Quiet hung over the hotel room.

    Dark paced into the room, changed into sleepwear, and glanced around, finding the room empty again. His eyes narrowed, then trailed onto the glass doors that led into the balcony.

    Wilford's back faced him, elbows on the railing as smoke curled from his figure. He only wore his pajamas, the wind rustling his hair, and Dark grabbed a robe from the dresser and carefully stepped onto the balcony.

    Cold met his bare feet, his face and collar, and he shivered, joining the mafia boss' side. Wilford didn't look at Dark, eyes lazily gazing at the city around them. Only noticed when Dark draped the robe over Wilford's shoulders, his gaze meeting his.

    Dark's eyes glinted fondly, and he turned away, looking out at the city lights. It was still noisy, even at this hour.

    They stood there, silent for a while, comfortable with each other's presence.

Once, Dark spared a glance at Wilford—admired the curves of his figure; the deftness of his fingers as he held the cigarette to his lips; the moonlight highlighting his face.

Once, Wilford spared a glance at Dark—lost himself in his presence; in his sharps and angles; in the contrast of his pale skin beneath his silk-black attire.

The wind rustled between them, carrying the noise of the city, and after a while, Dark took a step closer, their shoulders not quite touching but close enough to feel each other's heat. Wilford glanced at him at the gesture, and Dark carefully met his eyes, skin aglow under the moonlight.

"Why are you out here?" asked Dark, voice soft.

Wilford leaned towards Dark a fraction, sucking in a drag. His cigarette lit up between them, and he rubbed his brow as he blew out a plume of smoke.

"Just needed some air," he slurred, inhaling again.

"Was it what he said?" asked Dark. "The owner."

Wilford turned his head aside and exhaled smoke, brow twitching. "Sean was just telling the truth," he said.

He gazed out at the city, half-lidded eyes glossy under his curly pink hair, then shifted, resting an elbow against the railing. Dark mirrored him so they faced each other, eyes searching.

"Remember what I told you," breathed Wilford, "when we first met?"

The night on Fifth Street echoed in Dark's head, fuzzy at the edges but distinct. He remembered the energy in the air; the dazzling lights and party guests; and Wilford, his presence so alluring it stopped him dead in his tracks.

He remembered the dance they shared, bodies pressed together. He remembered the first time they shared a room alone, in that office, when Wilford pointed out Dark's mistake—threatened him to fix it. When the mafia boss shoved him against the wall, hand around his neck, full of the energy that everyone had warned Dark about.

Dark carefully nodded, and Wilford tapped his cigarette, ashes flaking off in glowing embers.

"People expected me to kill you," he said, eyes sliding from the cigarette to Dark's face.

He lifted his elbow off the railing, sucked in one last, long drag, and tossed the cigarette aside.

"And when I didn't..." he said, smoke billowing from his lips as he stepped forward, "the world saw it as a sign I was finally cracking."

The mob boss shook his head. "If I don't act soon—especially after the ambush—it won't just be Celine we'll have to deal with." His eyes glinted. "You know it just as much as I do. Reputation is everything for people like us."

Dark hummed in agreement, gazing at Wilford. There was something different between them tonight. Maybe it was the coolness of the air, or the moonlight catching Wil's lashes, or the blur of city lights that lit him from behind. Maybe it was the memories of Fifth Street, still fresh in the back of his head, and the echo of desire, of daring that he first felt when he met Wilford.

"Image," said Dark faintly. "It's hard to maintain."

He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, feeling the breeze through his hair, over his collar. "When everyone has their eyes on a different version of you," he said, "it's hard to focus."

Dark exhaled, and he opened his eyes, lashes fluttering.

"It's lonely at the top," he said quietly.

His gaze slid onto Wilford's, and when they met eyes, his pulse quickened, body flushing with heat. The mafia boss had a look in his eyes, filled with an emotion he couldn't quite place.

Wilford stepped closer.

"It doesn't have to be," he said.

He eased closer to Dark and ran a hand up his arm, his touch feather-light—cautious, testing, almost afraid. Dark sucked in a breath, and he studied Wilford's features, the scent of tobacco fresh on his skin.

Their chests brushed, and something sparked between them—the heat that always followed them, intensified when they were close. The air started to shift around them, the cool night rippling into something different, something charged.

