Chapter Text
Eliott flicks the butt of his cigarette onto the ground then grinds it to certain death with the heel of his shoes. Above him, the sky lets out a crack of thunder, loud enough to draw his attention away from the cracked sidewalk. It’s the only thing going his way today. He huffs out his annoyance, taking a step forward and hissing when his side pulls, again. With a flick of his wrist, he pushes aside the flap of his suit jack and brings a hand to press against the throbbing. His grey shirt is tacky, thick—unbearably soaked through. When he pulls his hand away with a wince, his palm is a bright red.
"Fuck."
He stumbles in the empty street. Far too early and with the promise of rain, nobody is outside. Eliott pulls out his burner phone and sees that it’s almost dead. He huffs a laugh at his misfortune. It might last long enough to make a call. There was only one number on it regardless.
The phone rings a total of three times before a gruff voice answers.
“Somebody better be dead for you to be calling me on a Saturday at six in the morning."
Eliott lets out a wet chuckle only to clutch at his chest when pain laces up his side and it takes his breath away.
"Isn't that the only reason I call you, Idriss?"
"Yeah, I'm tired of being used like this.” Eliott can hear the snort of sarcasm in his friend’s voice, the sleepiness that still lingered. Eliott sighs, closing his eyes the moment he feels the gentle touch of sporadic rain drops falling. His vision goes in and out and his world spins just a little.
“There was a hit sent out for me this morning.”
The silence that follows his statement is deafening.
“I took out three and one got away.”
“Where are you?”
Eliott looks around him. He laughs because of course following the trajectory of his luck today, there are no street signs around him. A quaint little area that he’s never found himself in; cobble streets from every direction converging into a cute little common with a fountain. Shoppes and cafes line the street but not one appears open. It’s odd.
And all he wanted was to grab a coffee. Sad that he’d been chased into a no name town in the opposite direction of his bustling city.
“There’s a fountain,” He said, grimacing at the effort it takes just to speak. “About an hour east.”
“I’m going to need more than that, E. Were you hurt?”
He looks for another sign. “I see a shop, a tailor shop. Looks fancy.” Old and beautiful with its blue carved wooden structure and the brick inlay. Gorgeous stained glass windows. Eliott reads the thick and golden word situated above the entryway: Tailleur. Of course it’s the most common name for a shop. Nothing distinguishable about it. A light inside turns on, lighting up yellow curtains, and Eliott feels momentary relief that someone was up at this hour.
“E?”
“I didn’t have any signal the entire time, which was strange. But I left the phone with the bodies—have Sander track it so you can do a clean up.”
Eliott knows he's babbling as he takes a step forward, just in time for the sky to break, and leans against the side of the building taking reprieve from the rain under a green awning.
“E? Eliott! –”
The call drops. Eliott sank to the ground, uncaring that his slacks were getting wet. The exhaustion hits him full force, so he tilts his head back and closes his eyes, letting his mind drift and float away. He only hopes Sander can track his phone, otherwise this bad situation would only get worse.
He hears a door open, a bell, then nothing.
There’s a dim light that hurts his eyes and a sharp pain in his side. Eliott tastes his disorientation like it is cobwebs in his mouth, like it is cotton candy in his brain. He hates the feeling and tries to physically swat at something not there.
“Stop that.”
He’s never heard that voice before. It’s a new sound. Soft and welcoming and stern. Eliott wants to see the face that that voice belongs to, but something aches when he tries to move again. Heat flares inside him and he lets out a sharp gasp.
“He’s burning up, don’t you think we should take him to the hospital.”
All the movement stops and the voices cut off, Eliott is left with listening to his own ragged breathing. Is that him? Is he dead?
“No, I don’t think it’s best to involve anyone else.”
Then a cool sensation spreads on his forehead and Eliott feels his body settle. He sinks into what feels like clouds.
“What if he dies?”
“Then he dies. Shame really, he’s rather pleasing to the eye.”
Again, everything fades and he doesn't fight it.
