Cafe Deux. 8 PM.

    Dark readied himself with haste, slicking back his hair and dressing himself in his signature, all-black suit. By 7:30, he went to the garage, mulled over a selection of car keys, and chose a sleek, black BMW.

    He missed this part of his life, to be honest. The dazzle and shine of luxury, down to the roar of the engine when he revved his cars to life. And for the first time in a while, he gave a genuine smile.

    He drove towards the café where Wilford had said to meet, feeling out of place behind the wheel. This used to be his normal. Driving his expensive cars, in his expensive clothes, all alone. Waking up so early it was still dark out, and leaving the office so late it was nighttime. On the occasion, Mark would drive him if Dark had a public meeting. But now, after everything that had happened... it didn't feel as right anymore.

    City lights flitted by him, accompanied by people bustling on the sidewalk. As traffic welled up, Dark looked out his tinted windows, eyes lazily watching life go on without a care.

    And then his eyes caught a golden badge. Then another.

    Two FBI agents, standing on the corner of the street. One woman mumbled into her walkie talkie with shifting eyes while the other tapped something in his phone.

    Odd... thought Dark. He had a feeling it had to do with Wilford. And the article. That blessed thing—a light of hope for them, but a curse at the same time.

    His eyes wandered from the FBI agents to a small group of people, looking around with eager eyes, shoulders hunched and fingers eager, itching... By their body language, Dark knew instantly what they were.

    Fucking paparazzi.

He should have seen it coming. Now that people knew that the kidnapping was a frame job—meant to destroy both Wilford's and Dark's lives—the paparazzi didn't seem to mind searching for him again. He caught the glimpse of cameras, the eager faces. Could practically see the energy fizzling around them with a photographer's eagerness for capturing a subject.

Maybe deciding to meet in public was a bad idea... but if Celine showed up, they'd have time to escape.

Dark parked on the side of the road and walked up to Café Deux, careful to keep his face out of the paparazzi's view. Still, the shadows around him prickled at his shoulders; this time, he couldn't tell if it was the eager pap or Blank, with his cold, black eyes, watching him.

A bell jingled when Dark stepped inside, and he found the place half-busy—most of the tables taken up, but the rush of waiters not so chaotic. Careful chatter swelled in the place, coupled by the clink of glass and cutlery.

He stepped further into the café, finding a table by the door.

Eyes glanced his way. The bell rang again, and for a brief moment, the rushing noise of the city crashed in—like a preview. And then the door shut.

And every eye in the café turned towards Dark.

No... not him.

Before Dark could sit down, he turned around, following everyone's gazes. His eyes landed on Wilford, brushing himself off, and suddenly, he wished they weren't in a public place anymore.

His heart shot into his throat, and he swallowed hard, trying to tame his breathing.

"Wil," he said softly, but his voice carried over the noise. Wilford glanced his way, and his eyes glittered when he saw him. A smile shyly stole his lips beneath that pink mustache.

"Dark," he said, approaching him. "You look..." He ran his eyes down the businessman's figure, his smile shifting into a smirk. "Gorgeous."

Dark cursed the blush that creeped beneath his skin, and he pulled out the chair for Wilford. Whispers stole the café, but Dark ignored them the best he could; he was used to them, at this point. His only worry was that this public meeting would spur further rumors—undo the progress that the article on Tattlecrime had afforded them.

Dark sat down before Wilford, gazing at him steadily. He hadn't realized it, but god, he'd missed him. The ache in his chest worried him.

"So," said Wilford, shifting closer.

Dark pulled out a black device and slid it over the table. "The night I left, Celine approached me," he said. "She gave me this."

Wilford glanced down at the phone. He didn't reply with his usual, 'Always straight to business, aren't you?' but instead fell serious.

"This is what she's tracking you with," he said, more a statement than a question. Dark nodded.

"She said if I didn't take it, she'd kill Mark," he said quietly. "She also told me, later on, that she'd kill him if I took out the tracker."