Dark could feel Wilford's steady breaths against his skin, now. Could hear them.

"Y'know... I could've killed you," breathed Wilford, but there was no hostility in his tone. He tilted his head, breaths ghosting over Dark's face, and sent him a look. "Why didn't I?"

It was a question that didn't need an answer; something to fill the space.

Energy grew between them, and Dark carefully exhaled, feeling the pull between them. He had denied that pull for so long—been too distracted to act on it. But now that he and Wilford were alone, and their bodies so close, with nothing to do but fill the night ahead of them...

"I don't know," breathed Dark, skin tingling. "Why didn't you?"

He'd always known it wasn't just because of the deal between them; felt the magnitude of their personalities clash from the moment they first made eye contact. No matter what they did, what they said—if they were close, there was a charge that either built steadily, growing with suffocating heat, or sparked like wildfire, unwieldy and impossible to tame.

Wilford's hand slid higher up Dark's arm, brushing his shoulder, his collarbone. Shivers ran down his spine, and on instinct, he leaned closer, pulled into Wilford's orbit.

"Maybe," slurred Wilford, his voice lowering, "I could show you."

Wilford noticed Dark staring at his lips, both conflict and desire stirring in his chest. He had the urge to bring the man closer—kiss him, godammit, feel him the way he'd fantasized about—but the other side of him fought back, worried that he would scare Dark away.

It was what he said next, though, that dissipated all of Wilford's worries.

Dark ghosted a hand over Wilford's wrist, which lingered at his collar. He had a feeling he knew what Wilford was asking—felt some part of him shrivel back, afraid, while the rest of him answered to temptation, to want or need or unbridled desire.

"Then show me," said Dark, the words an exhale.

Wilford sucked in a breath, and he brought a hand up to the side of Dark's face, cupping it gently. The touch rippled the air between them, made them both lean forward, foreheads brushing, desire thrumming in their shared breaths.

Dark shifted closer and slid a hand over Wilford's waist, his heart pounding in his chest. The mafia boss tipped Dark's chin up.

"Dark," he breathed, thumb brushing over the man's lips. "Can I kiss you?"

Heat surged between them at the phrase, and Dark lost his breath, his heart racing in his chest. His skin tingled at the feel of Wilford's hand on his cheek, and he couldn't get enough of it, his touch.

His body leaned into the affection, and he felt himself abandoning logic, straying from what he'd always told himself: to keep away from feelings, because all feelings did was hurt him.

Despite himself, the answer left his lips eagerly.

"Yes," he exhaled, breath heavy.

The word lay bare before them, and Wilford exhaled, face glowing. He leaned closer, fingers caressing the sharp edge of his jaw, the corner of his lip.

And with that, Wilford tilted his head, pulled Dark's face closer, and kissed him.

The world around them fell away as their lips met, the noise becoming a blur around them. All they could focus on was each other—the tension between them finally snapping. The force of two bodies kept too long apart.

Their bodies pressed close, hips meeting; the energy, the heat, the charge; the slide of their lips as the kiss melted from shy, eager into hot, passionate.

Dark slid his hands up Wilford's back, weak at the feel of him, at the feel of toned muscle rippling beneath his fingers. Dark softly gasped, and his nails dug into Wil's back, sliding, the charge between them skyrocketing.

Kissing Wilford was euphoric. He lit Dark up from the inside out, coaxing his well-buried desires to fruition. Lips soft, claiming; hands on his face, then in his hair, pulling him close.

Dark went weak, nerves singing; he was addicted to the feel of it, addicted to the feel of Wilford, the weight and heat of his body pressing against his own, strong and passionate.

The energy kicked up between them, and then they were stumbling back, tangled in one another, drunk off the heat of the moment. Wilford pressed Dark forward, and his back met the glass doors, cold racing up his spine.

He cupped Wil's face, drawing him closer, savoring the taste of him, the feel of his strong build folded over him. Dark could not stop kissing him. Wilford couldn't stop kissing Dark.

The doors gave under them, and they stumbled back, back into the heat of the hotel room, and the dim lights. Wilford held onto Dark, keeping him from falling, and burst into a short, breathless laugh. Their bodies were still close, hands tangled in one another.