When Eliott wakes, it’s to an empty room. He’s laid out on a comfortable bed and bare from the chest up. The slight twinge in his side draws his attention to the patchwork on his body. Someone took great care of him and the thought of him being so vulnerable in front of a stranger makes something inside him run sour. Eliott sits up in bed and hisses when something pulls. He forgoes checking his wound and takes in the room instead. It’s small. Sparsely decorated with a desk, a vanity that looked like it belonged to a woman. A matching dresser made of heavy and thick cherry wood. Half the room is split, a heavy and intricate stained wood divider stood tall to his right. It loomed, looking imposing in its old makeup, a grey suit jacket draped over the top, yet, still looking pristine. It was the only item in the room so far that spoke of the presence of a man. The rest was set in a neutral tone, and Eliott couldn’t make sense of the space. There's the unmistakable sound of rain pelting the stained glass window. Sheer white curtains flutter against the small breeze that slips through the open crack. It carries with it the scent of wet stone. Eliott finds some odd comfort in the room and immediately tries to brush away the feeling.
He looks away.
Next to him on the nightstand is a glass of water. Though his lips feel dry and his throat craves to drink it down Eliott ignores it in favor of the familiar glock and knife resting just next to crystal glass. Eliott counts it as a tiny little blessing that whoever is caring for him is an idiot. With careful movements Eliott reaches for his weapons, stripped from his body, and left there for the taking. He shoves the knife and gun under the pillow for ease of access and lies back down.
He'd broken a sweat from that small exertion. Eliott closes his eyes for a moment and breathes through the discomfort. He swallows thickly, lips smacking together and lets himself rest. Whoever took him in, whoever wrapped him up like a present— is a poor unfortunate soul to be faced with such a predicament but Eliott doesn't think he is at risk for more injury.
So he lets himself doze and relax—something that hasn't happened in a long while— his mind wandering, thoughts flitting past like soft notes of a melody. He wonders if Sander got the call; if Idriss was able to clean up his mess.
Did the rain wash away his existence?
The door creaks and the unmistakable sound of footsteps jarred Eliott awake. He's unsure of how much time has passed, but he keeps his eyes closed and his breathing even. Body relaxed like sleep still held onto him. The steps move closer and he’s almost positive he hears a second set of steps echoing the first. Moving in the opposite direction.
The bed dips and Eliott almost twitches when he feels a hand hover near but not touching, then a harsh poke into his side that has him biting back a whimper.
“I know you’re awake, stop pretending.”
The voice is soft and though the words are accusing, Eliott notes the lack of heat in the man's tone. He opens his eyes slowly, appreciative of the fact that the lighting in the room remains dim and naturally lit from the window. Nothing too glaring.
On the bed in front of him is a man with a pointed face. Blush pink lips relaxed in a state of calm and collectedness. Blue eyes, bright and curious watch him. An accented nose. Milky Skin. Ruffled brunette locks. Nothing of this man comes first to Eliott. But slowly, piece by piece, Eliott takes him in and the small images come together to form a beauty that Eliott wasn’t expecting.
“Welcome to the land of the living, sleeping bea–”
It takes seconds for Eliott to throw his weight, grabbing the stranger by the arm and giving it an impossibly harsh tug before letting go. His hands already reach for the weapons beneath his pillow in a maneuver that definitely tears at the delicate seams holding his wound shut. He reads the surprise on that face, the shock crawls across those high cheeks and shines in the depths of his gaze. Blue eyes look down that strong nose, trying to see the blade that Eliott points against the bottom of his chin. It digs into the skin until a drop of blood pools then drips.
“Where am I and who are you?” His voice is rough, cracking around the edges. He wonders how long he’s been out for. How long has he been lying on this bed, being watched over by this man and the one hiding.
In his right hand, Eliott holds his gun steady, pointing it at the divider, where he knows the other body is.
Those blue eyes look back up at him and those lips quirk up at the corner in a soft smirk. The action ignites an anger in Eliott. Forces it into existence, making it crawl just below the surface of his skin.
He pulls the trigger without even blinking in the direction of the divider, knowing the way the bullet devours the wood in its path, splintering it until it leaves nothing but a hole in its path. The ringing doesn’t die down for a while. It never does. Neither of them so much as flinches at the sound. And isn’t that something.
