⋆˚࿔ 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

Rusty and you have never once struggled during a mission—it's something that comes naturally to you both, like riding a bike after not doing so for months. You never forget how to do it; you don’t become clumsy or clueless, you simply have to fall back into a rhythm. 

That’s hard to do when a deep-rooted anger is simmering under your skin, when the man you have to pretend to be married to is also the man your hatred is directed towards. 

Music drifts around you, that soft and melodic symphony that most rich-people weddings have where the guests simply float between each other, exchanging terse and irrelevant words and drink champagne in pricy costumes. The room is stuffy and reeks of strong floral perfume, hairspray and cologne so pungent it makes your heartbeat thunder behind your eyes. 

You tug at the collar of your dress, the fabric hugging in a way that’s just short of frustrating, the seam itching in a way that has your nerves on edge, your patience clinging on by a half-worn thread. Rusty isn’t helping—he’s gripping your hand tight enough that you can feel just how clammy his skin is, the cool press of his wedding ring cutting into your own fingers to the point that, if he squeezed any harder, he’d cut off the circulation entirely. 

“You know,” you begin, the words hissed through clenched teeth, with a poor attempt at a smile. “You haven’t got to grip me so tight.” 

“Thought you liked it.” His gaze doesn’t meet yours, instead staying focused on the bustling room itself, on every face that comes and goes, like he’s half-expecting one of them to recognise either of you and for the plan to fall through. 

You simply hum in response, so terse that it makes a passing woman glance back, concern etched into her features. Rusty flashes her a charming smile, raising his hand in apology, before dragging you both onwards. 

“Smile.” He whispers low in your ear, his voice a deep rumble in his chest. Usually, it would send you into a frenzy, would cause heat to flood through your whole body and your heart rate to pick up. However, now, it just makes you want to knock the fake facade he’s putting on for everyone off his face. 

“You smile.” You counter, dropping his hand abruptly in favour of the drinks table. You pour yourself a glass of red wine, the first sip making you wince as the dry liquid scathes your throat, forcing you to swallow a cough. “A wedding like this and they couldn’t even bother to buy the fancy stuff.” 

Rusty comes up behind you, chest pressed to your back, his hand dropping to your waist; it’s a familiar action, almost instinctive in the way you gravitate towards each other, yet there’s a tension behind it. He plucks the glass from your hand, eyes fixed on your own as he takes a pull from it, expression unchanging. 

“We’re not here to drink, sweetheart.” 

“Then stop being insufferable.” You snap, reaching to take it back. His free hand shoots out, catching your wrist so hard that a gasp slips free. His thumb smoothes over your pulse point. 

“People are staring.” 

You don’t look away. Something shifts between you. “Then let them. See if I care.” 

His grip tightens further and you tug against him, the wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass. “You could at least look like you love me.” 

Your scoff is boorish, the kind that says far more than words ever could. “You’re not making it easy.” 

Something in his expression seems to change then, the briefest flicker in his eyes, his jaw ticking and brow tightening. His eyes harden as he drops his tone, low enough for only the two of you, too quiet for anyone else. “It shouldn’t be hard.”

You fall silent, lips pursed as you exhale sharply through your nose. As much as it pains you to admit, he’s right… it shouldn’t be. Three years in a relationship means love comes unconditionally, and while that hasn’t exactly changed, going three weeks off the radar without so much as a word to you puts a certain strain on things. 

Nobody had told you where he was or if he was ever going to come back. He didn’t think to call or text. He just left in the middle of the night, leaving you to wake to an empty bed, his side of the mattress cold where his body had once warmed it. 

And then, three weeks later, after returning unannounced, after walking through the front door like he’d been gone no longer than an hour, he was expecting a celebration. You refused to give him the satisfaction, yet your plan of ignoring him until an apology comes seems to be uneventful.  

“I don’t mean to interrupt.” Danny’s voice crackles through your earpiece, vastly unammused. “But if we’re going to get anywhere tonight, we need you to blend in more.” 

“Right.” You mutter dryly. 

Around you, guests laugh, glasses clink together, and the music finally shifts into something with more of a rhythm. Bodies begin gravitating towards the centre of the floor in a formation that somewhat flows, couples following a routine that is purely their own, swaying and getting lost in one another’s eyes. 

Rusty seems to hesitate for a moment before his hand finds your lower back, guiding you towards the dance floor. 

“What are you doing?” You hiss as he spins you round to face him, taking your hands and placing them on his shoulders before his own drift to your hips. Your muscles are taut, and you look almost rigid as you try to match his movements. 

“Blending.” His smirk is infuriating as he twirls you around, and you find yourself purposely driving your heel into the toe of his shoes, relishing in his barely concealed wince. 

“Problem?” You ask sweetly, head tilting. Rusty gives you a tight smile, dropping a kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“You know what you’re doing.” He whispers, his breath hot against your skin. Despite yourself, butterflies stir awake in your chest, your cheeks flushing. 

“Maybe.” You counter, gravitating closer towards him. The blue of his eyes looks brighter under the aureate glow of the chandelier, and for a moment you find yourself forgetting your grudge at all. He scans your features, expression unreadable.

“You’re mad.” 

You make a vague sound low in your throat, trying to focus on the cadence of the music, but any sort of fluidity has long since been lost. “Good observation.” 

“Stop it.” He grunts, spinning you again. He drags you in closer until your faces are a mere few inches apart. “You’re being difficult—” 

You cut him off with a sardonic laugh, trying to ignore the sillage of his cologne, the one you got for him a year ago, the one he wears because he knows you adore it. “I’m being difficult? You left, Rusty.” 

The couple next to you glance over, giving awkward smiles that you return with a heavy glare. Rusty clears his throat. “Thought you’d be over that by now.” 

"Well, I’m not," You snap, purposefully stepping on his foot again. “You could’ve called.” 

He nods once, and for the briefest moment, something akin to guilt flashes across his features. It’s gone before you can point it out, however, replaced with that usual stoicism. “Yeah. But I was doin’ a job.” 

“How was I meant to know that?” The music changes, as does your rhythm together. Easy, natural. Nobody around bats an eye; to them, you both look like the perfect couple. “You disappeared, Rusty. Nobody would tell me where you were; you didn’t return my calls. For all I knew, you’d found another woman and left me for good.” 

