please—» You don’t even let him finish, nodding against his lips, awkward and hurried, bumping your nose on his. He lifts you higher, tossing you up without really thinking of it, simply wanting a better grip on your body. Your leg clenches, your arm tenses up, and an almost- squeal flees your lips. «Jesus Christ, Leon, how strong are you?» What? For having caught you mid-air? «We can test it.» It’s so fucking stupid the way you mouth “Oh my God” as if he wasn’t there to judge you, sliding your hands from clasped behind his neck to his biceps, softly squeezing over the oversized sweater. You’re so odd, so silly and stupidly you.

The walk to the bedroom is quick; he’d throw you on the bed if he didn’t adore you the way he does. But for how much he wants to absolutely wreck you, he wants to appreciate you the way you deserve. So you get softly laid on your bed, tantalising exposed skin and mussed hair. And when he retreats, stalling just a second, he finally allows himself to fidget. The hem of his shirt being the closest thing he can put his hands on. «All good, Leon?» «Yeah. Just— a bit spooked, I guess.» It’s actually surprisingly easy being honest with you. It comes without a pricetag, just something he has filed under “normal” and has kept acting upon. «Okay. Nobody’s testing us; we can do what feels better. That includes stopping, Leon. For whatever reason.» He knows, he can feel the softness in the air. Still, your attentiveness pulls at his heartstrings. «You’re stealing my lines… You know it works both ways.» Your smile mirrors his, small, persistent, shared. «I know.» You do. He can see it in your eyes, the complete trust you put in him. And to look at you from so high up feels weird, so he puts his palms beside your thighs on the mattress and bends until he can kiss your lips once more.

When he’s back up, the shirt comes off almost instinctively. He’s ruined, he’s marred by scars, but he’s utterly yours, and the sudden feeling of belonging makes him think you can’t hate him all that much if you’re willing to keep him regardless.

You hiss, your eyes dart across his chest like magnets. «I know. It’s—» «Hot. Oh my God, Leon, you’re so fucking gorgeous.» Had he been younger, he’d be blushing. «You’re just humouring an old man.» Your eyes zero in on his, and it’s impossible not notice how dilated your pupil is. You look ready to devour him. «Am I? Do you wanna prove it?» It doesn’t land immediately. He’s still taken aback by such a blunt display of desire that his brain has to reload, then you part your legs slightly, and lift his old shirt enough to let the low light of the room catch a glint.

You’re soaking through your panties.

The knowledge lands like a slap, hard, physically painful, so devastating he falls on his knees. That’s for him. You’re like that because of him.

His hands are on you the second he can get his brain into motion, maybe even before, attracted by your flame like moths to fire. They look for your thighs, for the strap at your waist, tugging, begging. «Please— Can I—» «Yes.» It’s barely more than a hiss, sharp, breathy. His effect on you. His. «Please, you can do whatever you wan— please, Leon… Just touch me.» And he does. Gripping your thighs and dragging you closer to the edge of the bed, tearing your underwear, ripping them clean off. You have time for a single, soft yelp before his lips land square on your core, dead centre. He’s too damn old for teases. The air in your lungs hitches, his tongue darts out; a long, flat strip of spit gets dragged up. «Fuck—» The word stutter, his mouth gets to your clit, and he sucks. Your hand flies to his hair, and the other one lands on your mouth. Hiccups smouldered by your knuckles, as if you were biting down on them. He doesn’t know; he’s in too deep to check on your volume management.

It’s funny, actually. To your moans, he would have liked to be woken up.

The fact it has been a while since he had indulged in intimacy doesn’t mean he’s green. But the sensation is certainly new. It’s not a means to an end, eating you out. Be it taking the edge off or keeping you satisfied. It’s… really fucking hot. There are no other words for it. It’s just really turning him on.

His thumb hovers over your clit, not yet touching, not retreating either, a threat, a promise. His tongue dips lower. You’re so wet he can feel the slick running down his chin, soaking his short beard. Fuck that’s hot, and that’s for him. Because of him. Your moans turn higher, squeals bordering on high-pitched yelps. The perfect moment to add his fingers to the mix. And see what other pretty sounds he can drag out of you. His tongue flattens and swipes between your folds. Then his thumb settles over your clit and circles it with precision. The sound you make should be recorded— no, engraved in his head forever; they should play it in his ears instead of the rush of his blood every time he stands too fast. Just to make his ageing softer. Better.

He’ll have to settle for branding it to memory, trying to capture every dip and high in your cries. Your fingers clench; he didn’t even know it was possible. The soft sting of pulled hair a constant reminder of your grip. «Fuck, Leon, I’m close.»

