Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Since when had it been decreed that smoking was forbidden in bars?

The idea seemed to him as stupid as it was antinomic. One more aberration, signed by bureaucrats snug in their offices.

A beer, you necessarily knocked that back with a cigarette, or two, or more if the company was right. With a good group of smokers, the owner of this crumbling dive could’ve made a killing.

Especially with the obscene margin he pulled from that sock juice he dared call « alcohol ». Booze too lukewarm, too watered down to alter even a little the thick blood flowing through Kenny’s veins, or inspire him with the slightest civility.

And now, forced to drag on his cigarette outside, Kenny was half-shivering, planted in the thick darkness of this indigo-tinged late evening, the wind slyly toying with his nerves and the flame of his lighter.

“What crap…” he growled between clenched teeth, leaning against the time-worn brick wall, those crumbling stones that gave the place the look of a forgotten ruin — and yet, this bar, probably one of the shabbiest in Trost, had had the nerve to throw him out under the pretext of « passive smoking ».

Yeah, couldn’t risk giving lung cancer to drunkards who were already one step from dying of cirrhosis.

“Come on…”

One leg bent, the heel of his fake leather boot wedged between two loose bricks, he held himself in a falsely relaxed pose, cigarette stuck between his two front teeth. His lips, thin and dry, had already moistened it from keeping it hanging there. His left hand formed a pitiful shelter against the wind, while the other kept attacking the lighter’s wheel.

Once more. Then again. Each aborted flame was one more insult. The lighter’s click repeated, his thumb almost burning, stiff from stubbornness.

And around him, the night sang its irony: the shrill cries of nocturnal birds, the misaligned shouts of drunkards, the discreet buzzing of tireless insects.

An ironic symphony, orchestrated just for his misery.

“Fuck off…” he muttered, ready to spit his cigarette onto the ground in a rageful gesture.

But the memory of the ridiculous price of those poisoned sticks stopped him cold. He sighed, long and heavy, then slid his lighter into the inside pocket of his long beige coat. The fabric was stretched, aged, the seams tired from years of loyalty. Despite that, the cut still fell nicely over his broad shoulders, trailing down to his thin calves, like a cape.

Kenny, though, was no king. That coat had probably lived more than him, just like his jeans, once black and tight, now whitened at the knees, worn down to the threads. And to complete his look, his hat — that old fedora he wore to give himself a brash air — was fraying at the edges; a few rebellious threads hung limply from that crooked crown no one would’ve thought to set on a sovereign’s head.

He narrowed his eyes. Two dark slits in a face hollowed by time and sleepless nights. His steel gaze swept the surroundings. In that darkness, he found a form of peace. No garish lights, no forced laughter, no flashy colors.

The black, the shades of grey, the diffuse impression of latent danger… that was his territory. His life before, when he was still that unattached hitman, in service to royalty. He’d seen plenty of court faces. Always the same features smoothed by inbreeding and empty gazes, barely good enough to reflect their own vanity.

A bygone era. He’d packed all that away long ago: the weapons, the thirst for blood, the arrogance. After years spent protecting a royal family not worth half of itself, Kenny had stepped back.

Today, he lived simply, almost poorly, yeah — but that austerity pleased him. At least it had the merit of being honest, and above all, it no longer forced him to wear a mask.

Of course, he was aware that this life — however pleasant and derisory — hung by a thread. Always suspended under the threat of those giants with gaping faces, who prowled slowly around the walls. Creatures devoid of all thought, all consciousness, and yet capable of wiping out humanity with a mere flick of the hand.

It was always the dumbest who ruled. Those whose brain, if it existed, didn’t even deserve the name. The fewer neurons you had, the more your place seemed assured at the top of the food chain. So needless to say, for those enormous lobotomized slabs of meat, supremacy was uncontested.

A cruel joke, a fable that amused no one.

Except Kenny.

Because him, dying tomorrow, head sliced off — he didn’t care. It would just be one more detail in his biography.

Death, he’d brushed it, stepped over it, ignored it so many times that it had ended up becoming an old pal. He’d grown up where the sun never shone, in filth, blood, and indifference.

Adolescence? A chaos of assaults, dislocated bodies, and glances that looked away.

Eventually, Kenny had detached himself from everything. That heart, so complex, beating in other people’s chests… he had never understood how an organ as heterogeneous and ramified as the heart could make decisions so senseless?

It was beyond him. Kenny didn’t believe in the soul, nor in human goodness. He knew men, and all their kinds: the condescending rich, the resigned poor, the fanatics, the religious, the crazies, the castaways of the system.

All of them, without exception, had crossed his path. And all had left him the same disgusting aftertaste. More bitter still than the brown nicotine foam on his cigarette filter crumbling on his tongue.”

Humans were ungrateful beings.

Take that damn bar owner, for instance. What a compassionate man, what a model of empathy, huh? Throwing out an old veteran like him, who’d come to knock back two drinks and ruin his liver while cracking filthy jokes, just because rules are rules.

All those minions lined up, docile, trembling at the thought of disobeying, of risking reprimand. Puppets articulated by fear, directed by a hierarchy more treacherous still than the Titans themselves. Cowards, tamed by even bigger cowards.

“Well, cigarette, go fuck yourself now.”

A dry laugh, hollowed out by habit, made the corners of his wrinkled eyes tremble. He pulled the cigarette from between his lips — now drenched, crushed, chewed, barely worthy of the name — then rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, observing the little withered thing.

Should he throw it away? Slip it into his coat pocket so it could be forgotten there? Or tuck it back into his brand-new pack, among the others, the pretty and intact ones? That would be cruel to them... Or maybe educational.

A bit of diversity never hurt anyone.

And what if this poor battered cig, stuck in the middle of her uniformed sisters, served as a lesson? A little warning, yeah.

Hey, yeah, guys. Better light up at the first spark, or Big Bad Kenny would bite you.

“What an idiot…” he muttered, mocking himself.

Then, without hurrying, he slipped the culprit back into his pack, where it joined its impeccable companions, all lined up at attention, waiting their turn to die between his fingers.

A fine army, loyal and toxic.

Kenny straightened up slowly, the foot that had until then been anchored against the wall finally finding the ground with a sharp snap. A sound of heel, frank and crisp, that echoed against the concrete like a closing bell.

It was time to clear off.

The ethanol hadn’t had time to meet the nicotine in the allotted time. That peculiar mix, the one that had the gift of making him feel like he was striking a deal with some obscure entity, capable of anesthetizing the last shreds of emotion he still carried – assuming he had any left at all.

He shook his head, a brief burst of laughter escaping from his cracked lips.

No way he was going back to that damned bar like a stray mutt, tail down, begging a second drink from a barkeep as soaked as his clients. His dignity was worth more than that blonde crap with the dubious foam.

So he got moving again.

His long legs swallowed the pavement with ease. He wasn’t walking: he was slicing through the air. With his immense build, each step propelled him over a meter without effort. He was well beyond the norm, almost two meters from heel to head — not even counting that stupid hat, which seemed grafted to his skull like a natural outgrowth of his body.

His height was his watchtower. An altitude that allowed him to look down on the world. No need to crush it – just looking down was enough to make things clear.

“Hmmhmm…” he hummed, hands deeply buried in the pockets of his coat, shoulders rocked by the rhythmic motion of his strides.

He left the sidewalk, choosing to walk down the middle of the deserted pedestrian road, where the asphalt still seemed warm from the day.