“I didn’t leave you.” He mutters, the reticence holding his facade together cracking just enough for you to see the exhaustion beneath. He scans the room once more. “I went dark. There’s a difference, sweetheart.” 

“Sure there is.” You roll your eyes. Now, the rest of the room feels unimportant. Suddenly, everyone around you has disappeared, the clinking of glasses and the sickly sweet scent of champagne that had been clogging your senses dispersing into nothing but a background buzz. “You know, I think you forget I’m in this business with you.” 

Rusty exhales steadily through his nose, chest rising and falling beneath your hand—you're not sure when it slipped there; the action was so unconscious neither of you realised it had happened at all. You don’t move it, nor do you comment when he slides to cup the back of your neck, pulling you close enough to smell the mint on his breath. 

“I don’t forget. I know exactly who you are and that’s why I came back.” his voice drops into a low, gravelly whisper. “But, if we’re going to do this, then I need you to smile, look like you love me, and tell me if the target is still at the head table.” 

He guides you into a slow turn, dress sweeping the ground, your gaze scanning the room as you go. “He’s still there.” You confirm, through a faux, serpahic laugh, that is purely for the benefit of those around you. “He’s on his third whisky and hasn’t stopped looking at his new wife for the last half hour.” 

Rusty looks almost proud, giving you a smile that, for the first time all evening, looks genuine. He drops another kiss to your temple, a real one this time, and you let your head drop to his shoulder, face tucked into his collarbone. You allow yourself a second to revel in his presence, in the warmth you’ve craved so much despite yourself. 

“We’ve got twenty minutes until they cut the cake.” You lift your gaze just enough to meet his eyes; he truly does look handsome, something you weren't blind to even in your anger. However, now you let yourself appreciate it. 

“Twenty minutes is enough.” He says softly, mouth brushing your ear. He shoots a glance to a waiter in the corner—Linus, adorned in a poorly fitted vest, balancing a tray precariously in one hand—and gives him the limina of a nod. “That’s our cue to get out.” 

The heavy oak door of the hotel room slams shut behind you, the scent of fresh linen washing over you. The air in here is clean, and light filters in through the large windows and balcony doors; the silence is something you sink into. 

You gravitate towards the large bed in the centre of the room, clearly there for a couple in their pre-wedding bliss, all duck feathers and soft silk sheets. Your dress pulls uncomfortably and you shift with a low huff, envy crossing your features as you watch Rusty shed his suit jacket easily. 

The tie comes next, loosened just enough that he can unbutton the first few buttons, exposing tanned skin beneath. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and that fluttering in your chest returns. 

“You okay?” 

You nod once, staying silent. Rusty huffs, sitting in the armchair opposite. “Alright, look.” He runs a hand over his hair. “I messed up. I should’ve said something or found a way to let you know what was going on. I’m sorry.” 

For a moment, the silence hangs suspended between you both. He rises from the chair, crossing towards you, and you shuffle to make enough room for him as he hovers over you. “Let me make it up to you.” 

That’s all you need—you pull him down into a kiss so fierce that it drags a surprised grunt from him. His hands cup your face, wandering over your body, resting at yourhips before gently manoeuvring you upwards. 

His fingers work the zipper of your dress deftly, pulling it down until the fabric loosens and air rushes back into your lungs. The garment pulls away easily, and he drapes it over the chair carefully, leaving you in nothing but your underwear and bra, exposed to the cool air surrounding you. 

“Look at you…” The words leave him in a breathy whisper, as though you’d knocked the air from his lungs completely. He eases you back against the pillows, lips finding yours in a gentle kiss. Your hands cup his jaw, fingers running up through his hair, his name spilling from your lips like a mantra. 

“Please… Rusty, please.” 

“I know, sweetheart. Hold on.” He shoves off his shirt easily, pants coming next, and he undoes your bra easily. It slips away, and he trails his lips down your chest, featherlight; his breath is warm enough to cause goosebumps to prickle across your skin, eliciting a small gasp. His teeth graze the curve of your breast before he soothes the sting with his tongue, and you find yourself arching into him. 

“Missed this.” He whispers against you, lifting his gaze. “Missed you.” 

You bite back a snarky response, because while you’re still mad, something about the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only person in the world, kisses trailing tenderly down your thigh—is enough to make you forget everything. 

His tongue drags through your folds in one tortuously slow stroke, making your toes curl and your breath stutter. Your hips buck and he reaches out to hold them down again, tutting under his breath. His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing in tight circles.

A choked moan escapes you, muffled into the palm of your hand, fingers twisting into the sheets. 

“Still mad?” He whispers, the vibrations sending a shiver through you, the drag of his tongue maddening. You glare down at him, words silenced as his fingers join his mouth, a pace so blissful   that you can’t help but break off into a whimper. 

“Rusty, please. I can’t—” you gasp. He seems to catch the memo, fingers withdrawing as he sits up straight, the sudden loss of contact making your heart sink with disappointment. However, he quickly replaces the absence with the weight of his body, the blunt head of his cock pressing into you inch by inch. 

The stretch is unimaginable, something you could only have dreamt about these past few weeks, and when he finally bottoms out, he lets his head drop to your shoulder, face hidden in your neck. 

Your breath catches when he moves, hips rutting, cock dragging against your walls at a pace so tortuous you can only clutch his back in a weak attempt at grounding yourself. Your nails leave little moon-shaped indents, no doubt likely to reside until morning, red welts already marring his skin. 

“Fuck…” he rasps, pushing back in. “Missed you like this.” 

“Shouldn’ve been here.” You choke out, another moan slipping free. 

Rusty nods once, though it’s jerky and uncoordinated. “I know. ‘M sorry, sweetheart. Gonna make it up to you.” 

The headboard hits the wall behind you in a monotonous thump as his pace picks up, hips snapping, and you find yourself suddenly grateful that everyone is downstairs at the wedding. One hand slides to hold the back of your neck, the cool metal of his rings pressing against your skin, the other gripping your thigh to hitch your leg over his hip. The new angle steals your breath, and soon your moans are entirely unfiltered, reverberating around the space.