"This is all she gave you?" breathed Wilford, searching Dark's gaze. "What else did she say?"

"That she could have killed me," he said, "but didn't." He motioned towards the phone. "She left a video in there. Of Mark getting hurt." His fists clenched under the table. "She told me to text her if I wanted a hint on where she's keeping him."

Wilford slowly inhaled and exhaled, shifting the phone in his grip. "The price to pay," he muttered to himself. "Our location for a hint of another." His eyes flicked onto Dark's. "Have you texted her?"

"A few times," answered Dark. "No answers."

"Of course," cursed Wilford, sliding the phone back. "She'll drag it out until she has us pinned."

Wilford ran a hand over his face, and Dark felt a twinge of guilt. In a way, this was his fault. If he had never left Wilford in the first place, Celine wouldn't have been able to approach him. Would've never given him this phone, this tracker, which she would kill Mark over if he denied.

"Well," said Wilford with a huff, "she won't kill us right away. But if she figures out our patterns..." He shook his head.

"She said something about Blank," said Dark, "and his aptitude for patterns. If he's the one watching the tracker, he'd know everything."

Wilford gave a hollow laugh. "We're screwed," he said. "It's checkmate for us, Dark." He shook his head. "Even the most unpredictable actions have their patterns."

Dark sighed and pocketed the tracker-phone. "What do we do now?"

"We wait," said Wilford sourly. "And survive with whatever comes at us."

The words felt empty.

The words felt like giving up.

Dark searched Wilford's face as his fingers flexed around his thighs. A string of nervousness shot through him.

He was aware of the stares again, which had somewhat subsided. But then he felt his skin prickle, the way it did when he knew someone was taking a photo of him.

He glanced through the corner of his eye, noting a few people sneaking pictures on their phones. Those that did tapped away with the fervor of someone sharing gossip.

How great.

Wilford shifted in his seat, and his attention slid back onto the mafia boss.

"Dark," said Wilford carefully, folding his hands over the table. "I want to know what happened at the Continental."

He gazed at him carefully, and Dark burned with both shame and embarrassment at the memory. Their bodies, pressed so close. The softness of Wil's lips as he kissed him. The passion that moved through them, led them towards the bed.

Dark sucked in a breath, and he exhaled, nails digging into his thighs. This is what he dreaded most. He knew he had to talk about what had happened—why he'd reacted so recklessly—but finding the words was so difficult. Finding the words was vulnerable.

He hated feeling vulnerable.

"I..." Dark swallowed, and when Wilford could tell he was struggling with the words, he spoke instead. The mafia boss sucked in a deep breath, met Dark's eyes, and exhaled.

"I have feelings for you, Dark," he confessed. "I don't know any other way to put it."

Dark's brows rose a fraction, and he shivered under Wilford's intense gaze. The words made his heart skip a beat. What? whirred his thoughts. Really?

"And..." said Wilford. "The night I kissed you, I thought that—maybe you had feelings for me, too."

"I don't know... what I feel for you, Wil."

"But you feel something."

Dark's face rose with heat, and his eyes flicked down, unable to bear Wilford's gaze.

"I do," he admitted quietly. The heat kicked up between them at the phrase, and they both took a breath, trying to relieve the tension in the atmosphere. A pause fell between them before Wilford continued, pouring his heart out. Dark wondered how he did it—allowed himself to feel emotion so deeply while the other side of him exuded pure confidence and grit. A perfect picture of a man who ran the mafia.

Wilford was teaching Dark a lot of things he didn't think he'd needed to hear.

"When we were on that bed," Wilford was saying, "and you pulled away..." Dark could hear the hurt in his voice, now, raw and aching. "You looked at me like I'd burned you."

Guilt rose in Dark's throat.

"I understand that the mafia isn't anywhere near as..." Wilford waved a hand. "...elegant or organized as the business world." He sighed, and Dark listened carefully, every bit of him focused on the man before him.