The wind slipped into his shirt, climbing through the gaps of his badly fastened buttons. A playful, fresh breeze, caressing his protruding collarbones and the dark strands floating around his broad shoulders. His mid-length hair waved softly, whipping his nape to the rhythm of his nonchalant march.

Around him, the scenery slept. Houses succeeded each other in a mix of care and abandonment: some still decorated despite their precarious structures, others reduced to ruin, their gardens overrun with brambles so dry not even a breath of air made them tremble.

And he, in the middle of this nocturnal painting, walked on. Cut out by the sickly light of the moon, his silhouette stretched behind him, projected as an oversized shadow onto the tarmac ahead.

Kenny stared at the mimetic black mass, faithful and zealous, contorting in rhythm with his movements.

A brief laugh escaped him.

Guess that even past fifty years, you can still act the fool with your own shadow.

Distracted by his own clowning, Kenny kept moving forward, with no real destination, just carried by his legs and inertia. He climbed a random hill, the outlines of buildings blurring as he rose, fuzzy and merged, almost liquid in the darkness. Shapes blending into each other, as if the city itself were dissolving under the weight of the night.

It was almost comical, come to think of it. Darkness was nothing but the absorption of all colors. A voracious void, incapable of giving anything back. The big selfish bastard of the spectrum. It devoured every shade, every glimmer, leaving nothing to be seen.

A real thief. Even pigments had their bastard in the story.

He laughed softly as his boots crunched in the gravel of the path.

But in that hostile darkness, at the top of the slope, something finally caught his eye — a golden note in that monochrome score.

An ochre cascade, polished by the moon, undulated to the rhythm of a capricious wind. A long, shiny mane, swung like a pendulum by the light gusts.

And beneath it, seated on a bench, facing the horizon, an immobile silhouette.

A woman, he thought.

Or at least, what Kenny assumed was a fine little blonde, well put together, planted there in a tableau a bit too melodramatic. She had her back to him, obviously. Nothing to confirm his hypothesis. Just that sumptuous hair and the sober elegance of what he guessed was a black blazer. A look too neat, too strict for this forsaken place, and especially, for this late hour of night.

She was at the edge of the world, feet almost dangling into the void, the bench turned towards nothingness.

It was typical. The perfect cliché of the elegant suicidal: a day spent playing the part, smiling for show, wearing that fucking social costume — and then at the end, curtain down.

Was Kenny the type to be moved by that? To care about the state of mind of some lost stranger? Not in the slightest.

Was he equipped to console a stray soul? Even less.

But was he still going to approach, out of simple curiosity, to see her face? And if chemistry — even vaguely sketched — happened, take her home for a night with no tomorrow?

Obviously. Why not? Nothing like a bit of warmth to empty your thoughts into another skin. And in the role of the handsome stranger, Kenny still ticked a few boxes, even if the packaging had taken a hit.

Kenny approached then. The golden strands kept dancing gently in the night, some snagging on the slats of the backrest. As he got closer, he made more noise, deliberately dragging his feet, scraping the earth slightly.

But still nothing. Nothing seemed able to uproot that person from their thoughts.

She was so still that, for a second, Kenny thought his mind was playing tricks on him. A hallucination? Yet, he hadn’t drunk enough to lose his grip on reality.

“Am I seeing things, or is there really someone sitting on that bench?” Kenny called out, ironic.

He’d stopped a few steps from the backrest, frowning, almost annoyed to have to ask the question out loud. But the scent slowly rising to his nostrils swept away his last certainty: a rich, woody fragrance, mingled with amber and a spicy note, brushed his sense of smell with the precision of a caress. A decidedly masculine perfume.

The other didn’t move. Nothing but silence and wind to fill the absence of response.

“Uh…” added Kenny, brow furrowed. He stood just behind the silhouette, almost within reach, close enough to see the back drawn beneath the dark fabric.

And still nothing. No reflex, no flinch. As if the survival instinct had deserted that body. Because usually, when a stranger speaks to you in the middle of the night, on an isolated hill, you at least react, even if just minimally.

He was about to open his mouth to gripe again when, finally, something happened.

A breath. Long and deep, like it was drawn from the depths of the entrails. A breath so heavy Kenny thought he heard the stranger’s lungs fill. At last, the silhouette moved.

Slowly, very slowly, what finally proved to be a man half-turned, a slender arm stretched out gracefully to rest on the back of the bench. He turned his face toward Kenny, revealing his features in a light so soft it became almost unreal.

“Forgive my rudeness. I was... elsewhere.” His voice was soft, composed, carefully articulated. A warm tone, yet distant, like someone used to being listened to. He raised his face to lock his eyes into his.

And Kenny froze.

His irises — two spheres of limpid blue, so pure they seemed washed in the icy waters of the peaks — had just anchored themselves in his. Instantly, he had the strange impression they were going to swallow him whole.

Kenny blinked. Once, twice. Nothing came.

Not even a biting remark, not a scathing quip, not that sarcastic tone that defined him so well. Nothing.

His mouth had opened without a word escaping, suspended in a surprise he didn’t understand himself. It wasn’t embarrassment at having addressed a man instead of a woman.

It was something else entirely—a detonation deep in his chest. His heart, which he thought was fossilized, suddenly started beating too fast and too hard.

Never had he seen a face like that. The eyes, as disturbing as they were, weren’t even the centerpiece.

His nose, straight and sculpted, crossed by two clean lines of cartilage, traced such a precise curve that you’d think an architect had drawn it using complex equations. His jaw, fine and defined, showed the mark of delicate care, framed by a light and meticulously trimmed beard. His lips, pale pink, were full without excess, but shaped so perfectly that Kenny couldn’t help but fixate on the lower one—plumper, with a sensual curve.

And then that skin… An opaline, iridescent complexion, like a veil stretched over a painter’s canvas. Skin that didn’t reflect the light: it emitted it, softly refracted, every centimeter of his face designed to serve as a setting for harmony.

Even his eyebrows — fine, delicately arched — framed his gaze gently, highlighting the unexpected innocence of his features, despite the assurance he radiated.

Kenny felt his throat tighten. He didn’t understand what was happening inside him. He had never been the kind of man to be thrown off by beauty, and even less by that of another man.

And yet... even though he’d spent his whole youth repeating to himself, like some fucking mantra of masculinity, that he « wasn’t a faggot, nor a queer » — all while screwing some guy in a filthy alley, nails dug into the back of another as convinced as him of their so-called heterosexuality — he knew damn well that had never been true.

He’d have preferred it, really. He would’ve loved to still believe in that old excuse: the one where alcohol blurs genders and, in the dark, a hole’s just a hole. Keep fucking dirty men’s asses pretending it was just an unshaven pussy.

But no.

Kenny Ackerman was indeed one of those who couldn’t content himself with a single pleasure. He was just as excited by a pair of firm breasts as by flat pectorals. He no longer tried to lie to himself; he had long since passed that stage.

And despite this diversity of appetites, this doubled statistical openness that should have made him fall in love every other day…

He had never felt what he felt here, now.

What he was experiencing there, in that instant, had nothing to do with simple attraction.

He was liquefied, dissolved by the mere presence of a man who nonetheless seemed carved from pure, crystalline ice.

Get a grip, damn it.

Kenny felt his fists clench in his pockets, so hard he could have torn the lining of his coat. He insulted himself mentally, jaw tight, ashamed of this ridiculous loss of control.