Your orgasm washes over you like a tsunami, dragging you under a current so strong it leaves you gasp, a scream ripping from deep within your chest. Your vision whites out, stars dancing across the ceiling, and you feel Rusty finish deep inside of you, cock twitching as he collapses against you.

For a moment, neither of you says a word.

The clock on the nightstand ticks onwards steadily, your breaths rising and falling rapidly, a soft groan leaving him and his lips peppering your sweat-soaked skin with kisses. Your fingers trace idle patterns across his spine, skating over the ridges of muscle and the sweat-damp skin. 

“Sorry I yelled at you.” You whisper into his hair. “And for the record, I do love you.” 

“I deserved it.” Rusty nods once. For once, you don’t disagree; simply let yourself revel in the feeling of his skin on yours, his lips against yours, and the way he watches you as though you are the only thing worth looking at. 

The apartment is filled with a comfortable silence, broken only by the scrape of cutlery on plates and the gentle cadence of rain hitting the windows. The city hums below, tyres on wet pavement and the occasional blare of a horn, everyone rushing home for an evening with their only family. 

You take another bite of food—you tried to keep the meal simple: steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, the kind you know David loves, the sort you cook when you know he’s on edge. However, tonight, he’s in one of those moods where everything feels light.

Somerset sits across from you. You’re not sure what possessed you to invite him, but he’s grown to be part of the family. That, and the fact that his presence may soften the blow of David’s reaction when you tell him about the phone call you got over lunch. 

You’d been expecting it for weeks, hoping and waiting, the emancipation so strong that you made yourself feel sick with nerves. You planned what you would say and how you would manage it, yet when the call finally did come, you could only go silent and grin.

“You want more wine?” 

You glance up suddenly, meeting David’s gaze, and realise for the first time that he’s been watching you, his brow furrowed in something akin to curiosity. You nod once, clearing your throat and plastering on a tight smile, a cheap semblance of composure.

“Please.” He fills it. You take a sip. “Is the food okay?” 

“It’s perfect.” Somerset responds, voice impossibly calm, cutting through the tension you hadn’t realised was simmering. “Best I’ve had in weeks.” 

“That’s not hard.” David scoffs, finishing off his beer and taking another bite. He continues to speak through his mouthful, and a part of you wants to reprimand him for his manners, yet you bite your tongue, not sure you’ll be able to even attempt normalcy when your blood is thundering in your ears. “Microwave food ain’t exactly comparable to this.” 

Somerset chuckles faintly, glancing back at you. The pull in his expression tells you everything; he can see right through you and knows exactly what’s going on, and if it weren’t humanly impossible, you’d expect he could read your mind. “Yes. But I have a feeling I wasn’t invited under the pretence of eating good food.” 

The silence returns—David’s eyes return to you, the curiosity replaced with concern when he catches the way you shift in your seat. The rest of the steak suddenly seems unappealing, and you find yourself pushing it around your plate much like the way a fussy child spreads out their food to leave the table sooner. 

“I have news.” 

The announcement feels heavy, as though someone has just dropped a weight on your shoulders unexpectedly, knocking the breath from you completely. Your stomach churns, butterflies startling awake and fluttering wildly as though disturbed, and the smile you give both of them is suddenly filled with such genuine excitement that David’s own lips twitch out of instinct.

“News?” he repeats. Somerset wisely remains silent.

You nod, wiping your palms on your thighs. “Yeah. I got a phone call at lunch from the law firm in Chicago.” 

Immediately, the smile disappears from David’s face, replaced with something unreadable. His eyes darken, though not with anger so much as fear. “Chicago? What for?” 

“I applied for a vacant position there last month as the assistant attorney in the homicide division. David… They want me to start next month.” 

The rain outside grows louder, a heavy onslaught now that pounds against the glass, droplets racing down the steam-hazy panes in rivulets. The traffic continues to crawl on the road below, horns still blaring, the occasional person yelling muffled profanities; the world continues on as normal, everyone going on with their lives as though yours wasn’t currently teetering on the brink of something colossal. 

“That’s amazing.” Somerset grins, the genuineness behind the words allowing you to exhale a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. He reaches over to squeeze one of your hands. “Really. That’s a big achievement. Congratulations.” 

“Thank you.” You smile politely, and while you genuinely appreciate his reaction, how happy he is for you, he isn’t who you want to hear it from. 

Slowly, you turn your focus back to David; he looks pallid, eyes distant as though focused on something miles away that only he can see. He drags a hand through his hair, swallowing thickly as he flicks aside the damp label he'd peeled from the empty beer bottle. 

“David?” 

“That’s amazing.” He manages, offering you a smile that on the surface might seem proud, like he’s thrilled at the prospect. 

Yet, the selcouth shimmer in his eyes tells you that, beneath the pride, there’s a dread that’s washing over him and dragging him under, like he too has anticipated this, though not with the same sickening excitement as you. 

Somerset rises from the table then, glancing towards the dogs who are stretched languidly on the rug, entirely content. “I’m going to take them out for a moment. Better now than later before the rain gets worse.” 

Neither you nor David mentioned that the dogs are in no need of going out or that the weather is already at its peak with no sign of letting up. Instead, you offer a gentle thank you, waiting until he's out of the door and it’s just the two of you, alone. 

“You don’t seem happy.” 

David shakes his head sharply, straightening his posture and reaching across the table to take your hand in his. Your wedding ring glints under the aureate glow of the overhead light, catching the reflection just right. 

“That’s not—” he trails off, gaze dropping to the table top, to your conjoined hands and the ring he’d put on your finger with a promise to stay with you forever. “I’m happy.” 

“David…” 

“I am,” he interrupts. “I just didn’t know. I didn’t realise that you were thinkin’ about leaving.” 

You realise then how it sounds, once it’s put into words and spoken into the oppressive silence. Worse than you’d intended, like you were moving cities and leaving him behind with a life half-finished before it’s even truly started. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“No.” He shakes his head feverently, squeezing your hand tightly, a weak attempt to ground you. “It’s okay. It’s a good thing. You deserve it.” 

You hesitate for a few fleeting seconds, eyes scanning his features for a limina of anger; all you find is pride and a quiet sadness, neither quite what you’d expected. “But?” 