They lingered there for a moment, lips brushing as they caught their breath. Wilford carefully examined Dark's face, eyes searching, looking for any signs of doubt, when—

Dark ran a hand over Wil's throat and pressed himself closer, breathless with want.

"Kiss me again," he breathed.

The words stole Wilford's breath, and he tilted his head, hands warm, heavy, claiming. Every slide of his fingers lit Dark up with shivers, lit him up with desire.

Their lips met again, the pull between them stronger than ever, and as the kiss deepened, Dark guided Wilford onto the bed, a hand planted beside his head as he pressed the mafia boss against the mattress.

Dark straddled him, high on the taste of him, the feel of him, and Wilford groaned in delight, curling his fingers in Dark's hair. The gesture had Dark shuddering, and Wil carefully pulled away, the both of them breathing hard. They met eyes for a fraction, need sparking between them, before Wilford dipped his head and kissed Dark's neck, his lips soft, claiming, mustache brushing against his sensitive skin.

Dark gasped at the feeling, every nerve in his body on fire. He curled his fingers in the sheets, bowing his head as pleasure rolled through him and made his mind fog.

"Wil—" he gasped, breath hot in his ear.

Wilford's hand tightened in Dark's hair, and he pulled him closer, trailing kisses down his throat, over his collarbone. Dark grew impossibly hot, and when Wil bit and sucked at the crook of his neck, a smothered sound escaped his lips.

God, it felt good, thought Dark, practically trembling from Wilford's touch, his body not used to this kind of attention in so long. It was so good. Too good.

Wilford slid his hand down Dark's toned back, along the waistband of his pants, along the edges of his shirt. His fingers skated under the fabric, gracing his skin, and Dark jolted at the contact, the touch like electricity lighting up his body.

He could feel himself losing control.

Wilford pressed up against Dark, and he gasped for breath, his body burning. The mafia boss pulled away from his neck and met his gaze, lips parted as he panted.

"Is this alright?" he breathed, hand sliding up Dark's stomach.

Dark lit up with heat at the touch, and he suppressed another sound of pleasure, hiding his face. Of course it was alright—it was more than alright, something he knew that both he and Wilford yearned for—but something in him faltered.

No, no, thought Dark the moment he felt it, dread pulling him too sudden, too fast.

He wanted to feel more of Wilford—wanted to lose himself to him, wanted to please him as much as Wil was pleasing him—but fear gripped around his throat like a vice, and suddenly, all he could think about was what an idiot he was.

Dark met eyes with Wilford, feeling too seen, too vulnerable. The feeling freaked him out, and he tore away from Wilford, away from the bed.

Wilford propped himself up on his elbows. "Dark?" he said, sitting up.

Dark ran his hands over his face, retreating.

"Dark," said Wilford, standing. "Are you alright? Did I do something wrong?"

"This was a mistake," Dark blurted out, the words spilling before he had a chance to think them over. Wilford flinched, and Dark swallowed hard, unable to look at him.

"A... mistake, whatdoyoumean—"

"I-I need a minute," said Dark, shame burning through him. He shrank away from Wilford's searching gaze and locked himself in the bathroom, earning a noise of protest.

Wilford called Dark's name, knocked on the door, and when Dark refused to answer, he gave in with a huff and waited patiently on the bed, staring at the door.

Inside the bathroom, Dark ran his hands over his face, cursing to himself. He scolded himself for being so childish—for ruining the moment between them. Embarrassment rolled through him, hot like fire, and he planted his shaking hands on the sink, bowing his head.

'Is this alright?' rang Wilford's words in his head.

Dark screwed his eyes shut, and he saw flashes of Markus—his ex, smiling at him on the balcony of his penthouse; the actor taking up all the energy of a party; that same energy shifted, charged as Markus smirked whenever Dark pinned him down and asked tauntingly, 'Is this alright?'

Dark glanced at himself in the mirror and cringed at the sight.

What was wrong with him? he thought, looking himself in the eye. Why did he do that? Why did he say that?

He'd really lost himself this time... lost himself in front of Wilford, someone he cared about—

He frantically shook his head. No. No, look where that got him. Every time he let himself get close to someone, he got hurt. Every time he abandoned logic, or the careful walls he'd built up, they came back to ruin him.