And shit. Where had his good manners gone?

Well, okay. Nonexistent. That was the honest answer, but it wasn't the right excuse. He preferred to believe it was the fault of this supernatural beauty.

With an instinctive gesture, he pulled his hand out of his pocket, slowly raised his arm to his forehead, and removed his hat with a reverent motion. He kept the headpiece in his hand, the hollow of the crown resting against his palm.

The seated man still said nothing, but he was looking at him. He had nothing in common with those hollow-cheeked peasants, nor with the crude villagers. No, this man carried an obvious nobility about him.

An aristocratic strength emanated from him, carved into the curve of his chin, in the posture of his shoulders, in the almost studied fineness with which his fingers held the damp wood of the bench. He was much more than a simple city dweller.

"Not from here?" Kenny threw out, his voice a bit hoarser than expected, seeking indifference in a tone he hoped was detached.

Standing facing him, he towered over him largely in height. One on his feet, boots anchored in the gravel. The other seated, back pressed against the cold wood of the bench. And yet, Kenny had the strange impression of being on his knees.

“Indeed,” the man answered calmly, a discreet smile stretching his lips. “What gave me away?” He narrowed his eyes slightly, his eyelids closing into two falsely suspicious slits. “Have I thus alienated myself so much that it shows?” he added, his words carefully chosen. “Is it then so rare, here, to find a man seated contemplating the landscape? What a strange paradox… a bench with no soul to rest upon it. What’s the point, then?”

The stranger brought a hand to his temple and pushed a blond strand behind his ear, revealing the fine bone structure of his wrist, tendons sliding beneath his pale skin. Beneath the lapel of his blazer, the sleeve of a white shirt, perfectly pressed, extended a few centimeters.

He slowly crossed his legs. One thigh stretched over the other, the dark fabric of his trousers riding slightly up along his ankles, revealing fine socks, and at the end, a pair of anthracite loafers.

“Your accent,” Kenny finally replied, sharper than he had intended. “And then, you just have to look around…” He half-turned, indicating their surroundings with a nod of his chin. “You don’t exactly blend in.”

He rocked gently on his heels, lips pursed, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.

But that was without counting those eyes.

Because in front of him, those two damn aquamarine orbs kept staring at him.

“My accent?” repeated the man, almost surprised, one of his feet swinging gently in the void, in rhythm with his own thoughts. He slowly tilted his head towards the sky. In the movement, the white line of his neck stretched, revealing his Adam’s apple, which throbbed slightly as he swallowed. “Are you referring to the way I speak?” he asked, eyes half-closed. “Or to the manner in which I articulate words?”

Kenny raised an eyebrow. His boots scraped slightly as he straightened, rising onto the balls of his feet for a brief instant before replanting himself firmly on the ground, heels clacking against the gravel. He spun his hat between his fingers, vainly attempting to channel his agitation.

“Both,” he answered simply, shrugging. “And blondes with blue eyes, that’s not really local. Usually, that comes from the center of the walls, where houses have floors and balconies.”

He pressed his lips together, the brim of his hat striking his chest, compressed against his shirt in a defensive posture. The fabric, worn down to the threads, revealed in places the frayed interlining — and Kenny felt it: he looked like the poor man.

And fuck… Since when did he blabber so much nonsense in so little time?

What was next? A little point about the weather? Toss out a remark on the dryness of the season? Ask him if he also thought tomatoes tasted like water this year, or that merchants were screwing people over with their prices? Seriously…

He cast a brief glance at the blond.

No. This guy was clearly not the type to indulge in shallow conversation or to crack up over some bar joke.

Kenny had no grasp of that subtle language, where words were wrapped in velvet.

Then damn, how were you supposed to approach a guy like that? A man so sharply dressed that even his nails seemed sculpted to the millimeter, filed into a perfect curve?

At the same time, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to seduce him.

He wanted… he wanted to keep him in front of him, just a little longer.

Kenny glanced at his hat, resting over his heart. The threadbare fabric already revealed the yellowed interlining.

“That’s quite a superficial analysis…” the blond finally replied, in a distant voice. His lips had barely parted, weighing each of his words. “And yet… You are quite right. I’m not from here. Sometimes, the simplest readings lead to the most concrete truths.”

He breathed deeply, his face turned towards the horizon, abandoning Kenny to his profile. The wind blew through the blond strands, exposing the helix of his ear, which immediately quivered at the cold.

Kenny, taking advantage of the fact that gaze no longer bore down on him, raised his eyebrows in a frank grimace of incomprehension.

But what the hell was this guy? A moralist? An aesthete who spoke in riddles?

“And you?” the stranger suddenly asked, uncrossing his legs slowly.

His shoes slid noiselessly over the gravel, and his feet once again found anchorage in the ground. His arm, until then resting on the backrest of the bench, folded in on itself, letting both hands meet between his now-spread thighs.

“And me?” Kenny repeated, a little caught off guard.

His feet, as if moving of their own accord, had led him without realizing it to the far left of the bench, just close enough to make out the man’s silhouette in detail. The latter, seated dead center, seemed to occupy the entirety of the worn planks. Nothing in his clothing was too showy, and yet, the perfect drape of his jacket, the sharp line of his chest hugging the expensive fabric, magnified everything around him, even that bench with its gaping slats.

“Yes,” the blond insisted softly. “Have you lost your way? This is not exactly a path taken for a night stroll.” His ivory fingers interlaced, the fine phalanges forming a perfect dome in the hollow of his knees.

Kenny sighed faintly, removing his hand from his pocket to run his fingers through his hair. His spread fingers combed through the thick strands, trying to tame them hastily before slicking them back with a broad sweep of his palm.

“I never get lost. It’s people who lose themselves. And me? I find them.” He let his hand drop back to his thigh, then casually pointed his index finger toward the perch where the erudite man with angelic airs sat.

He could have said more, but it was unnecessary. That kind of man didn’t need warning. Besides, the stranger didn’t miss the nuance. An almost indulgent smile slid over his lips. His eyelids closed briefly, drawing delicate folds at the corners of his eyes.

“Well… It seems you’ve found me.” He paused, before continuing: “And to be perfectly honest, I have indeed lost my way. I came here to… learn more about this community. But, let’s say that… several of my certainties turned out to be erroneous projections. And some… have been seriously shaken.”

He briefly lowered his head, then shook it elegantly. His hair immediately came alive, whipping his broad shoulders, each strand drawing an arc in the air.

Kenny felt his gaze linger on that golden mane. He couldn’t help himself. He wanted to know whether that silk was as soft as the idea he had of it. Whether he still had the right, with his brute’s hands, to touch something that pure, without sullying it.

"Where do you come from, if it’s not..." Kenny paused, raising a slight eyebrow. "...too indiscreet?" His body leaned imperceptibly towards the man, without his feet moving.

The blond man didn’t answer right away. His gaze slid towards the horizon, then to his knees, which he slowly rubbed with his open palms.

"From far away. Very far away." he finally murmured, his voice veiled by a note of melancholy, raising his eyes towards Kenny.

And the impact was the same.

Kenny would have liked to see those irises under the sun, in full daylight, to check whether that colour really existed, or if it was just a spell.