“Chicago is miles away.” 

A crack of thunder sounds outside, a deep rumble that shudders the walls of the tiny apartment, making you aware of just how tight the space is, how your world has been reduced to a crumpled, claustrophobic world in the midst of a city that never slows down nor sleeps. 

“I know.” Disappointment tinges your tone, because despite the achievement, despite how hard you’d worked for this, you always knew this would happen. That you’d have to have this discussion and inevitably come to a conclusion that would pain the other. “You could come with me.”

David huffs a gentle laugh, reaching out and gesturing for you to come around the table—you do, sinking into his lap as though all of the energy has been drained from you completely. The warmth that radiates from him thaws out the chill in your bones and soothes the constant buzz beneath your skin. 

“The department won’t transfer me just because my wife got a better job.” He mumbles, honesty seeping into the words. He tips your chin up so that you meet his gaze, lips grazing your temple. “Especially not after a few months.” 

“So what?” You whisper. “You just stay here?” 

For a second, he’s silent, and you can practically see the question turning over in his mind, followed by a thousand others, all of which can’t be answered. 

“I don’t know.” He admits finally, shoulders deflating. He reaches out to brush a loose strand of hair back from your face. “You accepted it yet?” 

“No.” You toy with the open collar of his shirt, exposing a slither of tanned skin beneath, not meeting his gaze until he drops a kiss to the corner of your mouth, featherlight and barely there. 

He offers a weak smile. “You should.” And though it clearly pains him to say so, the tightness in his shoulders telling you just as much, he continues, voice impossibly soft, pride still intertwined in each word. “You’ve worked your ass off for this.” 

You swallow thickly, struggling to bypass the lump forming in your throat, your eyes stinging with a concoction of pent-up emotion, all finally able to seep out as the first tear slips past the dam. David catches it with the calloused pad of his thumb, and you lean into his touch like a cat. 

“What about you?” The us lingers between you both, unspoken but clear nonetheless. David’s expression doesn't waver, that usual confidence returning once more. “What if we can’t make it work…” 

“We will.” He sounds so certain that you can’t help but believe him. His hand settles at the nape of your neck, pulling you close enough that your forehead rests against his, your lashes fluttering. “I’ll drive to Chicago every weekend if I need to.” 

“David…” Your laugh is wet with tears. 

“What?” 

You shake your head in disbelief, fingers running through his hair slowly. “That’s your plan?” 

He grins, eyes shining beneath the aureate glow of the lamp, and he shrugs once. “It’s worked pretty well so far.” 

⋆˚࿔ 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The airport lights are bright enough to make you squint behind the dim lenses of your sunglasses, a sterile white that casts the most unflattering angles on everyone and highlights the jet lag etched across the sea of faces bustling to gates. 

Duty-free perfume permeates your senses, your wrists coated with an ungodly mixture of scents you had no intention of buying but tried anyway due to the low price and your newly found income. Perhaps ‘income’ is a generous term, though you can’t think of anything that isn’t scandalous to describe stolen money. 

Your seat is uncomfortable to say the least; the hard plastic is cutting into the ridges of your spine just enough that you can no longer feel your lower back; you cast a glance at the man sprawled across a row of them, head pillowed on his bag, clearly immune to the discomfort and selfish enough to ignore the hovering family nearby. 

 “You know,” You mumble, leaning towards the occupied seat beside you. “That family looks like they could do with a seat.” 

Rusty Ryan hums noncommittally, glancing up from his half-eaten sandwich, the packaging crinkling. Sunglasses shade his face from view, and despite the unattractive lighting buzzing overhead, it seems to do very little to diminish his tanned skin, haloing the blonde buzzcut he’s somehow kept perfectly clean. It seems if the European sun picked favourites, it was certainly him.

“They could just ask.” 

You fix him with a bemused look, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Or you could offer.” 

“Then you would have to move too.” He fixes you with a knowing glance, a smirk tugging at his lips. “And we all know you’re not doing that.” 

A small laugh slips free, seraphic and loud enough that the dozing man on the bench across shifts slightly. You roll your eyes before turning back in your seat, shifting just enough to alleviate the tingling that has started to creep its way up your legs, winding around the muscles. 

“You really coming back to LA with me?” Rusty asks, finishing off the rest of the sandwich and balling up the plastic. You take it from him and slip it into your jacket pocket before he can discard it elsewhere, nodding once.

“I didn’t waste my money on a ticket for nothing. Besides, I don’t exactly have anywhere else to go.” 

He raises a brow at you, finally slumping back, one arm stretching around your shoulders to rest loosely over the back of your own seat. “What about Danny?” 

“He has Tess now.” You muse, gravitating to his side enough to feel the warmth radiating off of him. “And something tells me they’re going to want their own house to themselves without me hogging the guest room.” 

Rusty scoffs and you feel his fingers dance along the curve of your shoulder, the touch so absentminded, you’re not sure he’s even aware of it. “You’re his sister.” 

“And Tess is his wife.” 

“So?” He shrugs once, as though your intrusion on their newly formed domestic life means nothing. However, he catches the look you fix him with, entirely unamused and knowing, and something tacit passes between you both. “What? You think they’re settling?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?" You finally push your sunglasses up onto your head, blinded momentarily. You catch the way his face morphs into a grimace, like the mere thought of your brother being domesticated is one he tries to avoid, one so unnatural that it’s unnerving in itself. 

“No.” He sniffs once. “Still doesn’t mean you can’t stay with them.” 

You let out a wry laugh, leaning into him further, the action a subconscious one that neither of you seems aware of nor bothered about. “You trying to get rid of me already, Ryan?” 

He scoffs once, and you feel his arm move from the back of your seat to around your shoulders, settling there heavily and without much ceremony at all. “I just got you back.” 

The statement brings with it a gentle, if not oppressive, silence; the tacenda of just how long the two of you have spent apart is still clearly a subject neither of you is willing to touch upon. Three years is a long time, long enough to move on and go elsewhere with your lives, and yet neither of you did; instead, you hung up onto a past that would undoubtedly resurface eventually.  