Those blue eyes widen just the slightest but remain glued on Eliott. Wide and aware and present—unrelenting— because if he blinks, Eliott might just strike like the predator he is.
The man isn’t a complete idiot, then.
“Well that was anticlimactic, wasn’t it?” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice. “Was that really necessary? You put a hole in my furniture all because you wanted to know my name? You could have just asked the normal way, you know. I would have told you.” He bares down and adds the slightest bit of pressure until a drop becomes two, then three— maybe he is an idiot. A beautiful fucking idiot.
“You’re going to replace that right?”
Eliott moves his hand an inch over, fires the gun again. He feels the recoil like it’s a part of him.
“I won’t miss a third time–whoever is hiding back there needs to come out. Now.”
The brunette in front of him tilts his head. A hand comes up slowly, moves accented, like he doesn't want to startle Eliott into action. Eliott can see those fingers, long and fragile, held flat against the blade of his knife. The man applies the slightest pressure and pushes the gleaming edge away from his chin. For some reason, Eliott lets him.
"Is this how you repay us after we saved your life? You know, poor Robbe sat by your side all night and made sure you broke fever, and what does he get for it?"
A sharp keening whine comes from behind the divider and Eliott whips his head to the source, eyes sharpening where he knows the other person stands.
"Now he knows my name," Robbe complains. He sounds young, more confident than Eliott would expect coming from someone facing down not one, but two potential bullets. "What did you go and do that for?"
The brunette huffs a sigh and Eliott looks at him from the periphery. Those blue eyes roll to glare forlornly at the ceiling. "Don't be like that. He was going to find out anyway, plus I never said you are Robbe. That one is on you. Why don’t you come out now and let him see you too.”
His voice drags just the slightest, almost bored as he holds a conversation in front of Eliott.
“Now that’s just asking for a quick death—what if he shoots?” Robbe responds, tone a weary sort of anger.
“You won’t shoot him, will you?” Lucas addresses Eliott like they are familiar. But how much more familiar can you get with a man who has already seen you undressed and saved your life before even knowing your name?
The absurdity of this situation hits Eliott and something inside him shatters from the lack of monotony. It surges through him and he can’t help but bark out a hysterical chuckle. He shakes the gun in Robbe’s direction but pins the stranger with his gaze.
“That’s Robbe. You, what’s your name?” His question makes a promise that he doesn’t voice.
Eliott thinks for a second: He’s not going to answer. Not by the way he chews on his bottom lip in contemplation. But he says, “Lucas” so calmly, Eliott isn’t sure what to make of him.
“Just Lucas?”
Lucas grins, “Just Lucas.” He says, “Robbe, he put the gun down.” Eliott didn’t. The grin never leaves Lucas' face, blue eyes still locked and loaded on Eliott.
When Robbe comes out from behind the divider, Eliott isn’t sure what he was going to be faced down with but Robbe bares a resemblance to Lucas. A sharp jawline with a pointed chin. His nose sits small at the center of his face. Brunette locks flick and curl atop his head. He looks worried, brows furrowed and cupid lips pulled down in a frown. Robbe exudes an angry concern, like a cornered kitten; clearly an adult but still carrying a skittish, innocent air about him.
Eliott can imagine how soft he might look when he breaks out into a smile, especially when paired with his doe-like eyes. Brown eyes that are now wide with disbelief.
"W-why would you lie like that?" Robbe exclaims. Exasperation vibrates through his slim and tall frame as he stomps one foot almost petulant. He's glaring at Lucas, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists into the sleeves of his shirt.
Lucas throws his head back and laughs. The sound breaks the tension inside Eliott. Clears off the grey and the dust and rings clearly through the room. Then the moment is gone and Eliott finds himself again.
"He didn't shoot, did he?"
"You're the worst."
Eliott narrows his eyes. Gaze bouncing back and forth between them. Are they mocking him?
How refreshing, he thinks.
The bed shifts and Lucas is standing, arms stretched wide over his head, he muffles a yawn into his shoulders.
"Relax, it all worked out in the end."
