Chapter Text
Amsterdam, 2016
Normally Claquesous has a routine when he comes home, but tonight he leaves it be. He locks the front door behind him and makes his way straight to his bedroom. On the way there his shoes end up in the hallway, his coat on the living room couch and his jeans on his bedroom floor. He doesn’t bother taking off anything else, instead collapsing on his bed half-dressed and utterly indifferent to it. His head has barely hit the matrass before there’s a sound at the door.
Claquesous rolls onto his back and opens his eyes again, over at the familiar figure in the doorway.
“You didn’t come home yesterday.”
Fauntleroy looks thin in their oversized hoodie, more like a child than a teenager. The bright rainbow colours of the hood make their pale brown skin seem almost greyish in the dim light.
“I’m aware,” Claquesous says wearily. His head aches, desperate for sleep. “I was working.”
Fauntleroy doesn’t take a step across the threshold, but their eyes are fixed on him intently. “You could have texted.”
There’s an edge to their voice. A sharp, anxious edge. The tiredness in Claquesous’ mind lifts for a moment to let through a jolt of guilt. “I’m sorry, Faunt,” he mutters.
The hard glitter in their eyes softens a bit, but they don’t speak or move.
Silently Claquesous moves sideways on the bed, pulling the bedding on top of him and stretching his arm out invitingly across the now empty half of the bed. He looks up at Fauntleroy.
Without a word they hurry to the bed and crawl in beside him. They hide their face against his shoulder, cold fingers grabbing at his shirt and Claquesous wraps his arm around them, pulling them in closer. Even through their thick hoodie and sweatpants Claquesous can feel their chill draining the heat from his body, but by now that feeling is almost comforting. He pulls the two duvets on top of both of them.
Fauntleroy is still tense. Still a little too urgent in the way they press against him. Claquesous is certain they are squeezing their eyes shut tight. He already apologised. Repeating himself won’t help. It never does. It only makes things worse. It’s not him that needs to say something, it’s Faunt.
“I wish you’d stop fucking waiting up for me,” he grunts, half into the pillow, half into the fabric of Fauntleroy’s hood.
“I wish you’d learn to pick up a damn phone,” they bite back sharply, voice muffled against his shoulder.
“Maybe I should have it glued to my hand like yours,” Claquesous retorts, relieved to hear the snark in their voice.
“God you’re old,” Fauntleroy sneers.
“I’ll sent you back to school, eternal brat.”
Fauntleroy jabs him in the ribs and Claquesous swears at them. They have nearly relaxed completely against him now, only one of their feet is still fidgeting under the covers. Claquesous gently pushes at their leg with his own foot and they stop, drawing their knees up a little.
For a moment there is nothing but warm silence between them and Claquesous can feel his fatigue start to drag the corners of his mind down.
“You smell like Him again,” Fauntleroy mumbles suddenly.
Claquesous’ eyes open drowsily. “Yeah,” he sighs. “The job was with Gueul.”
Fauntleroy makes a soft, almost neutral noise and then: “Was he the one that fucked it up?”
“No.” That came out rather harsher than Claquesous had meant it. He’s regretfully awake again and Fauntleroy is looking at him with one eye from behind a wisp of their pink hair. “We got a delivery and it was bad quality,” he says. “That’s all.”
Fauntleroy smirks. “So your supplier fucked up.”
Claquesous exhales sharply through his nose. “Yeah, and he’s regretting it now.”
“Good,” Fauntleroy says. One corner of their mouth quirks up and Claquesous gives them a vague smile in return.
“And it’s all good. Alright?” he says.
They hum, shifting a bit so they’re not lying on his arm so heavily, but not so much that they have to leave too much space between the two of them. They’re clingy, always have been. Well, ever since the moment they decided to actually trust him at least. Claquesous doesn’t mind. Not with them. He’s…used to it now. Besides, they look out for each other.
Even with his mind muddled with exhaustion Claquesous can see how bad Fauntleroy looks. Haggard and not at all well fed. They’ve probably been drinking nothing but coconut juice again. He knows he should talk to them about that, but… Not now.
“When’s the last time you slept?” he asks.
Even with a half obscured face Fauntleroy manages to look indignant. “When’s the last time you did?” they retort snidely.
“What’d you think I’m in my damn bed for,” Claquesous grunts and he closes his eyes, because Fauntleroy at least sounds like their normal self again and he’s too damn tired to keep his eyes open.
There is a very short silence and then they mutter softly in the darkness: “Can I sleep here?”
Claquesous sighs and reaches over, without opening his eyes, to tug their hood all the way down over their face. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”