“Don’t sound so smug.” You mumble, finally turning away, though there's a hint of stolidity now, the fear that if you get too comfortable, he will leave again, creeping back, unwelcome, into your system. 

“I’m not smug,” he retorts, shifting so that he can look at you properly. You don’t protest when he grasps your chin gently, turning your head and forcing you to meet his gaze. There’s something genuine behind his eyes, his brows softened enough for you to read the guilt that’s been tugging at him for months. 

“Really?” You scoff, but it’s hollow, devoid of any true humour. Rusty seems to notice. “That’s rare—” 

“Don’t do that.” The firmness catches you off guard, enough that you blink once, entirely stunned, lips parted like a fish on land, mid-gasp for air. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t release his hold on your chin. Simply watches you with all the amorousness of a besotted man who's realised his mistake too late. 

“What?” You ask, though it comes out as more of a whisper, careful not to draw too much attention from bored and prying airport guests. 

“That thing.” 

“What thing?" You prompt again. Rusty heaves a sigh.

“The thing where you shut down and act like this is all over before it’s even started.” He swallows thickly, and you realise then that this may be the most emotional you’ve ever seen him. Calm, composed, veracious Rusty Ryan suddenly looks vastly apologetic, like you’ve stabbed him once and twisted the knife. 

“Can you blame me?” You shake your head, a breathy laugh pulling from you. “You left me, Rusty. After two years. You just left.” 

“I was scared,” he admits, and the genuineness almost breaks you. He doesn’t raise his voice or shake you to emphasise his point. He just stays completely calm and entirely patient. 

“Of what?” 

“Things were serious. We were living together. You were plannin’ stuff. And I didn’t know how to handle that.” 

“I hated you.” You admit, entirely guileless. “I really hated you afterwards.” 

“I know.” He nods. “I know.” 

Silence settles once more; however, this time it feels lighter. The weight of unspoken words no longer presses down on you both, and you finally allow yourself to sag against his side once more, your remaining dregs of energy finally dispersed and replaced with the faintest glimmer of hope.

“Are you going to leave me this time?” The words are hushed, barely audible, like speaking them any louder might shatter whatever fragile bridge has built between the two of you. 

He hesitates. 

“Are you going to come back with me?” 

“Are you going to keep trying to run your shitty hotel?” 

Rusty barks a laugh, one so genuine that you can’t help but smile. He drops a kiss to the top of your head, warming your body in a way you haven’t felt in years. It’s familiar—comforting—and you find yourself tilting your head just far enough to capture his lips with your own. 

The intercom crackles overhead, announcing the final call for Italy. A few people around you rise, bustling in the general direction, and you open your mouth to make a wry comment about getting there early, when Rusty stands too.

“That’s us.” 

He bends down to pick up your bags before watching you expectantly. 

You frown, brows furrowed as you glance at the board just to make sure. “They called Italy.” 

“I’m not deaf.” He counters, holding a hand out for you like a bored mother does for their child. “C’mon or we’ll miss it.”

You rise warily, taking his hand. “We’re going to LA, Rusty.”

Yet, despite that, he continues to walk to the gate for Italy, joining the queue of eager tourists and the occasional well-dressed businessperson. He shakes his head, handing you the boarding passes—immediately you scan them with all the fervour of someone afraid their boyfriend has lost it. 

“Rusty.” You begin, glaring up at him. “These aren’t for LA.”

“Hotels probably gone under by now," He shrugs, as though that answers everything. He seems to catch on as you continue to gawp up at him before adding. “I thought you wanted somewhere nice to settle down.”

Settle down? 

“The hotel—What—You own it.”

“Not anymore.” The queue shuffles forward. “I sold it.” 

“Sold it?” You echo, stressing each syllable as though you’re trying to get through to him, trying to make sense of what exactly he’s telling you. He remains completely stoic, as though what he’s doing isn’t completely out of the ordinary. “You’re telling me you sold your hotel in LA so that you could move to Italy?” 

“We,” he corrects languidly. He hands your boarding passes and passports to the lady at the desk. “So that we could move to Italy.” 

The woman wishes you both an enjoyable flight and you can barely muster a ‘thank you’ as he drags you, and your bags, through the gate, looking every bit as smug as you’d expect. 

“Rusty, where are we going to go?” 

He glances down at you, a wry smile tugging as he lips. He bends down to press another kiss to your lips and you melt into it instinctively. 

“We’ll figure it out.” 

⋆˚࿔ 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The air is thick and heavy with the lingering heat of summer, the kind that clings to your skin and resides deep in your bones, gnawing at your nerves and winding them so tight that they eventually snap and you’re left feeling frustrated. 

Tension coils tight in your muscles, the kind that makes every minor inconvenience seem like a big deal. Like the fact that your bed sheets are too heavy for the summer, too itchy and fitted to the bed. Your fan rattles enough that it can be heard even beneath a pillow. Someone in the Paper Street house who shouldn’t be there has a persistent cough that makes you want to choke them until they never cough again. 

Maybe that’s why you can’t sleep. 

The door to the rooftop bangs shut, a loud rattle that cuts through the din of the city sprawling below you. Lights glitter, horns blare and people shout at each other, the 3am traffic filled with exhausted and agitated workers just wanting to get home. 

You don’t startle at the figure already standing near the edge, smoke curling around his head in swirls and patterns that dissipate before you, lost to the stars and the open void that hangs above you. He doesn’t turn when you slow down beside him and doesn’t fight when you pluck the cigarette from between his lips and place it between your own. 

“Thought you’d quit.” It’s not a question so much as a statement. His voice is a low rumble in his chest, so amused that you don’t have to turn to see the smirk spreading across his features. 

In this light, his face half shielded by the shadows, the moon doing very little to cast its pale glow over his features, you can make out the mottled bruises marring his skin. His lip is split, blood still dried on his chin, one eye swollen, and judging from the way he tightens his jaw every now and then, you’d bet he’s lost a tooth too. 

Nothing new. 

“I did.” You mutter, blowing out a ring of smoke and passing the cigarette back. It seems to do very little to ease your nerves, instead making your throat tickle and your chest tighten with a cough you won't let escape. 