Robbe clicks his tongue in annoyance, a flush to his cheeks and his eyes looking at the far wall like he's done with the situation. He mutters something about playing with other people's lives and then bites his bottom lip in a nervous tick.
“If you’re feeling well enough to threaten us, you should leave. I’ve had to close shop because of you.” Lucas said with a tilt of his head.
Robbe snorts and Lucas smirks over at him. The two of them are living a secret that Eliott is unaware of but it grabs his attention and he wants to know everything.
Eliott lowers the gun but keeps his finger on the trigger. He rolls his shoulder and arches his back, wincing when the pain races up his side.
“Can you tell me where I am?” He asks.
“Please?” Lucas counters. Eliott feels the muscle in his jaw jump. He’s not so used to such insubordination and he can’t confirm if it grates on his nerves or if he likes it. Coming from Lucas specifically.
“Please,” Eliott amends, playing his game for just this short amount of time.
“You’re in my shop.” Not what he was hoping for but he should have expected it. Because of course it would be a dance to get this man to tell him anything specific.
"I'll bring up your suit, are you good to stand?"
"Yes."
"Robbe be a dear an-"
"Gladly."
Robbe doesn't look back as he turns to leave the room with hurried steps. Happy to leave the lure of death behind it seems.
"That Robbe, he's a cheeky one, that's for sure." Lucas hums a thoughtful sound before turning to the vanity to seat himself in front of the mirror. He takes a cloth to his chin, wiping harshly at the dried blood without a care that Eliott sits on the bed watching him.
It's silent like this, calm and unassuming. Eliott lets himself go for a second and just breathes it all in, eyes at half mast. It's an unusual environment. But not unwelcome.
Odd how he wants to know who just Lucas is. The thoughts and feelings fester, buzzing through his veins; lighting up his nerves. It's a close thing, the words forming on his tongue and just as he thinks he might speak the door opens and Robbe comes in.
He carries Eliott’s suit jacket like he knows its worth. He shoots Eliott a wary look before shuffling over to Lucas.
They whisper quietly to each other and it's the first moment of peace between the two that Eliott witnesses. It speaks of an ease to their relationship and Eliott wonders what they are to each other.
Robbe smiles and his face dimples impossibly. Eliott is right. He looks soft when he smiles. Robbe nods and retreats, almost thankful in his steps for the opportunity. He leaves and the door closes, leaving Lucas and Eliott alone in the room again. The only difference now is how Lucas gives him his full attention.
"You've been out for about three days, so I took the time to darn the hole in your suit and dry clean it. Shame really— La Petite Ceinture, signature collection and it's treated like such."
Eliott watches how Lucas takes the suit from the hanger, sliding it out of the plastic that is meant to protect it. His movements are measured and methodical—practiced—as he unveils the cleaned suit jacket. He tosses Eliott a deep blue turtleneck, soft to the touch and Eliott puts it on without being asked. He feels it when his wound pulls. It's his own fault, but he's had worse before.
At least he's not too dizzy or near death's door. He switches out of the sweatpants he's in, uncaring of being so exposed in front of Lucas. The shorter brunette watches him with a keen eye waiting for Eliott to take the slacks from his grip. Once on, Lucas helps him with the rest like he can't help himself despite not being invited in Eliott's personal space.
He turns Eliott around, helps him shrug on the sleek slim fit jacket, smoothing his hand down the length of Eliott’s back. He presses against Eliott’s shoulder blade in a silent plea for him to turn to face him.
Face to face Lucas works with the suit and makes it do what he wants. He straightens out the lapels, presses away the wrinkles in the black material all the while Eliott looks down at him.
Eliott hadn't realized just how much shorter the other man was in comparison. Only seeing it now when they stand next to each other. Smaller hands hold him where his waist tapers, and blue eyes flit up to look at him.
"The suit was very well tailored, I'd say they could have taken a half inch in and it would make it just perfect."
His wound cries out from the pressure applied.
"Are you familiar with this collection?" Eliott asks, curious.
Lucas tilts his head with a smirk.
"I'm very familiar with it. Many of my clients have asked me to do a custom fitting for them, or they've brought their own in for some mending when holes and rips occur—these suits cost a pretty penny and my clients only want the best service."