Dark cursed and pressed his palms against his eyes. He couldn't bear the thought of facing Wilford again—not after making himself into a fool—but he couldn't stay the night in the bathroom. Couldn't just leave it like this, all the tension left open and unanswered.

No, he thought. What he had to do was fix this.

Dark stared at the sink, his thoughts too loud, too clear. As much as it pained him, as much as it denied what he'd wanted, what he and Wilford had, he couldn't let it get to his head. He couldn't let himself fall prey to emotion, to what made him weak.

Dark turned towards the door and rested his hand on the doorknob, his heart aching.

He had to keep himself at a distance, rather than too close.

Just like he always did.

———

The steady beep in the hospital room faded into the backdrop.

    Each one of them—Abe, Amy, especially Mark—couldn't believe what Deja was telling them.

    'And Dark was there, too,' she had said.

    Mark didn't know what to feel when he heard that. Didn't know if he should be terrified, or worried, or upset. There was so much more to understand, so much he didn't know, yet—but as the questions filled up inside him and threatened to spill, Abe noticed his energy.

    The case was already personal for Mark. If Deja were to tell them bad news...

    Before the businesswoman could open her mouth again, Abe gently raised a hand, glancing at Mark.

    "Fischbach," he said, voice soft. "Maybe you should wait outside. Let us talk this over."

    Mark's jaw clenched and unclenched, eyes filling with emotion. "No," he said, voice full. "No, I want to hear what Deja has to say." He swallowed, scooted his chair closer, and Deja looked him in the eye with a faint smile. "I need to know he's alright."

    Abe stepped closer. "It's—"

    "He's alright," said Deja, sending Abe a careful look. She turned to Mark. "Mr. Edwards is alright."

    Mark gasped in relief, the words pouring away the weight and the worry and the guilt from his shoulders. He slumped forward, steepling his hands over his face.

    "He wasn't hurt then?" he breathed between his hands. "Warfstache, did he... he didn't do anything to him, did he?"

    Deja gazed at him steadily, sympathy in her gaze. "Not a scratch," she said. "In fact, Mr. Edwards looked quite well. He and Warfstache seemed to get along."

    Dread twisted in the air at that, and Abe brought up a chair and sat down.

"Madam Dumont," he said gently. "Can we ask you a few more questions? We understand you need to rest, so if—

    "No, no," said Deja, "I've held onto fear for long enough. It's time I told the truth." She rose her brows at the three of them. "I can trust you, right?"

    "Of course, Madam," said Amy. "We're just as determined to get Mr. Edwards back."

    "Well, that's the thing," said Abe, shifting forward. He glanced from Amy to Deja. "You said he wasn't kidnapped. That... the whole thing was just some—"

    "Set-up," said Deja.   

    An energy charged the room, and Mark glanced over at the other two.

    "Well... Warfstache does have a lot of enemies," he said. "Maybe another gang had an issue with him?"

    Deja shook her head. "This wasn't a gang," she said. "This was a woman."

Fear tingled along her skin as she imagined Celine and her henchman, Blank; of what they might do to her if they found out she'd confessed. They already presumed her dead, but if she made one wrong move and stepped out into the light...

Deja cleared her throat. "I need to be certain of something, first," she said, fingers curling into the hospital sheets. "I need to know you'll protect me. If they find out I'm still alive..."

Abe nodded. "We'll keep you safe, Madam Dumont," he said, and though the words were of little consolation to the woman—especially since Wilford had said nearly the same thing—she knew these people were in the right heart.

A silence hung over the hospital room, filled with the rhythm of beeps from the monitor, and Deja nodded with a sigh.

"When I was there, in Warfstache's mansion," she started, "I thought I was as good as dead. But, turns out, he was as determined to get to the bottom of this as you all are." She glanced at them as she spoke. "They were trying to figure out who framed him for Mr. Edward's kidnapping."

When Abe's brows furrowed, she added:

"Trust me," she said. "If you were there, you would believe them. The way they spoke to each other... Warfstache understands how bad it looks on his part."

She shifted in the bed, pain lacing through her. "Now, the reason they'd brought me there," she said, "was because I was working for the person who framed them."

Unease settled over the room, and Deja continued.