"Far away, huh..." He scrutinized him, searching for a crack in his porcelain mask. But the blond wouldn’t say anything more. That kind of man never gave direct answers. "I wasn’t exactly looking for company," he admitted, tilting his chin briefly towards the empty spot on the bench, his hat rolling in the hollow of his hand in a small wrist turn, before being caught with a sharp gesture. "But you interest me. May I?"

The man finally looked at him, a slight movement of his eyebrows briefly disturbing the balance of his face. A vertical wrinkle was born between them — a tiny crack in a marble of seemingly immutable appearance.

"I interest you?" he asked calmly. "May I ask why?"

He straightened slightly, his back leaving the wood of the bench to rise discreetly, his jaws contracting imperceptibly. His eyes, though, remained strangely bright, as if misted by a moist glow, an intensity Kenny recognized all too well.

That kind of men, he had crossed paths with them a thousand times without ever touching them. Noble, refined figures, with chiselled speech and controlled gestures, but whose pupils widened when another man spoke to them with confidence. Many of them pretended indifference, even though everything in their posture betrayed the desire to be looked at.

Too much restraint under too much eccentricity. Those types tasted everything.

Kenny bit the inside of his cheek, just hard enough not to lose himself in the painful aesthetic of that too-perfect face. His stomach tightened, his blood pounded against his temples and through every vein in his arms.

"Do I really need to explain it to you?" he breathed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He let his gaze slide slowly down the man's body, without modesty. From the polished loafers up along his crossed legs, to the curve of his shoulders, and finally, his pale hair swept by the breeze.

The blond’s pupils widened subtly, surprise barely contained, then he slowly slid his forearms onto his thighs, his back curving slightly, abandoning his formal uprightness for a more relaxed posture, his fists meeting between his open legs.

"I wouldn’t say no to a bit of presence," he murmured, his voice still composed, but stripped of its previous lightness. "Being alone facing such emptiness... I feel like I’m being swallowed."

Kenny stayed frozen for a second. Because if he had to stay in the role of the old boor — which he was, objectively, in addition to being a half-repentant lout — he would have raised a triumphant fist toward the sky, maybe even done a little ridiculous jump of excitement, so much did such a response seem unhoped-for to him.

And bam, the old guy's still a heartbreaker.

It wasn't every day that a nymph invited you into its solitude.

But he knew what that kind of enthusiasm provoked: immediate rejection. Instead, he cleared his throat, feigning false hesitation. His eyes slid briefly towards the bench, gauging the empty space.

Could he? Should he? There was room, of course, but sitting side by side, that close, was already crossing a line. The fabric of his coat would surely brush against that of the man’s blazer, and he doubted that his heart, that unruly traitor, could manage to stay discreet. It throbbed against his ribcage with such ardour he almost feared the blond would hear it.

No way he was going to screw this up. He had to go slowly, be a gentleman. And damn, it wasn’t his primary quality, but he definitely couldn’t approach this man with poorly placed winks.

He didn’t even know what he hoped for deep down — a night, a conversation, a simple look to keep for later? No idea. He just didn’t want that strange, supernatural apparition to suddenly bow out and vanish.

"Alright..." Kenny exhaled slowly, sweeping the horizon with a deliberately distracted gaze, as if he’d decided to focus on the local geography rather than on the divine man waiting for him.

He then sat down, brushing back the sides of his coat with the back of his hand so as not to sit on them, his gesture calculated… at least in theory. Because instead of pulling away a good fifty centimetres, as planned, he found himself so close to the blond that a single uncontrolled movement would have sufficed for their knees to brush.

He could have corrected the mistake. Straightened up, moved a few centimetres away, played it cool. But he did nothing. He placed his hat flat on the damp wood, in a small square of still-free space, and adopted the same posture as his interlocutor: legs open, elbows resting on his thighs, hands joined.

Their gazes, now too close to confront each other, both fled towards the distance: the winding valleys, the piled-up trees, the river whose reflections could barely be guessed under the moon.

And above all... the silence. Even the nocturnal beasts seemed to have fallen silent, so as not to break this strange liturgy.

A soundless void so deep that Kenny felt his eardrums buzz.

He didn’t know what to say, nor what to do.

He, the Ackerman of meticulous plans, the alleyway assassin, the guy capable of calculating a blade’s trajectory in total darkness, found himself incapable of articulating a complete sentence. Words dissociated, ideas shattered before even emerging. He couldn’t organize his thoughts.

And if he hadn’t had that tanned skin, he probably would’ve blushed.

"Well, it seems you take an interest in individuals in a… shall we say singular way?" the blond finally said, an audible smile in his voice.

A crystalline laugh followed, spreading through the space around them, ricocheting until it lodged itself in Kenny’s stomach, which contracted painfully under the strange softness of that sound.

Shit. He even felt his fingers tingling.

"Let’s say I’m a bit out of practice for this..." he replied, trying to get by with humour. "At fifty, I’m a little rusty."

He raised both hands in a sign of helplessness, palms open to the sky, his gaze sliding obliquely, hoping to catch a fragment of the other’s face.

"Fifty years?" repeated the blond, surprised. "I wouldn’t have thought our ages were that close."

Kenny let out an offended whistle, placing a dramatic fist on his hip.

"More than fifty. Fifty-two, to be precise. Those two years make all the difference, believe me. That’s when I got all my wrinkles. Everyone gets their turn, my dear." He grimaced in a sulky expression, unable, however, to hold back his amusement.

"Forgive me." The blond brought one hand to his chest, the other raised as if in a sign of truce. "I didn't mean to offend you. I crossed the forty mark way too long ago already... but I keep telling anyone who'll listen that I just reached it."

Kenny slowly nodded his head. It had been a long time since he'd found himself face to face with a young guy — or at least, what his dusty frame of reference still considered as such. By sight, he estimated the forties well underway, maybe forty-five at most.

Impossible to go lower. His face might be smooth and almost youthful, but the subtle lines of his features betrayed a maturity forged by experience. And besides, even if he’d wanted to, asking his age would probably have been out of place. This man seemed to appreciate blur, shadowy zones, and open answers.

Kenny, however, would have given anything to know everything about this individual, just to be able to identify him otherwise than by his too-high cheekbones or his too-light eyes.

"To make amends... I have a little idea. A first name might do the trick."

He turned his head, his neck cracking with the movement. He wanted a real face-to-face, at last. And as if he’d sensed this need, the blond turned as well, and their faces found themselves separated only by the mist escaping from their nostrils in discreet wisps.

At that distance, Kenny saw everything: the tiny pores on the alabaster skin, the slight redness around the nose, the vein-like patterns in his irises, and — fuck — those full lips.

Don’t look at them. Don’t look at them, don’t look at them.

Was he in the same state as him? Was his throat tightening just as much?

"You’re not difficult in business," the blond extended a hand towards him, his long fingers, palm open, the fruity coolness of his breath gliding to Kenny’s nostrils. "Willy," he introduced himself simply. "May I know yours? Or does that not come as part of the deal?" He fluttered his lashes gently, those long blond hairs landing on the violet shadows of his dark circles.

Kenny’s gaze settled on the outstretched hand, sturdy, but with unexpectedly fine fingers, with rounded pads, like cushions.

Willy, Willy, Willy.

Five letters. Three consonants. Two vowels. Two syllables.

A first name as simple as an onomatopoeia, and yet, it was probably the most precious identity he’d ever been entrusted with.