Eliott cocks a brow, impressed. His memory jogs and he is reminded of the tailor shop. It must be where he is.
"Come, look."
Lucas takes him by the hand and pulls him in the direction behind the wooden divider where there's a full length mirror hanging from the wall. Ornate golden filigree frames his reflection. Everything about this place screamed money, and yet the man standing next to him held himself so casually.
Lucas shifts and his blue gaze cuts into Eliott's, in the mirror. He holds the flap of Eliott’s suit open and on the otherwise pristine black suit, there's a bright red patch sitting where a hole once was. It's glaring. The patchwork is unnaturally perfect but it stands out like a stain.
This suit cost him thousands of dollars. He smiles at Lucas.
"Couldn't find any black?"
The brunette shrugs. "My shop has been closed for three days." He said, as if that was enough explanation.
It explains nothing.
Eliott looks down again at the work, and aside from the color, there's nothing he could really complain about. He thinks about Lucas' hands, hands that held steady cleaning his wound and mended his clothing with precision. Wonders if the stitches painted on his side held just as much precision and care.
Warm hands. Long fingers, delicate but worn from years of working. How many times has a needle met his skin? Drawn blood.
Eliott finds himself wanting to know.
"Looking almost as good as you did three days ago—only not half dead." Lucas quirks a brow at Eliott. That smirk on his lips is only slightly teasing.
He turns and waves for Eliott to follow. Eliott follows with unsteady steps, feeling slightly off from being bedridden for the past three days. He is weak in a way he hasn't been in a long time.
Hungry even. Eliott hates feeling so vulnerable; exposed in light of his company. Yet, as if reading his mind, Lucas diverts his gaze and leads them out of the room and past a set of doors and down a flight of stairs.
"Are you hungry?" Lucas asked, casually and unexpectant of an answer.
Eliott can see the gesture for what it is. He appreciates the subtlety of it. "This building is old." Eliott said in lieu of an answer. His eyes trail up the cream colored walls, the thick beams of wood stained a beautiful burgundy. The floors are wooden, protected by matching rugs, large and encompassing.
"It is, isn't it?"
Eliott watches Lucas trail those fingers along the wall in a whisper of a touch as they walk past. He leads them into a back room, down a hall that opens into a kitchen.
"It's been in the family for generations."
"So, very old then." Eliott concludes.
Robbe sits at the island counter on a barstool. His brown eyes track them curiously, an orange in hand; the peels lying on the table in a massacre. Lucas picks up his orange from the fruit bowl and turns to toss it to Eliott.
He catches it.
"You could say that. It definitely holds a lot of secrets. Now that," Lucas points to the orange, "is for the road."
He looks at them both, feels the weight or the orange in his palm and smiles sincerely at them for the first time.
Robbe puts the piece of orange he'd been biting into on the counter and looks away, a flush creeping up his cheeks while Lucas parts his lips like he wants to say something but keeps quiet.
"Thank you, I'll find a way to repay you." His promise means gold. Eliott intends to keep it.
"Don't worry about it. Just don't die in front of my shop anytime soon, it's bad for business."
Eliott laughs until his eyes are scrunched and his vision blurs from the strength of his grin.
"Walk me to the door?" He directs at Lucas. He can see Robbe’s eyebrow shoot up and he's looking at Lucas trying to figure out what's going on.
"It's out through the front that way–"
"Please." Eliott pushes and he sees the moment Lucas caves, how the air leaves him and his shoulder sags just the slightest.
"Come on, then. This way."
The shop front is open. There's a large wingback chair set to one side of the room, a large hanging mirror where Eliott is sure the clients trying on their suits stand to look at themselves, on one of the walls. Cabinets with wooden doors and distorted glass that hid the contents inside. He sees a line of suits hanging pressed and neat on display. Eliott is tempted to stop and look at the work but Lucas coughs into his fist and Eliott knows it's time to go. That he is an unwelcome guest faced down with warm but limited hospitality.
He's struck by the contrast of this little shop.
Everything old and new.
Everything is exposed yet hidden.