"I didn't know how evil she was, at first," she said. "It started off as a deal—something to get my company out of some shallow waters—but after the night on Fifth Street, she started asking for more and more... Things I didn't want to do, violent things."

She closed her eyes.

    "I told Warfstache who I worked for," she said, "and it turns out, Mr. Edwards is tied up in this, too."

    "What?" breathed Mark. "What do you mean?"

    Deja glanced at him carefully. "The woman," she said. "She has history with him."

    Abe shifted forward on the edge of his seat. "What's her name, Madam Dumont?"

    Tension stretched the air, and everyone leaned forward a fraction, listening closely.

    "It's Celine Larose," she said, and the dread split the air.

    Abe leaned back in his seat, running a hand over his mouth. Amy put a hand to her chest. Mark swallowed hard.

    "You have to act fast," said Deja, catching their eyes. "She may want Warfstache dead, but that's the least of her worries. What she wants most," she said, and her voice grew with energy, "is Mr. Edwards."

    "What could she possibly want with him?" said Mark, worried.

    "He slept with her husband, among other things," she said. "And she's going to kill him for it." She gazed at them steadily. "Everything that's happened, from the kidnapping to that ambush, where you found me... it's all part of her plan. She wants to make both Warfstache and Edwards suffer, and she will stop at nothing to get it."

    "They've declared war..." said Abe under his breath, his face paler. "At this point, I don't know if..." He shook his head. "I don't know if we can reach them anymore."

    "It's not too late," said Amy. "We have to try."

    Abe shut his eyes. "Nelson, if Mr. Edwards is working with Warfstache—"

    "No," said Mark, standing. "He can't be, h-he knows better than that—"

    "Mark," said Deja, and the three of them turned to her, dismayed. "If you really want Mr. Edwards to survive this, those two need to work together."

    Mark swallowed hard.

    "Trust me," said Deja. "If those two start to fall apart, they both die."

———

The door slowly creaked open, and Wilford shot up to his feet, searching.

    Dark stepped out of the bathroom and shut the door behind him, resting his back against it. The entire time, he kept his eyes elsewhere, unable to look at Wilford's face.

    "Hey, I'm..." started Wilford, "sorry—"

    "We agreed to work together," said Dark as firmly as he could manage. "Not... this."

    Silence suffocated the room, cutting in deep when Dark could hear Wilford's unsteady inhale. He shifted forward.

    "I thought things were going..."

    "Well?" said Dark, with more bite than he'd intended. "Nothing about any of this, Wilford," he said, "is well."

    The silence grew thicker, lodging in Dark's throat until he felt sick.

    "We made a deal," said Dark, and he wished he would stop talking, he wished he would just shut the fuck up, "To work together, nothing else, not—"

A scoff.

    "This," said Wilford sourly, and the moment Dark's eyes flicked up, chills ran down his spine. The mafia boss met him in a few strides, something different in his posture, something dangerous. Dark stepped back.

    "Is that all this is between us?" breathed Wilford, eyes intense. Dark couldn't handle his presence—couldn't handle the heat rolling off him in angry waves. "Just business?"

    Dark sucked in a breath, and he pressed himself against the door, glancing down. Wilford leaned closer, breath hot on his face.

    "Is it?" he hissed.

    "Yes."

    Wilford reered back, and Dark hid his face.

    "Yes, it is," he forced himself to say.

    The words cut deep, nettled and sharp like glass, and Wilford stepped back, scoffing under his breath. He lingered there, in disbelief, and when Dark couldn't handle his burning stare, he shouldered past him.

    "I'll take the couch," said Dark, grabbing the robe off the bed, which had been discarded during their moment. "Goodnight, Wilford."

    Wilford looked at him in disbelief, hurt in his eyes as the businessman walked past him and sat on the couch without another word.

    "We can't—talk about this?"

    Dark wrapped the robe around himself, glaring. When he met eyes with Wilford, they were darker—the mask Wilford always saw him hiding behind; that hurtful, uncaring thing; the ruthless part of him that got him to the top.

"We already did," said Dark, and he turned his back to him.

...

OUCHhhhhh, their first fight... do tell me your thoughts... hehehe >:)

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day/night!

Love, Vic xoxo