"I never talk business when there’s so much to gain. I talk about luck." Kenny clicked his tongue softly against his palate. His pupils quivered, struggling to stay anchored in the other’s eyes. Too many details to memorize, too much beauty to digest. "There’s no deal to negotiate. I’m Kenny."

After a second of hesitation, he matched action to word. He lowered his hand, enveloped Willy’s, his rough fingers curling around those made of satin. Two universes divided into two distinct textures.

A violent shiver climbed up his arm, tracing a burning groove under his skin up to his shoulder, electrifying his nape in such a clear tremor that he had to squeeze the hand tighter, trying to mask his unease behind a grip he hoped was manly.

Willy answered with an enigmatic smirk, his eyes narrowing into two slits. His head swayed slightly, while his thumb slowly stretched to rest atop Kenny’s.

"You’re trembling," he remarked calmly. His features relaxed, the creases at the corners of his eyes fading in favour of a more readable expression.

Kenny let out a breath through his nostrils, the corner of his lips barely raised. Beneath his bluster, despite his supposedly calculated repartee, despite the controlled posture, his damned body spoke for him, and in a whole different dialect.

"Yeah..." he muttered. "Then again, this kind of luck doesn’t come twice." He punctuated his sentence with a gruff slap to his own thigh with his free hand.

Their gazes met again, and this time, it was Willy who yielded, briefly lowering his eyelids.

Then he slowly looked back up, storm reflections sliding in the blue.

"So... Show me." Willy lifted his chin slightly. "Show me what you’d be ready to do to win. I’m not fond of games. But with you… I’d like to play, Kenny."

Chapter Text

That was clever. Really very clever.

A brilliant demonstration of misplaced pride.

Acting proud up there on that fucking lost bench, throwing around well-crafted sentences and allusions full of innuendo, convinced he still had fine spurs — bravo Kenny, a real barnyard rooster. Now, he had to own it.

Needless to say, he was already bitterly regretting having opened his big mouth.

His body was sending him the right signals though. Clear and merciless signals: that blond man, as dazzling as he was sculpted, was not for him. Far too refined, far too out of category. That kind of man you admire from a distance, and stay in your place.

And yet.

There he was, like a moron, pacing the filthy streets of Trost in the opposite direction, accompanied by his masterpiece of pretension.

All that after playing the grand gentleman with his proposals of « let’s take a walk » and « have you already eaten? » As if Trost was suddenly going to dig up a little romantic bistro with clean tablecloths and matching silverware. Willy was probably used to stemmed glasses and dishes with complicated names. Not to a lukewarm soup you eat by scraping the bottom of the plate with a piece of stale bread as a spoon.

Out of sheer mimicry, he walked at the same pace, unconsciously matching his rhythm to his, their legs unfolding in mirror.

He would have liked to smoke, to keep his fingers busy, but even that, he didn’t dare.

His poor brain cells, not used to being solicited in situations as refined as seduction, were overheating. They were screaming at him to stop, to turn around, not to ruin further what already looked like a miracle.

Wasn’t he supposed to know, with age, that neither his eloquence nor his wallet were suited for a proper date?

And then, how come Willy was following him? In this run-down district, with the look of a deserted fort, without a hint of hesitation or the slightest sign of mistrust. He walked there, at his side, as if this sinister neighborhood held no hostility, as if this cracked asphalt was just a worn-out carpet beneath his soles.

Willy kept his hands buried in the pockets of his suit trousers, his impeccable bearing disrupted by the roughness of the ground. Every hole, every crack in the pavement seemed determined to trip up his stride, and yet, he immediately regained his cadence, as if nothing had happened.

Maybe walking wasn’t even an activity he engaged in. Maybe he was the kind of man to ride well-trained horses, straddling a genuine leather saddle, his thighs encased in cavalry pants, each gallop lifting his pelvis, his hair floating in the wind...

Shit.

That was a bit too erotic an image for his crotch, which was beginning to show an inappropriate enthusiasm for the general atmosphere. Worse still, for an evening that, let’s be honest, was likely to end on a « good night » and a well-delivered courtesy formula.

He should have pulled himself together. But that beauty, just a few centimeters away, made the effort superhuman.

If he slowed down even a little — to redo his shoelace, for instance, a mediocre excuse he had already considered — he could probably admire his butt. Just a quick glance to confirm that what he imagined matched reality: two firm globes, stretched beneath the fabric of his trousers, at the height of his impeccably held silhouette. A ripe, well-drawn ass.

And against all odds — one more mistake added to the tally of his questionable judgments — Willy was tall. A slender verticality that forced Kenny to keep his head straight so as not to have to look up at him. The blond’s head almost reached his shoulder. All it would take was one misjudged step, one turn taken too tight, one tiny deviation… and their lips would touch.

Fuck. Was it a bit of dark humor, served by life on a golden platter, too prettily set not to sink one’s teeth into?

Just so it could slip through his fingers at the last moment, as if to remind him he was no better than those clueless politicians or well-dressed notables who thought they could acquire the finest things with a well-placed, oversized ego.

"Is it normal that I find myself increasingly doubtful about whether you are truly interested in me?" Willy suddenly said, in a falsely innocent tone, breaking that silence so thick it seemed to have split Kenny in two just to settle, nice and warm, in the pit of his gut, with a generous dose of discomfort. "Maybe a misjudgment on your part?" he added, casually.

Kenny slightly lifted his head toward the sky, hoping to find a star there to guide his reply in this empty constellation. It was clear: Willy cultivated silence, and he was its conductor.

"Ehe..." he breathed out in a sigh that had more of social agony than humor. "Don’t be mistaken, I’m really interested. But I don’t exactly feel like it’s mutual," he admitted, with a grimace that couldn’t quite hide his sincerity.

When he finally turned his eyes toward his companion, he realized Willy was already looking at him. His eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, and his smile held something deliciously childlike.

"With the ease with which I have accompanied you, do you still harbor doubts?" Willy murmured, his shoulders slightly hunched, his tone almost mocking. "Are you the sort of man to give up if things aren’t simple enough?"

Kenny stumbled a little, thrown by the comeback, his mouth parting before he smiled, baring all his teeth in a disarmed grin.

"Give up when it’s not simple enough?" he said, playing up the offense, eyebrows furrowed in a mock sulk. "Willy, you insult me. Give me an unsolvable problem, I’ll dive in headfirst."

Willy laughed, this time. A quiet laugh, but honest, buried in the back of his throat. Kenny straightened a bit, buoyed up, like an old mutt getting applauded after a well-executed trick.

"So, where are you taking me?" the blond resumed, with a falsely curious air. "We’re wandering streets and alleys, passing façades and signs, yet find nothing. You know, if you’re seeking a shadowy alleyway with no blind spots to pick my pockets, rest assured, I can defend myself."

He pinched his lips, clearly amused, and Kenny, relieved by the tone, sighed with an exaggerated sigh, looking up at the sky.

"You’re implying I’d have the guts to mug a man who isn’t even from around here? Rest assured, I’m not as broke as I look. And besides, I’m the one inviting, obviously." He picked up his pace with a bit more energy. "I’m just hesitating between two local gems: the seafood restaurant, which guarantees stomach cramps by tomorrow morning… or the local bistro, which serves warm beer with a steak tougher than a paving stone."

Kenny secretly hoped to see again that spark—the one that settled wrinkles into the hollows of Willy’s furrows.