The metal support is rusted with age, and Tyler sits on the ledge of the roof like the six-storey drop isn’t there, boots swinging languidly. He doesn’t seem to care about the possibility of falling, and even if he were soaring through the air at a thundering pace, you know he wouldn’t so much as blink. 

And seemingly you don’t care either, stepping over the support until you're balanced on the other side before lowering yourself to sit beside him. He doesn't move over or gravitate towards you; he simply places the cigarette between his teeth and takes another drag. 

“You look like shit.” The statement is guileless, the kind of insult he lets roll off of him like water. Perhaps he gets off on it, judging from the way his chest puffs out slightly and he huffs a breathy laugh.

“Yeah.” He sniffs once, wiping at the dried crimson on his chin, and you wince when you notice his nose is more crooked than the last time you’d seen him. 

“That’s it?” You laugh, turning back to the city line. “Yeah? You’re not gonna explain–” 

“Why should I?” He finally turns his head enough that his eyes meet yours, steely grey glinting back at you. “You know what I do.” 

Neither of you says it. You don’t have to. You’ve seen it, seen him throw punches and take them straight back. Watched him spit and spill blood; sometimes his own, sometimes other men’s. “Doesn’t mean I like it.” 

Tyler takes one final drag of the cigarette before flicking it over the edge. You watch the orange ember twirl and dance through the air, gliding six floors down before it disappears onto the vast street below, crushed beneath the perfect sole of an Adidas trainer or extinguished in a puddle of rainwater. 

“You didn’t have to come up here.” He glances at you, eyebrows raised in challenge.

“Neither did you.” 

Except you both have an established routine—unspoken and unbroken by either of you. It lacks any official label, much like the two of you, yet you always find one another on nights like this, when the city is loud and your head is even louder. 

You’re not sure whether Tyler’s head has ever been loud a day in his life. To you, he’s always seemed controlled, like he knows exactly what he’s doing at every second of his life, like he has it all figured out without having any true plan at all. 

The bruise around his eye looks somehow worse now, angry and blossoming under the moon’s light. You reach out tentatively, taking his face between your hands, surprised as he remains pliant, letting you turn his head to face you. 

He doesn’t say anything as your eyes scan over each injury, wounds that will no doubt heal only to be replaced once more. Your thumb traces over his bottom lip, wiping away the remaining blood, your brows pulled downwards in sympathy. 

“Don’t start.” He grumbles, eyes entirely recalcitrant as they lock on your own. 

“What?”

He barks out a sardonic laugh, head tipped back slightly, and you marvel at the way the light chisels out his jawline, making it look far sharper than usual, his teeth glinting like light blades. “You look concerned.” 

“I am.” you admit, finally dropping your hands into your lap once more, face screwing up. You know it’s ridiculous—Tyler Durden is untouchable, an enigma you truly know nothing about other than the fact that, when you can’t sleep, he’s always here, waiting for you with new bruises marring his features. 

“Why?” He turns to you fully now, eyes boring into you, coruscating gorgeously. “It’s just a bruise.”

“That’s not the point—”

“Then what is?” He interrupts. There’s another cigarette between his teeth, smoke curling from his lips, seemingly produced from nowhere. “This is what we were made for. We’re made to get hurt. Without pain, we have nothing. In order to learn in life, to move on from our jobs and consumeristic tendencies, we must endure the consequences. It's only after we've lost everything that we're free to do anything.” 

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “You’re insane.” 

Tyler nods once, his stolidity drawing you in further despite your repulsion, like two opposite poles of a magnet. “Maybe.” 

“You always philosophise at midnight?” 

Tyler smirks—that stupid, inoubliable smirk that seems to draw you in like a moth to a flame, dangerous and bound to kill you eventually, yet something you find you can’t breathe without. He doesn't answer, and you don’t give him the chance, leaning in the rest of the way until there is no more distance between you. 

His lips taste of copper, the saccharine tang burning your tongue and novating the mint of the gum you had been chewing that is now on the sidewalk six storeys below you. The drop doesn’t seem so sheer now, not when his hands are on you, grabbing and gripping your waist tight enough to bruise, leaving finger marks that will stain your skin, marks with no owner until the next sleepless night where you find a figure hovering on the rooftop of some random apartment building. 

You relish in his attention, because who knows when you’ll endure it again. He’s never home anymore, and when he is, his focus is elsewhere, on the thousands of men going in and out of your front door, on soap and speeches and fight club. 

But for this moment, under the dim, pallid glow of the moon, with the city streaking past in bolts of red and silver, you allow yourself to melt against him, lost to the din of life and the feeling of his hands on you. 

⋆˚࿔ 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The bedroom is lit dimly by a singular bulb as you enter, an open space containing a double bed, a chest of drawers, a chair and a window overlooking the sprawling fields of northern France. Heavy curtains hang on either side, casting looming shadows that slice two clean wounds across the space, shielding half of the bed in darkness. 

Aldo is seated upon the mattress, perched precariously on the edge, legs kicked out in front of him. His boots have been discarded by the door, his jacket draped over the singular chair, leaving him in a shirt that is unbuttoned enough to expose a slither of chest, his dog tags glinting in the pale lighting. 

His hair lies flat against his head, still soaked from the rain, and you try your best not to let your gaze linger on the crimson staining the edge of his temple, no doubt mingling with the water. He glances up at you enter, a wry smile crossing his features; you don’t return it, instead setting the pail on the ground. 

“Does it still hurt?” 

Aldo shrugs once, bringing a hand up to press against the side of his head. He grimaces. “Nah. Only when I stand up.” 

You raise a brow at him, entirely unimpressed. To his credit, his stolidity remains untouched, his expression unchangeable aside from the exhaustion pulling at the edges. 

The medical kit laid out on the bed is filled to the point of overflow, and from the contents, you take a small flashlight. You click it on, and the room is immediately bathed in a gentle reddish glow. You kneel between his knees, cupping his jaw carefully with one hand, afraid of brushing the tender, purpling bruise marring his jaw. 

“Look at me.” You whisper, thumb rubbing absentmindedly against his cheekbone as his gaze meets yours, steely grey eyes turning black beneath the scarlet halo. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing what little colour may remain, and his lashes flutter unevenly as he struggles to focus on your own steady gaze. 