"Me, and this life," said Wil. "It's like fire, I guess you could say." He quietly huffed. "I feel like... once you got close enough to the flames, you realized it could eat you up." He scoffed and shook his head. "It already has, really... Your business, your life. Your bodyguard, too. I see why you'd want to stay the hell away from me."

Dark steeled himself as he met Wilford's gaze.

"It's not that, Wil," he said earnestly. "I knew what I was getting into. I hadn't expected Mark to get wrapped up in all of this, of course, but..." He sighed, and a wave of panic flipped in his stomach. There it was again—that fear; the thing in him that reacted when he felt himself lowering his walls, allowing himself to be vulnerable.

"Look, this isn't..." muttered Dark, "easy for me to say." He downcast his eyes, displaying a rare scene of insecurity. "I..." He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.

"I was afraid," he admitted. "I am afraid."

It took all of his energy to say the words—but when he did say them, relief flooded through his chest, easing the walls he'd always struggled to keep up.

Wilford carefully took in the words, and he tilted his head a fraction.

"Of what?"

"Being close to you," admitted Dark quietly. "Hurting you, or—caring so much about you that, if something happened, I'd get hurt, too." He ran a hand through his hair, glancing aside. "I just... when I was with Markus..." His chest tightened, threatening to cut off his words. He shook his head. "I don't want something like that to ever happen again."

"But I'm not Actor," said Wilford softly.

Dark's eyes slowly slid onto Wilford's, and the mafia boss sent him a small smile.

"I'm not trying to discount your worries, Dark," he said gently. "But what you were saying—that's part of being in a relationship."

Dark sat straighter, about to take offense, when Wilford lifted a hand.

"I mean it in that," he amended, "no matter what you do, you might hurt people. One way or another. And even if someone doesn't mean it, they might hurt you, too. Anything you do in life... it involves risk." He rose a brow. "I'm sure building your business has taught you that."

Dark half-nodded, and Wilford said:

"So why not do the same with a relationship?"

Dark wavered, and his face scrunched in the slightest.

"It's..." he said. "It's different."

"Different how?"

"People, they're... unpredictable."

"Running a business is, too," countered Wilford. "Just like the mafia, you never know if someone'll turn on you, or a rumor knocks your progress down a peg. Everything, life, it's unpredictable."

"Business is pragmatic," said Dark. "A relationship is emotional."

"So you'd rather live the rest of your life," said Wilford, "staying on top without ever feeling anything?"

Dark sucked in a breath, and he exhaled, bowing his gaze. He flexed his fingers over his thighs.

"It's how I've always done things," he said quietly.

Wilford sighed, and he brought up his chair next to Dark. The businessman met his eyes, and they lingered there for a moment, familiar to the heat building between them. Their legs brushed.

"You told me once," said Wilford, "that all anyone ever wants—is more." He shifted closer and carefully took Dark's hand in his own, warmth bleeding into his palm. Thumb running over his knuckles. "But when you're at the top, how can you possibly achieve that?"

Dark glanced down at their hands, his heart racing.

"Dark..." breathed Wil, leaning closer. His eyes slid onto his. "Give me a chance."

Dark exhaled carefully, drawn to the mafia boss like he'd always been. He could feel the heat of his body from this close; the ghost of his breath as their heads tipped closer, noses brushing. The contact sparked that indulgent thing within him, sending his heart racing and his lips parting.

With the ease of a person handling the finest china, Wilford slid a hand along Dark's jaw, his touch warm. And like that, Dark succumbed to the pull. He leaned forward, laced his fingers with Wilford's, and kissed him softly.

Their eyes slipped closed together, lips pressed gently. Wilford ran his thumb along Dark's cheek, hand cupping his jaw, and the gesture made his knees go weak. If he weren't sitting, he would've leaned into Wilford to support his weight.

The kiss was short, sweet, and Wilford's hand carefully fell away from Dark's face as they pulled apart and met eyes, dazed. Dark could catch the swipe of cameras brought out around them, but he was too focused on the way Wilford smiled after he kissed Dark, his cheeks almost as rosy as his pink hair and mustache.