And that was a problem. Because that smile had far too devastating a power over him. The kind of power that would turn him into a happy fool, ready to grimace, prance, contort himself like a jester, just to see that too-straight nose crinkle in complicity again.

"You have a way of speaking…" Willy suddenly said, eyeing him, his irises loaded with contained irony. "Quite your own." He paused before bursting into open laughter. "It’s invigorating. Really. A welcome change from the usual protocol speeches I’m subjected to. Well…" he went on, one hand leaving the pocket of his trousers to falsely pinch his chin in a mock imitation of deep thought. "If I have the privilege of choice, then I choose the seafood. It would be… amusing to see you doubled over like an accordion."

He slipped his hand in front of his mouth, partially hiding his amusement, visibly unaccustomed to letting such irreverence escape. But Kenny missed nothing. Every wrinkle, every shadow at the corner of his lips, every micro expression — he devoured them. His pupils were dry from not blinking.

He wanted to make him laugh again.

"You sure? You don’t know what I’m capable of in the toilet," he said in a falsely threatening tone, shaking his head as if nostalgically revisiting an old trauma. "Once, I had diarrhea so violent I could’ve repainted—"

He cut himself off immediately. Too late.

Willy had just raised an eyebrow, a blond strand brushing the soft line of his jaw before being tucked back elegantly behind his ear.

Round of applause, Kenny. Really. Congratulations, hats off. What better way to sabotage his slim chances of scoring than by bluntly revealing his intestinal exploits?

"Sorry. Sorry, sorry… You were saying… a way of speaking that’s mine? Invigorating, right?" He attempted an awkward smile, his steps slowing as they approached the old restaurant.

Willy, too, slowed down. He lightly bit his lower lip, gaze avoiding. Then, finally, he looked up at Kenny, almost playful.

"Well… aren’t you finishing? What exactly would you have repainted?" he asked, in a provocative tone.

Kenny froze. His weathered face, marked by years, fatigue and cigarettes, was far too expressive to hide his surprise.

"...The toilets." he finally declared, in a strangely serious tone.

Willy watched him, hesitated, pretended to ponder this answer with all due seriousness, nodding slowly…

Then he burst out laughing. Not a dainty chuckle, not a distracted breath — no. A full-bodied laugh that burst from his throat and shook his shoulders. He brought a hand to his chest, breath caught in the sincere burst of hilarity, and his voice rippled between the decrepit façades, a melody that made the hair on the back of Kenny’s neck stand up.

"Well..." Willy breathed, brushing away an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye, wrapping up the moment. "I believe I shall ultimately opt for the second option. I would prefer to avoid ending the evening in a… compromising state. Especially in front of you." His fingers drifted to his opposite wrist, which he lightly brushed between thumb and index finger.

"In front of me?" Kenny leaned back against the low wall behind him, striking a posture he hoped was casual. One hand freed itself to grab his hat, still wedged under his arm, spinning it absentmindedly between his fingers.

"In front of you, yes." Willy confirmed, pivoting on his heels. He now faced him, closer than he had been since the beginning of their shared wandering. A nearly adolescent shyness colored his features, tempered by the natural majesty of his carriage.

Kenny felt a creeping warmth climb up his chest to his throat, a simple and naive joy swelling in his chest.

He wasn’t dreaming… right? Willy was coming on to him. In his own way, of course: flustered noble edition, full of polite hints and half-stifled sighs.

Or… or maybe he was just imagining it. Maybe he was misinterpreting, his fevered brain turning civilities into signs. Better to be clear, right? To make sure they were on the same wavelength.

“Listen, Willy…” he began, his voice a little hoarse. “Don’t misunderstand me. You are… a man of very good company.” He raised a hand in a gesture of respect, framing his intentions. “Stop me if I go too far, I still don’t know exactly who I’m speaking to, and what I’m about to say might seem… inappropriate.”

He breathed deeply, trying to gather a shard of courage from the night’s dampness.

“But you understood, didn’t you? That my interest in you… went beyond mere sympathy, hmm.” He tried to recover the same subtle language Willy used, but his eyes betrayed any attempt at poise.

Fortunately, the answer came swiftly.

“Have no fear. You could not have been more explicit, during our exchanges on the bench.” Willy gently bit the inside of his cheek, a small dimple forming in his fine jaw.

“Ah…” Kenny sighed, a little sheepish. He pulled his hat down over his skull, jamming it as though to contain his embarrassment. “I see. It’s funny, I was sure I’d kept control, up there. Apparently, you knocked me off balance.” He emitted a small nasal sound between his teeth, mocking himself.

Willy slowly lowered his hands, bringing them together in front of his lower belly, his head tilting slightly to one side. His blond hair fell in amber fabric over his shoulder, softening his profile further.

“I’m not used to letting myself… stray,” he admitted, his translucent eyes flickering beneath fine lashes. “Never, in truth. It’s new for me to follow a stranger. To not know where I am, with whom, without even trying to know. And it makes no rational sense. But it feels good. I think… I needed it.”

Kenny nodded mechanically, his gaze still foggy. It took him a few seconds to absorb what he’d actually heard. Never, in his miserable career as a bar-hopper and late‑night smoker, had such a chance presented itself.

It was like winning a lottery without having placed a bet. And yet, here he stood, holding the grand prize.

One evening. One conversation. Maybe a brush. Maybe a night. Or… more?

No. He mustn’t get carried away. All of this was too precious to squander on daydreams. Every minute with Willy felt more valuable than all his past relationships combined.

Damn, why was he even thinking the word « relationship »? He shouldn’t. He knew how much those things didn’t suit him—and especially not with a guy like this.

Willy seemed… fallen from heaven. A celestial apparition, maybe checking out how things worked on Earth before heading back to the skies—on a cushioned cloud, feet resting on divine fabric, holding a glass of water drawn from a mystical fountain.

Kenny pressed his lips. He was rambling again. He would’ve liked to slap himself right there, if he hadn’t been trying to act like a minimally dignified man.

“Then… shall we do something new together tonight?” he ventured, lifting his chin slightly, just to maintain the illusion he still had some hold in this game. This game that looked suspiciously like a game of rapprochement, but in which Kenny felt like he was the only one taking Cupid’s arrows

Cupid? He was becoming ridiculous. He wasn’t fifteen anymore, damn it. And he remembered his adolescence very well: not romantic thrills, but kicks to the balls and schemes to survive the street.

“I too, I’m not used to wandering these streets… let alone with a man such as you.” Kenny added, his tone lower, punctuating the sentence with a creak of his boot on the ground.

“A man such as I?” Willy reacted, arms folded before him, only his forearms forming a sash. “Am I too touchy, or should I understand that this isn’t a disguised compliment?”

“Do you want compliments?” Kenny retorted, even before thinking. “When I say ‘a man such as you’, I mean a man as handsome as he is charming.”

He wished he could catch those words, grab them midair and bury them in concrete.

Too spontaneous. Too thoughtless. If his skull had been transparent, you could’ve seen all his nerve cells turning on him, punching his neurons for daring to speak something so impulsive.

In front of him, Willy froze for a moment. His cheeks warmed to a gradient of pink and crimson licking the tops of his cheekbones, made sharper by the milky pallor of his skin in the moonlight. He parted his lips, his arms hugging himself tighter.

Kenny lowered the brim of his hat further onto his forehead, partially hiding his face. Nothing better than hiding like a kid to pass off romantic impulse as a miscalculation.