“Can you follow my finger?” 

He grunts out a response as you move your index finger from left to right; his eyes track the movement jaggedly, entirely uncoordinated. He must notice the crease in your brows as you finally click off the light, reliving the pounding deep in his skull and bringing the room back into minimal focus. 

“I’m alright, ain’t I?” He asks, watching as you set the light aside and move to grab some gauze, tensing when he notices you dip it in the still-steaming water by your feet. 

“Concussion.” You state bluntly, squeezing the excess into the pail, the streams creating ripples on the surface, joining the cadence of rain beating on the roof. “You should be fine. It’s mild at best, but I still need to take a look.” 

A low hiss leaves him as you turn his head, exposing the wound hidden beneath rain-slicked hair. The darkened strands are matted with blood, thick and dry, and you have to peel them apart to get a proper look. 

It’s gory—not the worst you’ve ever seen but bloody enough that you grimace sympathetically, a low sound of distaste slipping from your lips. Thankfully, the wound isn’t open as you’d feared and requires no stitches—not that he would have let you stitch him up in the first place.

“You’re lucky.” You remark gently, pressing the damp cloth to the side of his head, evoking a hiss from between clenched teeth. You feel his body tense beneath your touch, and you run your fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to soothe him. 

“Get that a lot, darlin’.” He grunts, a gutteral rumble in his chest. The amusement is strained now, a limina of pain hiding behind the facade he’s carefully curated and seems to be determined to maintain. 

“Clearly not enough to learn.” By now, the gauze is soaked in red, and you discard it to novate it with a fresh piece that will end up the same way within seconds. “You can’t keep doing this, Aldo.” 

The silence that settles throughout the room carries a weight with it that neither of you are prepared to face, the heaviness of your words entirely tacit. Understanding flickers behind his expression, and you watch the way his shoulders slump, tension finally giving way to bone-deep exhaustion. 

“It’s my job.” He huffs a breathy laugh, hand settling heavy on your knee—you notice every tiny mark marring his skin: the scars from fights and shrapnel wounds and the callouses from hard labour. Like this, he looks completely real. Not like the image he puts on, the enigma that Nazi soldiers curate in wary breaths around a campfire. He isn’t some untouchable myth or a bloodthirsty monster who collects scalps as trophies—he’s yours. 

The realisation seems to soften something inside of you. Beneath the grit, he’s just another man, and vulnerability shines clear as day under the red glow of the torch as you check his pupils once more. 

“You gonna chew me out?” He grumbles as you finally sit back on your heels, content with your patchwork. Part of you thinks he looks almost guilty, but you know he’s far too proud to ever feel an ounce of regret for his actions. 

“It wouldn’t go through.” You admit, rising to pack away the equipment back into the tiny little bag. “You got yourself bludgeoned with the butt of a rifle.” 

“Ain’t bludgeonin’ if the man survives, sweetheart.” 

Your actions cease for a moment, your whole body seeming to tense up, like a startled cat whose hackles go up. Your eyes narrow, lips downturned. “That isn’t funny.” 

Aldo’s expression wavers, enough for you to notice the cracks in the surface, and he shifts so that he’s now leaning against the headboard, slumped like a man devoid of energy. “I’m sayin—” 

“Aldo.” The warning cracks through the bedroom like a whip, sharp and loud enough to silence. The rain grows louder outside, thunder crackling enough to make the walls shudder and the old floorboards creak. 

It’s transient, and pretty soon he breaks it, though his voice is uncertain now, lacking it’s boorish undertone that usually carries through any space. “I did what I had to. Shoulda seen the other fella.” 

“I don’t care about the other fella!” 

Finally, his expression completely drops, thawing out into something more neutral—not disappointment, not frustration. Merely shock. His eyes move away from yours, focusing instead on the hazy reflection of the light in the window, suddenly too ashamed to even consider arguing back once more.  

“You can’t keep doing this.” You repeat, with more volition behind the words this time, like perhaps if you speak to him the same way a mother speaks to her disobedient child, the meaning might sink in. "If you do, one day you aren’t going to come home. You’re going to end up dead and tossed in a ditch or in an unmarked grave by Nazis.” 

The silence is oppressive now, the kind that feels suffocating without being remotely physical at all. Aldo exhales slowly with his nose, letting his head tip back against the headboard. Finally, his eyes meet yours, a harrowing exhaustion lingering behind the grey that is finally starting to glimmer beneath the void of his pupils. 

“Ain’t no sense in sugar-coating it, sweetheart.” He grunts, giving a slow, grim nod. “This is my job, whether you like it or not.” 

“I don’t.” You retort sharply, posture rigid, hands firm on your hips. 

“Yeah. I gathered.” He sniffs once before reaching out an arm for you, gesturing languidly. “C’mere.” 

You remain frozen to the spot, stubborn as ever. He gives you a look. “C’mere.” 

And despite your anger, you let yourself fold into his side regardless, revelling in the warmth that radiates from him, soothing the chill that has settled in your bones. 

His head falls heavy against your shoulder, your fingers running through his still damp hair, mindful of the bandage as you scratch lightly at his scalp. Another rumble of thunder shakes the walls, lighting flickering through the windows, illuminating the space and dashing away the shadows before they chase back once more. 

His hand settles against your hip, large in comparison, thumb rubbing gentle, lazy circles against it. “See?” He mumbles. “Still here.”

You hum once, still unconvinced as your eyes slip shut. “For now.”

And while, yes, you have got him sitting beside him, still beyond all belief in one piece, you know that if he keeps on going the way he is, each evening alone will be spent in nerve-wracking anticipation.

Yet you also know that, the second he walks through that door, greeting you with a grin and blood staining his skin, you will care for him every single time. 

⋆ ˚࿔ 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Nobody thinks to look for Greece’s best warrior, for the man people will whisper about and tell great stories about to their children. The one who they will glorify despite all of his flaws, who they say died in victory and in bravery. 

Yet, here he lies, propped up against the stone wall of the temple, forgotten just as the structure is, the cold that radiates off of the concrete seeping into weary bones. Blood soaks him, and for once, the crimson is his own, weeping from his own body rather than that of a Trojan soldier. His eyes remain fixated on you, on a face he’s spent many nights gazing at in silent awe, his affection so selcouth that men began to question whether it was genuine. Your expression is drawn, your skin pallid with fear, and as he blinks heavily, the action taking far more energy than necessary, he feels something akin to guilt. 

