He slept. For what felt like the first time in months, he slept, and perhaps it was down the the heat he had stolen from the shower, or the fact that Laurence had willingly slept on top of the sheets so that they had a barrier between them, or maybe sheer bloody exhaustion, but when he woke he felt just a little more in control.

Quentin pulled his phone across the bedside table so that he could check for messages, and studiously ignored that it was already early afternoon.

Michael is expected to recover, was Freddy’s first text, followed by, We need to talk.

He ignored it and scrolled on to a message from Myriam: Is everything all right?

Quentin picked up the phone so that he could respond to her. I have Laurence. We’re safe. Thank you for everything. Please pass my gratitude on to Rufus also.

He set it down and turned over.

Laurence lay sprawled across his side of the bed, his face smooshed into his pillows, arms wrapped around the duvet as though it were some substitute for a warm body. His beard was crinkled and unkempt, short but wild, and his curls spread like wildfire across his head.

Yet still he looked like an angel. A god. A creature of two worlds who had deigned to stay in this one. He was radiant.

Divine.

Quentin rested a while, just watching Laurence breathe. It was a beautiful moment, and he didn’t wish to forget it.

“Poop,” Windsor said, though he said it quietly.

Quentin blinked and looked to the raven, who at least looked somewhat apologetic as he hopped across the desk toward the window. Goodness knew how long the poor thing had been holding it in, so Quentin eased out of bed and unfurled the blinds so that he could open the window.

The light outside was weak beneath an overcast sky, but it was enough to make him squint. He left the window open and returned to the bed, but froze halfway there.

Laurence’s eyes were open. He was yawning, stretching, but he must have seen Quentin by now. He was practically the only other thing in the room, for goodness’ sake.

Yes, and standing here like a lemon is really helping matters!

He dithered, then hurried back to the bed and sat so that he could at least drape sheets over his groin.

Laurence smiled slowly up at him as he relaxed. “Hey baby. What time is it?”

“Half past one,” Quentin admitted. “I’m sorry for disturbing you. Windsor needed to go out.”

“Mm. It’s okay. Did you sleep?”

He nodded a little. “Yes.”

“Good.” Laurence sat, stifling another yawn as he did so, and held the duvet to his chest for decency’s sake. “I guess we better go buy some clothes first. Do you wanna stay here while I go do that?”

He knew what Laurence meant. It wasn’t possible for Quentin to go out in a shirt so obviously bloodstained, but he did have a better idea. “No. You stay. I shall go.”

Laurence’s eyebrows climbed until he figured it out, then he cleared his throat and sat more forward to drape his arms across his lap. “Sure thing, baby. Whatever you want.”

Quentin bit his lip, then made his mind up quickly. Laurence would see him sooner or later, and the longer he worried about it the longer it would take him to get his life back on track.

He stood and let the sheets fall away, then hurried into yesterday’s clothes, but instead of his own shirt he scooped up Laurence’s t-shirt and pulled it on over his head. It was too big for him, but once he had his jacket on over the top it wasn’t so prominently oversized.

Laurence seemed to find this particularly interesting, and his lips were parted just a little when Quentin looked back to him.

He didn’t know whether to be concerned or flattered, so he simply slipped his wallet and phone into his pockets and paused to kiss Laurence on the forehead before he left.

* * *

He finally responded to Freddy’s message while he was out in the brisk, fresh air, and arranged to meet up the following day. Now and then he spotted Windsor overhead, perched on a lamppost or rooftop, most likely keeping an eye on him for Laurence, and he found it oddly reassuring.

It took him a while to gather together enough clothes for a few days, as well as a small suitcase to pack them all in for whenever they chose to leave, and then he stopped off to collect some food so that they could remain indoors for the rest of the day should they choose to.

The world hadn’t ended.

He had to hold on to that. As much as he felt as though it had, they were still here, still alive. Better still, they had won.

His years of running were at an end.

And perhaps it was for the best that he never really understood what he was running from. As much as he had drunk all through his adult life, he might have drunk even more if he had these memories right from the start. He felt the whispers even now, the suggestion that just one drink could help him cope, help him see his way through today and into tomorrow, and if he hadn’t met Laurence - if he hadn’t learned about addiction - he would go on fooling himself that he wasn’t an alcoholic.

That it was normal to be so blind drunk by eight in the evening that he couldn’t put one foot in front of the other.