“You… are rather direct.” murmured Willy, a hint of reproach in his voice. From the corner of his eye, Kenny saw him bring a hand to his throat, loosening imperceptibly the collar of his otherwise loose shirt. “It does not displease me, rest assured. Forgive me… I’m simply not used to such flattery.” he confessed, his fingers brushing the hollow of his throat. “They compliment my ideas, my speeches, rarely what little flesh and bone remains.” He moistened his lips, his moving blue eyes suddenly searching for something in the void.

“It doesn’t displease you?” Kenny slowly tilted his hat back atop his head, then straightened, shoulders square, chest forward. “Nor the fact that I’m a man?”

Willy rolled his eyes skyward, a slow and pronounced rotation, touched with a theatrically exasperated air, an expression staging all his weariness.

Kenny felt his chest tighten with tenderness. He stepped closer, softly, without rushing, each gained centimeter in front of this man needing to be earned.

“Well then…” he murmured, feigning contrition, without an ounce of real vexation. “What exactly could I have done to deserve such disdain?”

Willy released his grip on his shirt collar, fingers wandering to tap gently the inside of his folded forearm.

“Your questions are rhetorical, Kenny.” he declared, his tone mock‑serious. “You’d be naive to embark on such a parade without having formed, beforehand, a few hypotheses.” His deliberately exaggerated sigh made the blonde strands that had escaped behind his ear tremble for a moment. His eyes, meanwhile, narrowed slightly. “Know that I accept being courted. But do so properly.”

And without waiting for a reply, he continued in a lighter tone:

“Take me to eat that steak. I may no longer be at the age to be gullible… but my teeth are still strong enough to chew on a shoe sole, if it's well-cooked.”

His mouth, too beautiful to truly sulk, tried to form a displeased pout. But his full, well-shaped lips betrayed a hint of an involuntary curve, and the folds at the corners of his cheeks carved out laughing lines.

Kenny raised his eyebrows, almost surprised to see that facet of Willy emerge. A temperament far more steeled than he'd imagined. Polished, of course—shaped by years of good manners—but behind the porcelain hid a sharp mind and a confidence that sometimes bordered on impertinence.

It was exactly the kind of character Kenny, normally, would’ve wanted to squash with the back of his hand. But here… there was a vibration in his belly, a form of excitement at finally having someone opposite who knew exactly how to talk to him.

And now, intentions had been modeled. Spoken aloud, wrapped in words that could no longer be withdrawn.

Clearly, Kenny wasn’t learning from his lessons, even the most recent ones. As if the prospect of failure was never enough to shut his bloody mouth. He’d built a stage, and now he had to play his scene with the expected talent of a lead actor—except he had no script.

Courted… Courted, truly? That’s a word too elegant, too artfully chosen for him. A word another would’ve replaced with a casual « hit‑on ». But Willy wasn’t just anyone.

“Perfect… perfect, perfect,” he enunciated, vaguely pointing with his arm at a building on the horizon. “The other restaurant is a stone’s throw away. Allow me the honour of making up for it.” He bowed a little too deeply, like a zealous butler. Then, with a tilt of his chin, he indicated the direction to follow. “This way, please.”

The deliberately affected tone, the perfectly straight posture — everything was overacted… yet Willy seemed to like it. The blond uncrossed his arms, his hands sliding with natural grace down to his hips. His blazer parted, revealing a slim waist and the curve of his flat abdomen.

Kenny tried not to linger on the line of his flanks, nor the elegant creasing of his shirt hugging the contours of his torso. He turned on his heel, just to check Willy was following.

This time, they no longer walked side by side like twin echoes, but each in his own rhythm.

“Do you smoke?” His lungs had been shouting for too long that it was time to reunite with their poison.

Willy turned his head slightly toward him, curious.

“What kind of cigarette do you have?” The bones of his hips subtly guided the movement of his pelvis, slightly wrinkling his trousers with every step.

Kenny let out a fond chuckle at the blond’s guilelessness. He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out his battered pack.

“You know, it’s already a small victory to get hold of a pack, so we don’t get picky. Let’s say I have the best… Some little favors done for a few well-off types got me my contacts.”

He opened the pack, revealing a few neatly lined sticks, except one—the one he’d been chewing earlier, all soft and still punished, stuck crookedly among the others. He took it out, keeping it in his hand.

“Do you have… real tobacco?” Willy wondered, eyebrows faintly furrowed. “In this neighbourhood? I mean… does that kind of plant still grow around here?”

“Wow… You weren’t joking when you said you came from far away.” Kenny pinched the soaked cigarette between two fingers, keeping it for himself, then tilted his wrist to offer the pack to Willy. “Help yourself. Unless it bothers you that I smoke. I can very well wait, if that’s the case.”

Willy hesitated, his slender fingers reaching for the pack, without yet taking it.

"I am not particularly fond of strong tobacco." he murmured as he slid a finger along the middle cigarette. “I’d be afraid of wasting a piece of your treasure if I didn’t appreciate it.”

The older man gently shook the pack, while the crystalline eyes rose to meet him.

“You won’t know without trying, eh? Don’t worry, it won’t be wasted.”

At the same moment, they reached the restaurant’s sign, an old stone building nestled between two rundown structures. A wooden storefront bore a weathered signboard, the faded golden letters of the establishment’s name still faintly visible. A gas lamp flickered above the door, casting yellow shadows onto the cobblestones.

Kenny pulled his lighter out of his pocket, while Willy, finally, took the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, examining it for a moment.

Now, you little bastard, if the idea of ending up shattered on the pavement doesn’t appeal to you, I suggest you cooperate. Otherwise, I smoke with flints. Got it? He addressed this mute threat to his lighter, tightly clenched between his fingers, his unreliable accomplice for the evening.

By some miracle, or perhaps sensitive to the stakes of the moment, a flame leapt above the metal nozzle at the very first dry flick of his thumb against the wheel.

Willy then brought the cigarette to his mouth, gently wedging it between his full lips, the white stick marrying their curves, while he brought a hand back into his hair to restyle it with his free fingers.

Kenny held his breath as he brought the lighter closer—his hand battling the urge to tremble, fingers stretched so that the flame wouldn’t flicker too close. Then, he slowly tilted the lighter, brushing the tip of the cigarette with fire. An orange spot was born in the hollow of the paper, intensifying under Willy’s first drag.

He allowed himself to look, just for a moment.

His lips, the soft curve of the philtrum. The outline seemed perfect, a design refined by a painter who would have wanted to create a torture object for poor and miserable souls as receptive as Kenny.

His gaze finally met Willy’s, who, likewise, had never stopped watching him. Neither of them broke that intimacy.

It was far too suggestive for a simple cigarette.

Finally, Willy closed his lips around the filter, while his fingers formed a diamond around the stick, slowly pulling it from his mouth. He took a first puff, furrowed his brow slightly, let the smoke circulate in his mouth, before exhaling it downward with an indecisive pout.

"I wouldn’t say I enjoy it…" he murmured, before bringing the cigarette back to his lips for a second try. He tasted it again, then gently shook his head. "No… It’s too strong for me. I’m sorry, I won’t manage to finish it."

He removed the cigarette from his lips, two slender fingers pinching it between thumb and forefinger. The slightly bitten tip still glistened from the moisture of his mouth.

"Take it. So as not to waste it."

