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It's dark.
The room inky black as he silently shuts the door behind him.
But it's always in the dark where he does his best work.
He moves quickly and quietly beside his next target, just out of sight. He’s a stout man with too much money, and not enough compassion. A man that owes his luxury to those toiling below him. That sits in his expansive penthouse apartment, atop one of Bangkok's most opulent high rises, as he sips expensive wine from a glass that may cost more than what he’ll be paid for this job.
The man is sprawled out on his bed in nothing but a robe, awaiting what he thinks is the perfect nightcap after a night of gambling with the lives of others. Because that is the type of man that lies before him.
A man that smiles at the suffering of others.
A man that buys his affections, that fulfills his desires by throwing down an extra 70,000 baht for the pleasure of taking someone's first time.
A bad man.
A man that no one will miss.
A man that someone important wants dead.
A man that is at the top of Fadel's list.
A man whose breath quickens in arousal as he realizes someone else is here.
A man who will breathe no more once Fadel pulls the trigger.
Bang.
Blood splatters across the cream bedspread, coloring the already darkness a crimson red.
His head hangs backwards just over the edge of the bed. This is surely turning into a mess, but one that will be easily cleaned up. Blankets are easier to get rid of. You don't have to scrub them like you would the carpet or walls.
He tucks his gun back into the back of his black jeans and sets about to take care of the evidence…
But something feels off. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as the person lying limply off the bed morphs, face slowly changing as the fuller, hairless cheeks melt away into sharp angles and well maintained scruff. He watches in horror as those round eyes shift into the same almond ones that stare back at him in the mirror.
“Pa?” he chokes out, stumbling backwards, trying to get away from those lifeless and fixated hollowed holes…
No. This isn’t…this isn’t right.
He didn’t…
He wasn’t the one that pulled that trigger…
He was a child…
It wasn’t his fault….
His eyes flicker around the room as the penthouse shimmers out of focus and instead, he’s standing on white carpet as red slowly inches closer and closer to his shoe.
“Pa..” He says again, gaze drifting to the unmoving man, life leaking from his body, eyes unseeing as they stare up at him.
He doesn’t want to do it but he knows he’s not the only one here, so he allows himself to look for her.
“Mae…” he whispers when he sees her crawling forward, fingers digging into the carpet, leaving crimson fingerprints in their wake. And this isn’t exactly how it happened. He knows that, but he can’t seem to shake the panic that’s taking root in his chest as he watches the past unfold around him. He knows he was lying down then, his body smaller, hidden beneath the pool table where his father had showed him a trick shot just a few hours before this. Where his mother had shoved him just a few moments before their lives were snuffed out and his changed forever.
She drags herself closer now, her rose pink lipstick stained vermillion as she tries to speak. Those lips form his name as he drops to his knees before her. “Mae..Mae…I’m sorry. Please.” He cries as he reaches for her hand, the one outstretched and beckoning…
But suddenly strong arms grab him from behind and he immediately struggles.
“Let go! Get off me! Mae!” He fights against his attacker as they pull him from his parents' side. He hits and kicks and screams at them to stop. To leave him alone. To let him go back. He needs to go back. His Pa is gone but his Mae…she’s still alive…she was still alive!
No!
A hand holds onto him, grips him tightly and an angry voice and sinister face tells him to shut up. To stop struggling. To behave or they’ll have to hurt him too. But he doesn’t care. He knows he’s not a child anymore. He can fight them off now. So he does. He grabs the knife from his boot and flips the man on top of him over, trying desperately to slit his throat as he fights Fadel off.
But he can’t let this man win.
Not again.
Never again…
“Fadel!” The man yells at him.
And he pauses, because how do they know his name?
Did they know it in the past? He can’t remember…
“Fadel.”
Wait…that voice…
“Stop.”
It doesn't match this face.
“Please.”
It's….
“Fadel, stop. It’s me.”
All at once his senses come alive. It’s still dark, but it’s the darkness of reality, not the red tinged shadows of the nightmare he’d been trapped in. He can hear someone pleading with him, can feel a hand holding tightly to his wrist, fingernails cutting into his skin. His eyes focus and he realizes that he’s straddling someone…no, not someone.
It’s Style.
He has Style pinned to the bed and oh fuck…his knife is pressing against his throat and the only thing keeping it from drawing blood is Style’s own strength keeping Fadel at bay.