"We should go back to the hotel," he breathed. "Jim's been worried sick about you."

———

The only exception to Blank's vow of selective silence was torture.

    Even as a kid, blood did things to him that no sane person would have reacted to. Blood, to him, was in the strictest and most obvious sense energy. The essence of life, contained by layers of malleable skin. The healthier the skin, the richer the blood, and that's why Mark Fischbach was becoming one of his favorite projects the more time they spent together.

    Mark thrashed and sobbed under his blade, and that only made the metal sink in deeper, the blood flow faster. All the while, Blank's hands were effortlessly still, one hand keeping the phone recording while the other traced lines into him like he was clay.

    Patterns. It was all down to patterns, and after a few more thrashes, and a melody of wracking gasps, Blank knew Mark would give up a sweet song of:

    "Please," sobbed Mark, choking on blood and sweat and tears. "Please, please stop. Please!"

    Blank angled the phone and caught Mark's face in the half-light. He twisted the knife in Mark's leg, earning a strangled cry.

    "Don't beg me," cooed Blank, voice deadpan. "Beg the man who put you here." He dug the knife in deeper, deeper still. "Beg for Dark."

    Mark was such a sweet specimen. Soft, not just in the flesh, but in the mind. Blank enjoyed tearing him apart.

    "D-Dark," Mark gasped, bowing his head. Blank yanked out the knife and held the flat side under Mark's throat, tipping his chin up so he'd face the camera. Mark's lip trembled, tears streaking his bloody face. "Dark, please—" he gasped into the camera. "Get me out of here."

    He shook his head, the blade scratching against his stubble. "Y-you might think this is your fault—it's not. I-it's not, they're using me as bait—"

    Blank slashed the knife across Mark's face, and he shouted, body knocking to the side. Blood ran down the side of his face and splattered the floor. One droplet, five droplets, six... seven. Mark focused on the sight on the plastic tarp; told himself he was still alive if he could still bleed.

    He expected another hit, another taunting phrase, but over his heaving breaths and the roar in his ears, the click of heels faded away. Mark glanced up, dazed, and caught Blank walking away, typing something, before disappearing.

    Leaving him alone.

    And that was another part of the torture. Those long, agonizing hours in the empty room—surrounded by nothing but concrete and remnants of plastic tarp and the promise of the city outside through the glass wall behind him. Surrounded by swelling, suffocating silence.

    Blank never did talk much when he came, but the silence that filled in afterwards hurt almost as much as the blade. In the quiet, Mark was painfully aware of his thoughts. Of his wounds, fresh and old weaving over his skin, throbbing with blood and memory.

    Mark knew he was here as bait. But that didn't stop him from wanting to see Dark. Didn't stop him from wanting the businessman to save him.

    He only hoped Warfstache was treating him right; was helping him get to the bottom of this, once and for all. Deja had said that the kidnapping was a frame job, but he couldn't believe that just yet. He had to see Dark himself—had to ask him, face to face.

    He had to wait for him to get here.

———

Wilford knocked on door 8831 with Dark at his side.

    The rusty surface creaked open, and Jim greeted Wilford with a smile. When his eyes flicked onto Dark's, his eyes lit up, and he jumped, throwing the door wide open.

    "Mr. Dark!" exclaimed Jim, splaying out his arms. Wilford chuckled and stepped past him as the kid hummed with energy. "I'd hug you, but I dunno about your stitches—"

    Dark sent him an amused look and offered his arms. "Just... be gentle."

    "Oh, awesome!" Jim laughed, pulling Dark into a hug. The businessman stiffened at the gesture, giving the other a pat on the back. "You saw the article, right? Did you like it?"

    "It's changed things," said Dark as Jim pulled away. "For the better."

    Dark stepped inside, and Jim locked the door. "I was the one who wrote it," he said proudly. "Reporter Jim, at your service!"