His doe eyes widened slightly, with a candid look. He had whispered the phrase, rolled it on his tongue, giving this offering all the symbolism of a kiss.

Kenny lowered his eyelids for a moment, just long enough to draw a breath and calm the agitation in the pit of his lower belly. He reopened his eyes and carefully retrieved the cigarette, his fingers brushing Willy’s as it was already withdrawn.

The blond then clasped both hands behind his back, as if to emphasize the false innocence of his gesture. He said nothing, but his light smile, barely sketched, said everything.

Kenny put his pack away with a laconic gesture, the lighter and the withered cigarette, once again abandoned for the evening, returning to the bottom of his pocket.

He brought the consumed cylinder to his lips, gently pressing the filter against the exact spot that Willy’s mouth had touched, savoring the first burn of nicotine as it entered his lungs.

It had been a long time since he’d relished that sensation so much, or else it was the man beside him who magnified the pleasure. Perhaps this simple stick of tobacco had inherited a new aroma, now that it carried the trace of such a divine mouth.

The taste struck him as richer and denser than usual. He rolled the cigarette to the corner of his lips, shifting it with a habitual movement, before exhaling the smoke slowly to the side.

Opposite, Willy crossed his legs at the ankles, one foot resting negligently over the other, his gaze fixed on the older man's slightest movements.

Kenny, of course, was laying it on thick, true to his undeniable talent for embodying the perfect has-been.

He slowly closed his eyes, held the cigarette between two fingers in a practiced pose, pulled it away with a discreet rictus, teeth slightly clenched, then blew out the smoke precisely, directing it away from Willy so as not to profane his ivory skin.

He nodded with the gravity of a sommelier tasting a vintage wine, squinting as if discovering for the first time the subtleties of an aroma he had yet revisited a hundred times — and a hundred was a modest estimate for the amount of nicotine consumed over more than fifty years of existence.

Then he tapped the cigarette with the tip of his ring finger, in a vaguely sensual gesture.

And then… betrayal. The cigarette, clearly too shy for such an emotionally charged moment, simply decided to escape. It slipped from his grasp, bounced off his palm, and fell limply to the ground—a quiet suicide, but one terribly effective in its intent.

“Oh…” Willy uttered, stepping back half a step, careful that his luxurious loafers didn’t brush the still-smoking wreck, his shoulders twitching slightly, amused by the clumsiness of his makeshift partner.

“Tchhh…” Kenny wrinkled his long, hooked nose, eyes glued to the traitor on the ground.

It seemed to be gloating, thrilled to crown his humiliation with that final pirouette.

Without even lowering his gaze, he crushed it furiously under his sole, scraping the tobacco’s seed down until nothing remained but a black stain.

A well-deserved execution for that whore.

"Next time," began Willy, still laughing but measured, "I would advise you instead to hold it in the hollow of your phalanges." He extended a hand toward him, fingers spread, the other seriously indicating the strategic area of his grip. "You’ll gain in stability."

But no sooner had the jab been delivered than his gaze slipped toward the sidewalk, a hint of embarrassment filtering through his smile.

Kenny, for his part, brought a hand to his chest, the look of a man deeply wounded in his honour.

"I was just trying to play the dandy," he defended himself, while absentmindedly rubbing his palm against his coat. "I hope at least that it pleased you. Look what I had to sacrifice…"

He pointed at the cigarette butt cadaver, his sole still placed on it, exhibiting his crime.

Willy gently shook his head, unable to hide the arc that curled his lips, his throat vibrating with a cheerful breath.

"Truly," he said, regaining his composure, "the effect was achieved. I'm still quite shaken. But please, let’s not go so far as to sacrifice another of your precious cigarettes. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for such a disaster."

"Well... I thought you’d faint, hand to your forehead, struck down by such a display of class and manliness."

Kenny deliberately left the sentence hanging, dripping with derision, though his eyes remained locked onto Willy’s, endlessly drawn in by his beauty.

He still couldn’t believe that a man like that would agree to walk by his side.

"But well..." he went on, pointing an accusing finger at his own chest, in perfectly assumed self-mockery. "I’ll settle for your irony. I’m a patient man. I’ll have other chances to make an impression."

He punctuated his sentence with a small movement of the head, selling his antics, lucid about their more than doubtful comedic potential, while opposite him, Willy seemed absorbed by something. His gaze fluttered around them, attentive, almost on the hunt, his eyebrows slightly furrowed in a mimicry that betrayed the natural sharpness of his mind.

"As it happens, I am the sole witness..." he pointed out, his tone suddenly more playful. "So… let the majority raise their hands. Let us vote to decide who, in this dark and empty street, was impressed?"

Willy pretended to search for an invisible audience, leaning left and right as if to gauge the approval of his imaginary crowd, before slowly raising one hand, his slender fingers stretching up near his face in a feigned hesitation.

"Present," he whispered, with an air of resignation, but the dimple in his cheek betrayed him.

Kenny burst into hearty laughter, a bit too loud, perhaps, but genuine. He couldn’t tell whether he was laughing at the joke or at the strange joy he felt in this sudden complicity.

"You’re the only witness that matters to me!" he declared with emphasis, carried away by the spontaneity of the moment.

Willy nodded, his long, sleek hair shifting softly with him. The strands, which had been neatly aligned down his shoulder blades, came loose, falling over his shoulders and cascading onto his chest, drawing golden arabesques across the dark fabric of his blazer.

Kenny couldn’t tell if it was that halo of hair that had first bewitched him, or the way Willy managed to own it. That rich volume, that dense yet fluid texture, which seemed made to resist the roughness of a too-brutal hand, or to slip between gentler fingers.

He wondered whether Willy ever let anyone touch it.

That face, both masculine and graceful, took on the delicacy of a doll. Every curve of his cheekbones, every subtle line around his lips, reinforced that balance between virility, softness, power, and control.

"Not to sound impolite…" Willy began, his tone condescending. "But the fact that we’ve been strolling alone for several streets now strikes me as a rather clear indication of the late hour." His arm lifted slowly, index finger extending to point at the dimly lit restaurant window, behind which a warm orange light still lingered. "It is possible we’re arriving at the very end of service," he added, his gaze sharp, not even pretending to hide the mischief in his smile. "I am not, of course, the host of this evening… but I still take the liberty of pointing it out."

This time, there was no trace of restraint, no veil of politeness: Willy was fully relishing the pleasure of teasing.

Kenny hesitated—not to go in, but to break the moment. Everything felt too precious to be given over to the banality of a dining room.

He wished he could freeze the scene. Grasp it with both hands, press it against him to feel all its warmth, to lose none of it—or better still, he would have grabbed Willy himself, with all the gentleness his rough palms could muster.

Willy, or simply the evening. He’d take what was left. Even the crumbs.

He wasn’t difficult, old Kenny.

"People don’t hang around at night here," he finally said, in a tone a bit too serious for the joke that followed. "I told them all to go home. I wanted the sidewalk all to ourselves."

He puffed out his chest and took on a grandiose air that clashed completely with his weathered skin from years spent outdoors, and that beard that had long since passed the point of charming neglect.

"Kenny, Kenny… do stop," Willy laughed heartily this time, a more gravelly burst, a crack in the voice he had thus far kept perfectly poised. "You really should let these good people enjoy the show. It’s not every day you see two men, who seem to have nothing in common, about to have a one-on-one dinner. I dare hope, by the way… that we will indeed have a table for two."