Your warning means nothing; the absolute abandon with which your orgasm hit you renders it useless. Your legs lock, keeping him there, the hand in his hair tightens, and loosens in spasms that scream of barely held together concern, and your whole body shakes. The moment your body snaps over the edge is loud. Your back arches in a delicious curve, creaking ominously, as if threatening to break. A gush of slick wetness suddenly rushes down his chin as he desperately tries to swallow as much of it as he can. Greedy. It lasts minutes, and when you finally slump back, he’s tempted to follow you for a second round. He almost does, succeeding only in one good kitten lick over your pussy, but the tug in his hair stills him. «God, please, up— I want you inside.» The need to just ignore you and just keep feeding his own wants is strong; it shows its ugly head in a low growl, and very poorly disguised self-control. He’s so hard in his pants. It hadn’t even occurred to him. «Talk to me.» Your voice is a lifeline, a life jacket thrown into the abyss of his desire. «I- I just really fucking want you.» He does, he really does. With all his heart and all his body. «You have me. Up now. I wanna see you naked.» The hand in his hair, that had just been resting at this point, slithers out of its previous grasp. You regain a surprising amount of grace for someone who had just had an orgasm as you shimmy upward into the still-too-small bed and settle against the headboard, throwing his old shirt over your head and sideways. Remaining starkly naked. Ah, the joys of youth.

Your eyes glisten playfully, a tug on your lips betrays renewed vitality. «Come on, chop chop.» The belt clinks; it all comes so naturally.

«You’re gorgeous.» You murmur when he’s as naked as you are, and he believes you, it’s very hard not to, with your pupils blown and your breath shallow. «You are.» he still replies, because you are and because you deserve to know.

The edge of desperation has faded, or better, it’s still there, pulsing in his temples, but it’s background noise. You’re the centre of it. He’s present enough to remember to prepare you. An orgasm is great, but it does not work wonders; gently, slowly, until you’re begging for it and shoving the condom wrap in his hands.

Then, when he’s sinking into you. Kissing you deeply and letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He thinks this might be the only time he has fully felt himself in the last decade.

You flinch at every inch he feeds you, muttering about beard burns on your inner thighs, and hitching your breath at every less-than-perfectly-controlled thrust. It’s agonising and slow. But it’s so tenderly vulnerable that he’d rather soon cut his own hand off than speed it all up.

It makes for a perfect moment to hold you. To bury his face in the crook of your neck and inhale your perfume. You smell safe. Like the coffee you keep sharing with him and the metal of your guitar’s string. But that has to be his imagination. The lingering feeling of knowing you deeply and fully.

When you finally start to urge him further, nudging him closer and deeper. He has half a mind to deny you. Just to hear your soft whimpers once more. But he doesn’t. Because he adores you and you deserve better than a prick that likes your whining.

So he speeds up, thrusts deeper, harder, throws you around a bit to make sure to hit all your sweet spots.

«Leon— close.» Fuck, he’s too, your vicious grip really leaving him no respite. «I know—» your walls flutter tighter around him. «Fuck, me too… me too, love.» His arm hooks your leg back up, calf resting into the crook of his elbow; he hopes he’s not crushing your leg in his grasp, but the line between squishing, gripping and smashing has gone blurry a few minutes ago. He hoists you higher, thrusting deeper still, your punched-out moans filling the room. «Fu—» You come first, hard, throwing your head back, crying out the tension building in your lower belly. The sight of you is what tips him over the edge. Plain as that. His heart squeezes painfully, his leg cramps slightly and then he comes. The light coming through your curtains hits softer than the one coming through his. Leon wonders why it is so. «Good morning, sunshine.» Your voice lulls him out of sleep. It’s the first time in ages he woke up before 1 pm. «Morning, princess.» Your room smells like coffee and the faint traces of last night’s sex. Your hips sway playfully as you close the gap between where you stand and where he lies. This is a life worth living.

Your lips fall to his temple, softly, cradling his face in the cups of your hands. «To think better.» You murmur on his skin, lower, gentler still, on his right eye. A barely-there kiss. «To see better» then his left «to aim better.» The letter sits on the counter, DSO, confidential. Black skin marrying his body. You love him. You have told him so countless times, even like this, even this broken, infected version of him. But he can't stand the infection, not the idea of it, not the sight. Another nest of scars, another mark. Something that takes and takes and gives nothing back. A life he has chosen.

His lips must taste of regret and shame; it looks like you’ll have none of it, not if you can kiss that away. He doesn’t deserve you. «What is that for?» Your shoulder shakes, a shrug, normality, domesticity. Nothing is changing. He holds onto your confidence like a lifeline. «That one is for me. To keep you close.»

He’ll get back to you. To the three-room apartment, and he’ll tell you of his idea to knock down the wall separating your units and merge your lives once and for all. He’ll tell you he wants to adopt a cat and settle into your life; like he belongs. Because he’s starting to think he does. Here, with you. He will when he comes back from this “yet another” mission. His last one. He promise. «I’ll come back.» «I know.»

«I love you.» Your gaze falls softly on his. He knows you know. «I love you too.» He does come home. Worse for wear, too old to recover in a couple of weeks, but he does come back. He promised you.

You make a mess of your apartments, and the cat gets named Chad. It never fails to make you laugh, so he just relents to the name. It’s silly, it’s stupid, it’s odd, but most importantly, it’s you. And in your existence, there is that damned space you have made for him.

Let me know what you think <3 <3 → Little sequel ←

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics, @ghostgum & @uzmacchiato

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