“You are crying.” 

His voice lacks conviction, sounding almost hollow in the empty space, lost to the sound of fire crackling in the distance, Troy burning, crumbling, falling. It causes a persistent ache in your chest, as though something inside you has been torn, and the exhaustion written across his features is indelible. 

“My tears are nothing compared to the blood you shed.” 

Crimson glitters beneath bronze armour, making the metal slippery, staining it like a declaration of fate. Two arrows lie discarded at his side, shot by Paris, striking areas that were not fatal upon impact but have the potential to be so. 

“I have had worse.”

Yet his stolidity gives him away, and you struggle to find even a limina of genuineness behind the words. He offers you a smile, though it comes out as more of a tight grimace as he shifts, hand reaching out to seek your face, cupping your cheek with a gentleness that is rare for such a warrior. 

“You were struck by an arrow.” You state brazenly, panic lacing your tone no matter how hard you try to diminish it. “Two at that. You are lucky, Achilles, that the Gods appear on your side.” 

 A faint exhale leaves him, perhaps an attempt at laughter, though it’s weak and lacks true conviction. His hand hesitates at your cheek for a moment longer, thumb wiping away a stray tear that falls, before he withdraws his touch entirely, hand falling to his side. 

“The Gods do not concern themselves with me.” 

“Do not speak so foolishly.” You warn, shifting so that you kneel beside him, hands hovering over the bronze fastening at his shoulder. Blood had begun to dry along the edges, almost black in the firelight, a stark contrast to his sun-kissed skin. “I need to see it.” 

Achilles hesitates, eyes fixed solely on yours, searching for something other than the tristful glassiness that hazes your pupils. “No.” 

“Achilles.” You warn, fingers dancing along the cool metal of the clasp now. Blood stains the pads of your fingers, sticky warmth coating your skin, and you swallow heavily against the rising nausea. “You will bleed through if I do not. Paris may not have killed you with arrows, but the loss of blood surely will.” 

You take his silence for resignation as he drops his guard, shoulders slumping in defeat. His eyes remain on yours as you strip him of his armour piece by piece, setting each piece aside with great care. The fabric comes next, soaked through and stained, peeling away at such an agonising pace it seems to drag on endlessly. 

His skin is marred with jagged wounds, both old and new, some now pale and healed poorly, given little time before being strained once more by the demands of the war. Others are fresh, still dripping blood, with purple mottling the skin surrounding them. 

“Oh.” The word leaves your lips in a mere whisper, spoken with such hollow contempt that Achilles himself looks defeated—that in itself frightens you. How a man so invisible to the whole of Greece, who could withstand any army and fight back with equal amounts of strength, could bleed so easily beneath the press of your palms and could easily fall when such pain is inflicted upon them. 

“You do not always need to look at me like that.” He remains completely stoic, not giving anything away aside from the slight crease in his brow and the way he flinches beneath your touch. 

“I am looking at you as I should.” Your eyes scan the cramped space surrounding you both; there isn’t much left, the roof crumbling and caving in from years of destruction and neglect. There are heavy, silk drapes hanging from an alcove, shielding one room from the other, and you stumble towards it on unsteady legs, tugging at it until the bronze rings gave way and the fabric pooled at your feet. 

Water isn’t hard to find; ceremonial storage is kept in clay jars somewhere by the altar, and soon you find yourself kneeling before him once more, clutching a shredded square of curtain dampened with water. 

“I am sorry.” You mumble, bringing the cloth to the first wound, pressing it against the solid plane of his chest, guilt flooding you at the hiss of pain it evokes. His muscles tense and ripple beneath your touch, and the fabric soon stains crimson, the water doing very little to stop the ebb and flow. 

His eyes remain on your face, a deep cerulean in the dim lighting, akin to the deep green of the ocean at night, the pale light of the moon slicing across waves in golden flecks. Concern lies behind them, hidden barely by a recalcitrant front. 

“For what?” 

You blink back the sting of tears as you toss aside the ruined square, tearing off a new piece. Your hands work deftly in removing the worst of the dirt and blood. “For hurting you.” 

Achilles huffs a gentle laugh, the sound so weak and breathy that it only causes your tears to slip past the dam holding back the river. He catches them easily with his thumb. “You were not the one who shot me.” 

“I still don’t enjoy the aftermath.” 

Silence settles between the two of you after that, suspended in the air, whether caused by your weariness or Achilles' growing efforts at keeping his eyes open. Occasionally, he mumbles something reassuring, something degrading towards his own wounds that you dismiss with a glare. 

You don’t give any verbal response until the flow of blood has slowed and, in some cases, even ceased, his torso wrapped tightly with torn linen found among the temple’s forgotten inventory. 

Your hands fall into your lap, still twisting the cloth nervously, hovering with the craving to attend to something that no longer exists. Achilles watches with mild amusement, his eyes half-lidded now, shielded by dark lashes. 

“You are panicking.” 

You shake your head once, a futile attempt at composure; however, it simply crumbles as the tears spring to your eyes once more, throat lined with knotted thorns. 

“We are trapped here.” The words are barely audible even to you, yet Achilles hears them anyway, straining for each noise that leaves your lips. “You cannot just leave—” 

“Then we stay.” The simplicity of the response leaves you stunned. His arm reaches out, pulling you into his side, and you find yourself melting into him the same way ice melts beside fire. 

“For how long?” Your fingers intertwine with his, the weight of everything finally washing over you; the city outside is mourning the losses of men they never truly knew, smoke rising from the temple. Hector. Agamemnon. Achilles did not care for either of them—a deep-rooted hatred for both that would never be resolved even in their deaths. Patroclus. That loss had not yet sunk in, but when it does, you know the grief will weigh heavy upon his shoulders, that he will lose himself in grief and drown in the guilt of his own survival. 

Achilles does not shift beneath you, lips pressing to your hair. “For as long as it takes.”  

⋆.˚ taglist || @jamesdeanbby ⋆ ˚࿔ 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