Lucas and Robbe are cold and distant yet warm and giving.
Secrets indeed.
"Thank you." Eliott said in parting at the mouth of the door. Lucas stands behind it, holding it open for him.
"Mm, you're welcome." He bites at his bottom lip. It seems they both share habits. Eliott wonders what habits he's picked up from those he works closely with.
He takes one last look at Lucas and something in him screams for him not to leave alone.
But he walks away. He manages five steps before that voice is calling out again.
"If you walk to the left of the fountain, then straight for ten minutes, there's a train station that can probably get you home, city boy."
"Eliott." He turns to give his name. The sight of Lucas standing at the door to his shop—those same windows with the yellow curtains. The green awning—it's breathtaking in a sense.
Lucas relaxes his stance. "Just Eliott?"
Eliott grins, turns and tosses a goodbye over his shoulder with a wave of his fingers. He doesn't deign it with a response. Because he's not just Eliott.
He's Eliott Demaury. But he toys with the thought. Of being just Eliott. He pushes it to the back of his mind and continues to walk in the direction Lucas pointed.
The walk is brisk, exerting and tires Eliott out faster than he'd like to admit. There's more people out, cars that drive slow on the cobblestone. Eyes that blatantly watched and tracked Eliott like he stuck out. An anomaly in their otherwise normal town.
At the station there are more bodies, less eyes drawn to him and more focused on the phones in their hands, or the music playing through their head pieces. The foot traffic isn't too busy but there's a constant ebb and flow. He finds the ticket stand fairly quickly. Behind the counter stands a young girl combing her fingers through her ponytail, catching and snagging on knots that she undoes with quick jerking flicks of her wrist.
She's hyper focused, unaware that Eliott is standing there until he clears his throat and she snaps to attention, eyes growing wide. Her mouth moves around, rooting for words. He grins easily at her, eyes taking in her khaki uniform, the little crooked Chloe , pinned to her shirt pocket.
"I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there." She pats down her uniform nervously. Then tries to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ears, too short to stay, it falls back in her face.
"How can I help you today, sir."
Eliott smiles, letting the tension bleed away from him, softening around the edges. That smile that he knows Sander always tells him to put away because it's cruel with how falsely calming it is.
" It's the kind of smile you give to grandma's when you carry their groceries across the street after you've buried their grandson. Don't smile at me like that."
The effects are immediate. Eliott sees the way Chloe blushes and her lips quiver. Her eyes glance at his lips then back up to stare into his eyes. He can see the hope plastered onto her face.
"I need a ticket back into the city."
"R-right, round trip or one way?" She stumbles over her words, nails steadily clacking away on the screen in front of her.
"One way. But I have a dilemma." Eliott tries to sound contrite. "I'm actually lost, I think I was mugged because I have nothing on me at the moment to pay for this."
She bleeds sympathy. Gullible to a faultless, even though he's being honest.
"I-I don't…"
"You have to believe me, I've got nothing but the clothing on my back. Honest," he pulls back the flap of his suit jacket and points to the glaring red stitching. "You see this, I was at that tailor shop, the one across from the fountain in the center of your town. The owner helped me, let me stay there while he fixed me up and then sent me on my way."
Her face scrunches up in concern and disbelief.
"T-that's not possible… that shop has been closed for the last ten years."
Eliott feels his heart beat fast at that information.
I’ve had to close shop because of you.
Oh, wasn't that something to take apart. Those words and Robbe’s response. It clicks together.
"Whoever lives there helped me. Please believe me. I could leave my name and number and I promise I'll pay the fare once I get to my destination." He does his best to appeal to her bleeding heart.
He catches it the moment she folds with a jerk of her head. Nails clicking before a ticket spits out in front of him.
"Thank you, Chloe. I won’t forget this, I promise." Eliott is good for his promises.
She blushes and looks away with a nod.
Eliott finds his train with ease, taking up a spot to stare out of the window. He flips the ticket back and forth with his fingers thinking.
That shop has been closed for the last ten years…
He closes his eyes and leans back. Eliott hasn't felt this kind of pull towards anyone in years. The mystery of just Lucas.
The red patch burns against his side.