    "He did," said Wilford from the bathroom, in the middle of pulling off his shirt. Dark's face rose with heat, and when he was reminded of the Continental, he quickly glanced away, meeting Jim's eyes. The kid had a teasing look on his face.

    "I'll bug you more about it tomorrow morning," said Jim, smirking like an idiot. "You've got more important matters on your hands, don't you?"

    He tipped his head towards the bathroom, where Wilford was changing, and when Dark blushed, Jim grinned.

    "Nice to have you back, Mr. Dark," said Jim, loping over to his bed, where Host was currently sleeping. "You have to share a bed with Wil, but I'm sure that's not a problem."

    Wilford barked out a laugh as he walked back into the bedroom, a loose tank top hanging off his build. "Jim, never stop those comments," he slurred, his smirk infectious. When he met Dark's eyes and his face, his smirk widened. "I love to see Dark get so flustered."

    "Oh, don't worry," snickered Jim, sliding under the covers. "I wasn't gonna stop. Night!"

    Wilford chuckled, and he pulled back the covers of the second bed. He gave Dark a onceover. "Need clothes to sleep in?" he offered. "I've got an old T-shirt..."

    Dark glanced down at himself, noting his all-black suit. The thought of wearing Wilford's clothes made his mind all mush, but he forced the feeling aside. "Sure," he said.

    Jim giggled from under his covers, and Dark's face burned.

    "Jim... shut up," said Dark lightheartedly.

    Wilford tossed a shirt and shorts to Dark, and he caught them. After he got dressed in the bathroom—while ignoring the thought that these were Wil's clothes that he was wearing—he went to the bed, hesitated a moment, and slipped under the covers beside Wilford. His skin tingled at their close proximity.

    This was how it was supposed to go, back at the Continental. The two of them, together in bed for a good night's rest.

    His freak-out spell echoed in the back of his head, and he glanced at Wilford through the corner of his eye. The mafia boss must have had the same memory in his mind, because he brought it up in a quiet whisper.

    "Y'know, if..." started Wilford, "I did do anything wrong that night. I'd like to know."

    Dark spared a glance at the other bed, where he noted Jim and Host sleeping soundly. He sighed and shifted towards Wil, meeting his eyes. His knee brushed against his leg, sending sparks up his nerves.

    "No, you did nothing wrong," said Dark. "I was brought back to the past, and it made me feel vulnerable, so I..." His mind replayed the moment—when he pulled away from Wilford and locked himself in the bathroom. He sighed.

    "I'm sorry," said Dark. "I should've cleared things up with you after it happened, but..."

    "I get it," said Wilford gently.

    Dark shifted again, the brush of their legs sending tingles over his skin.

    "So..." started Dark, his brows furrowing. "About... Vanessa..."

    "Oh, her," chuckled Wilford. "The only thing we did together was eat candy and get drunk." When Dark rose a brow at him, he continued. "That whole—thing you saw in the morning, I just—" His face burned. "—did it to make you jealous."

    He glanced away then, and Dark blinked, his chest stirring at the confession.

    "Well," he said after a while, amused, "it worked."

    "No way."

    "Really," said Dark, sliding further under the covers. His mind lingered on the feel of Wilford's body next to him, warm and right. The mafia boss shifted, settling into bed, and Dark glanced over at him, transfixed at the sight. When they met eyes, something pulled deep in his stomach.

    Wilford seemed to feel it, too, because his eyes went half-lidded, and a smirk played on his lips. The look made Dark's heart race.

    "Since we have to lay low," said Wilford, folding his arm under his head, "I suggest we get you prepared."

    Dark's eyes lingered on the curves and lines of Wil's figure. "Prepared?"

    "There's a shooting range nearby," said Wilford, closing his eyes. He slid a hand under his pillow, pulled out his golden revolver, and waved it with a smile. Dark's brows rose at the gesture. "I say it's about time you learn how to handle a gun."

...

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

Love, Vic xoxo