“Shit.” he mutters, breath catching in his throat as he tries to will his limbs to move.
“There you are,” Style says, voice soft as he stares up at him, eyes going from frightened to relieved. “Welcome back.”
But…How can he be relieved? Fadel had almost..
He lets the knife go like it’s burned him and then he’s up and off the bed in two seconds flat.
“I’m sorry. Style, I’m so sorry.” he says, breath coming out in quick gasps. How could he do that? How could he pull his knife on Style? If he hadn’t woken up he could have….Fuck. He almost…
“It’s ok, Fadel.” Style is saying, now kneeling at the edge of the bed and reaching towards him. “I’m ok. You didn’t hurt me.”
“But…” He can’t breathe…He can’t…breathe…His chest….it hurts…”I could have killed you.” He chokes out, hands coming up to pull at his hair. He can’t do this. He can’t. Not again. He claws at his face, ignoring the tears he feels there. He can’t lose someone again. He can’t watch someone he cares about die at his feet…he can’t be the one responsible…he can’t…
“You didn’t.” Style insists, sliding off the bed and coming closer. “Come on, Fadel.” Long fingers wrap around his own and bring his hands away from his face. “Please. Don’t do this. Breathe for me, ok?”
Oh.
That’s right.
He’s not….fucking…breathing….
He needs to…
He does, he sucks in a lungful of air and pushes it back out. Fuck…he does it again and finally, finally breathes and breathes…and then all the feelings hit him square in the chest. The fear, the pain, the panic, the fucking guilt, he lets them all pass through him, feeling every one as he lets the tears flow, crying freely as Style pull him into his warm embrace.
“That’s it,” He coo’s, hands running up and down the expanse of his bare back as he maneuvers them towards the bed, where he sits and has Fadel kneel between his legs, face pressing against Style's chest. “That’s it. Good. Breathe for me.”
Fadel obeys, forcing himself to breathe in and out. In and out in time with the steady beat of Styles' heart beneath his ear. He can do this. He can. His fingers find purchase in the fabric of Style's tank top as he wraps his arms around his boyfriend's waist.
Style hums his satisfaction and moves one hand to comb through Fadel’s hair, bringing him closer and closer to the surface.
When he finally breaks, breath coming easy and tears slowing, he squeezes Style tightly, burrowing his face into his lap, trying to drive away the visages of the nightmare. “Style.” He groans pathetically against the man's thigh. “How long?”
His hand stills in his hair. “What do you mean?”
“How long were you fighting me off?” He asks the striped cloth beneath his lips.
Style inhales and exhales, then continues to pet Fadel like he would a cat in his lap. “Does it matter?”
Yes, of course, “It matters.”
“I was fine.”
Fadel pushes himself away from Style’s warmth to stare up at him, eyes hard as he growls out, “How. Long?” He needs to know. Needs to know how long he had his boyfriend frightened beneath him.
Style looks annoyed by the distance he’s put between them. “I don’t know. Five minutes maybe? I heard you crying in your sleep. You were calling out for your mom, so I tried to wake you up. That…ummm. Didn’t end well, obviously,” He says, gesturing to the knife on the floor, “but I knew you were having a nightmare, so I don’t hold it against you at all.”
“I pulled a fucking knife on you, Style.”
“Ok, and?”
And he knows Style likes danger, that he loves to touch the edge of it. He knows he likes the rush he gets when the adrenaline kicks in and loves the way it has his cock harder than anything else Fadel does to him, but this is different. This isn’t the same as the times he has shoved him down and dragged his small paring knife gently along his torso, pressing just enough for him to feel the peril but not enough to break skin. It’s different because Fadel was in control of himself then and could watch Style’s face for cues and listen for his safe word.
This was not the same. This time Fadel was asleep, lost in memories and pain and therefore not in control of himself. He could have killed him. He could have…
No. He can’t go there again.
“I could have really hurt you.” He finally says, trying to hide the very real fear that he's feeling from his voice. "It was dangerous. I wasn't myself..."
“I know.” He admits and moves to grab one of Fadel’s hands. Fadel lets him. “But you didn’t. I stopped you.”
He swallows hard. “What if you can’t stop me next time?”
“Well, we can start by leaving the knife in the drawer,” He smirks, like he just said something funny. “That would probably help, don't you think?”
