Can you feel it?

we don’t talk about love

Adam knew he should wake him first, but–he reached out and touched the tip of his nose. 

Oliver instinctively - and very weakly - bats at Adam’s hand. He rolls over, towards him, but doesn’t stop until he’s on his stomach. He buries his face in his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut.

Held him down, broke his neck,

Taught him a lesson he wouldn’t forget.

But in my dreams began to creep

 Arthur’s not sure he could stop her if she hit any harder – or that he could escape in one piece. 

   She grabs at his wrists, throwing his arms apart so she can give his chest another hard shove. Somewhere deep down, she knows exactly what she’s doing - who she resembles in this very moment. She truly is her mother’s daughter. That realization is buried deep down inside of her, though, underneath a tidal wave of anger and resentment.

    They sit in awkward silence for a couple minutes until the microwave beeps. Xander turns around to retrieve the steaming mugs of water, very careful in not letting them spill over. After dropping a little satchel in each, he sets one mug on Oliver’s side of the table, one on his. The tea makes the softest fizzing noise as particles dissolve and disperse throughout.

   Xander settles into the chair across from Oliver. Then, he takes a little too eager of a sip, wincing and hissing immediately afterwards as the water scalds the tip of his tongue.

A boy curled up against his parent, ingrained in the first pages of an obscure work. Seems familiar. Arthur smiles silently at the back of Oliver’s head, brushing down wild, stray hairs.

   He can only guess at who it might be – but, being Pierce, a guess is as good as fact.

   But his fear of Pierce isn’t nearly as intense as his need to do well at this job. Sure, his father is the one who got him this job, but it’s a step up from working directly under his father. If he fails at this, what else can he do? He can’t quit, no matter how his boss makes him feel.

   Carefully, Oliver presses the folder into Pierce’s outstretched hand. He takes a step back, looks back towards the door, then at Pierce again.

   It can’t be.

   But for all his bewilderment, Xander laughs, continuing push his thumbs into tender muscle.

   Oliver has some strong words reserved for Xander - but those words would be counterproductive. He’s just taken a huge step in trying to trust Xander within the confines of his luxurious prison. Backsliding would only inhibit progress. Being especially scathing would only make Xander keep him longer.

   Assuming that Xander is actually planning to let him out.

   Oliver inhales deeply, holds it for a moment, then exhales slowly.

   "No need to be hostile. I was only looking out for your well-being--”

   "-- Avi.” A third voice, loud and accented, chimes in. As soon as Kristoff turns to face the source, the intruder continues - in a language that might be beyond the grasp of present company. In all his excitement, Eric hardly notices that Xander is even there.

   "Eric, slow down. What do you mean, missing--?” Kristoff tries to interrupt, in English, throwing a helpless look back at Xander as he slowly backs into the room. His hands are raised, as though he’s surrendering. Eric follows him, opens his mouth as though he’s about to start shouting again. When his eyes lock onto Xander, though, his eyes narrow. He falls silent for a moment, fuming.

   “I do… I do, but–”

    His hold on her tightens a little. He sighs.

   Alice feels a pang of guilt in her chest. This isn’t the first time someone’s said this to her - might not be the last, if Alice can’t stop self-destructing at every possible turn. She shouldn’t have said it. She shouldn’t have even considered it. But, as with all things she’s done, it’s too late to not say it. It’s out there, in the open. For better or for worse, he knows how she feels.

   And, from the sounds of it, there’s at least hope that she hasn’t royally fucked this whole thing up. Considerably less embarrassed, she reluctantly pulls her face away from his shoulder so she can look at him.

   “If y’can’t, then don’t. I-- I don’t wanna make you do anything you don’t wanna do.”

   She offers him a gentle smile. It isn’t forced.

   An exaggeration, perhaps. Percy has the means to keep Kristoff at a distance, even dispose of him permanently. Yet he couldn’t see himself doing such things unless absolutely necessary. Kristoff has not yet proven to be a real danger to them. Percy might be a little too confident in being able to talk Kristoff out of pursuing him – he also hasn’t seen the ring, though. That, if anything, should ward him off.

   For now, though, all Percy wants is to put Oliver’s concerns to rest. Kristoff can wait.

   For now, though, he’ll stay away - go off somewhere to regroup, adjust, plan all over again. If he got Percy in bed with him once, he’s sure he can do it again.

   For the time being, that leaves Oliver and Percy together, in peace. Free of Kristoff until Kristoff decides he’s done waiting. Despite the intensely predatory nature of his father, Oliver feels comforted by Percy’s words. His father may be powerful, but Percy’s reach extends well beyond Kristoff’s. Percy has more connections, more influence. In Oliver’s mind, there’s nothing Percy can’t do.

   He smiles at the thought, wipes the tears from his eyes. He cups Percy’s face in his hands, pulling him in for a deep, slow kiss. After several drawn out seconds, he finally pulls away. With one last caress of his cheek, he stands, offering a hand to him.

“– … ’m sorry.”

Paul’s expression contorts – he fusses over his own arm, rubbing at a bony shoulder. 

   The irritation and exasperation is clear in their response, and any sympathy they still have is kept well inside. Maybe they feel bad for being so easily frightened and impulsive, but that doesn’t mean that they have to let him off easy for trying to rob them. No way.

   Hands on their hips, Chef watches in a way nothing short of hawkish; that irrational part of them still waiting diligently for him to somehow become a threat. Nothing of any real significance, until their eyes lock onto his phone and it only takes a second, maybe even less than that, for their heart rate to kick back into overdrive. That knife is nothing in comparison.

   Chef snatches it from his hands, looking it over once - all they can handle - and shifting it in their hands in such a way that the camera is facing away. Not that it could ever be far enough away from Chef; they already won’t be sleeping for the next several days. 

   With virtually no tact or care, they pry open the back and work the battery out, tossing it to the floor alongside his other belongings. Chef doesn’t know if that’s going to break the damn thing or what, but if it does, they guess that’ll just be a fitting punishment. The phone is pocketed for the time being. Chef won’t risk him still using that camera against them, even if it’s off. He could find a way.

   The one thing he does notice, though, is that he’s on the verge of tears. Quickly, he looks away, focuses his attention on his discarded belongings. Humiliation makes his cheeks burn - he even sheds a tear, which he tries his best to ignore. Maybe if he acts like he doesn’t care, they’ll think he doesn’t care.

   He takes a deep breath, bracing himself in an effort to make his anxiety stop. It doesn’t really work, but he at least somehow finds his voice - quiet though it may be.