And perhaps he would live like Laurence, too, forever fighting off the urge to turn to a substance whenever the world became too rough to handle.

Perhaps together they could defeat the demons they carried in their hearts, as well as those which plagued them from without.

He had other demons to tackle, too. Ones which had feasted of late, grown strong just as he had been learning to quash them. Running from them did no good whatsoever. He had to face them, and he knew it.

He was not a coward.

He was a survivor.

* * *

Laurence was meditating when Quentin returned to the room, so he arranged bags neatly within the little wardrobe and then closed the door. He popped the bag of salad and fruit down on the desktop, then lowered himself into the chair and waited.

It was a little longer before Laurence took a deep breath and opened his eyes, and he smiled warmly. “Hey, Quen. How long have you been here?”

“Not long,” Quentin assured him. “I have some clothes for you. I wondered if you might like to try them on.”

“I trust you.” Laurence gave him a grin. “And you’re pretty good at getting my size right.”

For all the hints that he liked to throw out, Laurence could be rather obtuse at times, so Quentin pursed his lips and spoke more slowly. “I would like,” he said with care, “to watch you.”

“Oh?” Laurence’s smile remained in place a second longer, then his cheeks blossomed into a delightfully dark pink. “Oh! Yeah! Yes, of course! Whatever you want, baby! I’m all yours!” He leaped off the bed and closed the window, much to an affronted squawk from Windsor, then closed the blinds.

“Excellent.” Quentin glanced to the light switch to flick the lights on from across the room, then shrugged off his jacket and shoes and tucked them neatly onto the chair. Once that was done, he retreated to the bed and sat in the centre of it, crossing his legs loosely.

Comfortable, safe on an island, he raised his chin and smiled to Laurence.

“You may undress,” he said.

It was a small start. But it was a start nonetheless, and he would not allow himself to disappear inside his own fears.

* * *

Laurence dressed and undressed slowly. In part, Quentin supposed, he was playing things safely, but it was also showing off, which Laurence was really very good at.

He knew Laurence’s body. He knew its curves and intricacies, he adored the way that his buttocks dimpled slightly and how the dusty hair below his belly button drew a slender line toward his groin, where suddenly his curls were as riotous as those on his head.

There was nothing to be afraid of here. If he had to tell himself that a thousand times, he would, because in his heart he knew it to be true. Laurence was the only person on Earth Quentin ever wanted or intended to see this way. The only one who knew everything about him yet still accepted all that there was.

The only one, full stop.

He smiled slowly as Laurence peeled off yet another shirt. There was security and solace in this dance, even though they had not performed it in weeks, and it eased his thoughts, calmed his nerves.

“Take it all off,” he murmured.

Laurence’s flush reached even the tips of his ears. “Yes, sir.” He pushed his trousers down and stepped out of them, then did the same with his underwear.

“Show me.”

Without hesitation, Laurence raised his arms above his head and twined his hands together. He arched his back and tilted his hips as he turned slowly on the spot, showing off every inch of himself.

What must it be like to have such confidence? To be able to show oneself off and know that it was appreciated?

Quentin licked his lips softy and allowed his gaze to drift across that lean, muscled back and over skin whose hairs were so light that at times they seemed to disappear altogether. Laurence was grace and power, and Quentin’s need for him was absolute.

“Join me.”

Laurence finished his twirl and crawled onto the bed, moving onto his hands and knees and prowling like a cat. “Where do you want me?” he asked.

Quentin arched an eyebrow.

“Sir,” Laurence added, his dark eyes bright, lips curved into a sheepish smile.

God, he was perfect.

“On your back, please.”

Laurence did as he was told and stretched out, hands digging themselves beneath the pillows behind his head. He curled his toes for a second, then arched his back. An unspoken invitation.

A surrender.

Quentin slipped from the bed and stood where Laurence could see him, and then he did the unthinkable.

He took the hem of Laurence’s t-shirt and pulled it slowly up his own stomach, revealing his skin an inch at a time. With absolutely no idea what he was doing, all he had to go on was Laurence’s examples, so he did as he had observed and arched his back as he drew the material off over his head.

As he tossed it aside and gazed down at Laurence, one thing was very apparent.

Laurence was the exact opposite of repulsed.

Quentin flashed a smile far more confident than he felt, and dipped his hands to his belt.

He could do this.