But this isn’t funny. None of this is funny. He pulled his knife on his boyfriend. And he can’t believe he’s taking it so fucking well. If someone had pulled a knife on Fadel, he would not be sitting here comforting them and making jokes. “What is wrong with you?” The question slips out before he can stop it.
But if Style is offended, he doesn’t show it. “According to my Pa, a lot, so you’ll have to be more specific.”
“Aren’t you scared? Aren’t you afraid of me? Aren't you going to ask me why I even sleep with a knife under my pillow?”
Style brings Fadel’s hand up to his lips and gently kisses his knuckles before replying, “We all have things we don’t like to talk about.”
And that…
He moves the hand in Style’s grasp to settle on his jaw. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I reacted that way?”
Isn’t he curious? Doesn’t he want to know why Fadel’s reactions are always so violent?
Style stares at him, eyes boring into his own as if he could pull out all of Fadel’s secrets with just one look. And maybe he can. Maybe he’s already halfway there. “I think I already know.” He finally says, leaning into Fadel’s touch. “You were dreaming about your parent’s murder, weren’t you?”
Fadel sucks in a breath.
Blood. Pain. Fear. Hands holding. Hurting. Taking. Ripping him from everything he’d ever known.
“Yes.” He whispers.
Style’s hand comes to rest on the outside of Fadel’s, where it is still caressing his jaw and cheek. “Whatever happened to them that night, I know it hurt you, that it still hurts you. And whatever happened afterwards did too.”
Fadel lets his eyes roam over Style’s face, trying to see any small indication that he’s going to push for more, but when he doesn’t speak again, Fadel quietly asks, “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”
“No,” he insists, and when he smiles, it’s sad. “It’s not that I don’t want to know, because I do, but I won’t pressure you to tell me. You can tell me when you’re ready. And if you never are…” He shrugs. “That's ok too.”
The absolute affection that swells up within his chest at his words startles Fadel. He’s never talked about his parent’s murder or what happened afterwards. He’s never wanted to. The closest he’s come to saying it out loud is when he shared a few details with Bison who had faced a similar trauma. His brother hadn’t seen it happen, only came upon his parents afterwards, but there was a similar painful understanding.
But to share something so personal, so deep and intimate with another person, an outsider?
Fadel has never wanted to do that before.
But he thinks… if it’s Style…
Then maybe…
It’s like he wants to. His heart wants to allow the words to fall off his tongue, wants to spill his secrets into his boyfriend’s waiting lap, but his brain keeps telling him no. That it’s too much, too personal, too dangerous. So, he just…he can’t.
There are just so many things he can’t say. So many things that hurt too much to give voice to. So many things he can’t disclose because doing so would just lead to the fact that Fadel is a killer, and he can’t bear to see actual fear and despair on Style’s face when he finds out the dirty and sickening truth.
So, he simply closes his eyes and swallows down his trepidation before bringing their foreheads together. “I can’t…not…not now, but maybe…maybe someday.”
He feels the disappointed puff of breath Style lets out against his face as he holds onto Fadel’s arms and squeezes. “Alright. I can work with that. Someday you’ll tell me about your past and all of your sorrows and I will accept them all and keep you safe.”
He wants to believe that’s true. He wants it so desperately that he aches with it, but he knows there’s no chance in hell that Style would stay with him if he knew the bloody past he’s trying to escape from, let alone want to save him from it. But it’s nice to pretend.
But the sentiment feels good, so he rubs his nose against Style’s and says, “Thank you.”
His boyfriend just smiles widely before pressing a chaste kiss against the side of his mouth. “You’re welcome. Now come back to bed, you owe me a cuddle session for trying to kill me.”
Alright. He takes it back. His boyfriend is the worst.
But he concedes anyways and follows him as he climbs beneath the covers. He slots himself behind him and pulls him against his chest, holding him tightly and breathing in his scent as they settle back into the sheets.
“Fadel?” Style says when they’ve both been quiet for a while.
“Yeah?”
“I really care about you; you know that right?”
The way he says it, so earnest and sincere, has Fadel’s heart beating harder in his chest. “Yes, Style, I know.”
“Good.” He replies and then tips his head back to kiss him for real, before whispering a calm, “G'Night.”
And when Fadel closes his eyes this time, it’s not blood and heat and darkness that he sees. It’s Style’s smiling face as he kisses him goodnight. And that's enough to allow him to calm down and drift off into a thankfully, dreamless sleep.