Archive of Our Own ^beta

Frenchie has always known he’s special.

He has always been able to see a little more than ordinary people can.  See not just the shadows, but what lies within them.  He’ll be the first to admit that his gifts are not as strong as his Great Aunt’s were, the gifts usually being passed down through the female line.  Mind you, he’s been as queer as a nine bob note since his balls dropped so that might explain why they passed to him, watered down though they are.

Life can be... difficult, when you’re different.

School had been dreadful.  Mixed race and weird had not been a good combination.  Add gay, and it became hell.  Then the bullies started having accidents.

One lost an eye.

It wasn’t him, although he’d had to prove that he was nowhere near at the time, but in the end he was taken out of school in Bristol and went to live with his Great Aunt Sadie in Huntingdon, an old market town outside Cambridge.  His parents didn’t really want him and he was more than glad to get away from them.  Aunt Sadie had embraced everything he was, loving him and home-schooling him, teaching him about more than geography and maths and English.

Cats are not witches (you silly boy), but watch out for their claws.

You have gifts, do not waste them.

Peanuts will curse you, don't eat them.

Do not be afraid of change, it will help you grow.

The moon is your friend, bathe in her light.

Surround yourself with things that bring you joy.

Demons are real, don't trust them.

Mirrors are dangerous, don’t look in them.

Listen to the radio, it will guide you.

Do harm to no one, but if someone hurts you, kick them in the balls.

Do not eat cheese.

Well, she couldn't be right about everything.

When she died of a massive embolism at the age of eighty-two, on his twenty-first birthday, she left him her house, her money, her car, and her radio.

It’s quiet when he gets in.  The damn power must have tripped again.  He needs to find an electrician but keeps putting it off because he hates people being in the house.  The switch box is under the stairs with the meter and he flips the switch for the downstairs zone, hearing the fridge freezer buzz back to life.

Turning the radio back on, he starts to unload the shopping as two strong arms snake around his waist.  He hums happily, leaning back into his lover’s warmth.  “Hi babe, miss me?”

There’s a pleased husky sound and a nibbling bite on the side of his neck.  “You know I did.  Why can't you use the internet for your shopping like everyone else?”

“You know I hate other people choosing my food for me.”

“And you know that about a hundred other people have handled it before you buy it, right?”

“I know, babe, but they’re not choosing it for me.”

Izzy huffs and Frenchie absolutely knows he’s rolling his eyes.  “Did you know the electric went off again?”

Frenchie gives a wry smile.  “Obviously.  I’ll get someone out to it this week.”

Maybe something they are doing is tripping it.  He tries to think what Izzy would be using when he’s not there that might overload the circuit.  Their ridiculously expensive coffee maker gets used all the time, so it’s unlikely to be that.

“You’re tense,” Izzy observes, hands going up to massage his shoulders.

“I missed you,” Frenchie responds, feeling his muscles unclench under the attention of those amazing fingers.  “I hate being away from you.”  It’s only half a lie because that much is true.  Izzy is his life.  He has no friends, no family who matter, no one other than Izzy.  Izzy is both his drug and his dealer, and every day the addiction gets stronger.

His boyfriend has… issues, and doesn’t go beyond the garden, but that’s fine by Frenchie because he gets his man all to himself and doesn’t have to share him with anyone.  Frenchie works from home writing music for adverts and TV shows and he could get everything online but he really hates people picking his food for him.  He did a happy dance in Tesco the day they put in the Scan and Shop so he didn’t have to go through the checkout again.  So he’s weird.  Suck it up.

“What did you get me?”

“Would you be surprised if I said whisky and cheese?”

There’s a happy sounding growl next to his ear.  “I’d be fucking ecstatic if you said either of them.”

“I got you a bottle of Glenfiddich and four new cheeses for you to try - two French, a Swiss and an Irish one.”

Since being with Izzy he’s become something of an expert on cheese.  He buys a lot of it every month but he’s not poor, far from it, and if cheese is what makes Izzy happy, then he’ll buy cheese.  All the music he produces is snapped up and he’s at the point now where he can mostly name his price.  His gifts manifested in music and he is able to produce exactly what the client wants.  Izzy doesn’t have an income but Frenchie is more than happy to support them both.  It took a while at first for Izzy to accept that but Frenchie can be persuasive when he has to be.  Now it's something Izzy doesn’t like to talk about so Frenchie doesn’t push.   

Everyone has a past, right?

He doesn’t protest when Izzy turns him round and, oh, he’s changed into snug black jeans and a tight ribbed black vest top that does nothing to hide his delicious arms and chest.  Frenchie has always found men in their fifties attractive, to him it’s the perfect age, and his Izzy is stunning.  His graying hair is long and loose, his beard has been trimmed back to stubble, and he’s wearing the black diamond earrings Frenchie bought him last Christmas, the dark glitter of them shimmers as he moves his head.  He forgets about the cheese.

He knows what those clothes mean, Izzy wants to fuck and Frenchie is absolutely with the program.

“You look so good.”

Izzy looks at him archly, preening slightly.  “Only good?”

“No,” Frenchie reassures, pulling him close.  “Never only good, babe.  Fucking gorgeous.  You look so pretty dressed up like that.”

In all their time together he’s never seen Izzy exercising but he must do something because those pecs are mouth-watering, enhanced by the silver bars through his nipples.  Frenchie’s always had a thing about piercings, and has spent hours on them before now, worshipping them while he’s slowly ridden Izzy’s thick cock to oblivion.

A couple of years ago he got Izzy to pierce his and he’s never regretted it.

Izzy’s hands look almost delicate, yet the fingers are strong as they delve beneath his t-shirt.  “I knew you’d come back with something nice for me so this is your reward.”

“You look after me so well,” Frenchie tells him dreamily, the warm caress relaxing him further. 

Taking his chin, Izzy holds him gently but firmly, the glitter in his eyes suddenly darker than the diamonds.  “I will always look after you, baby.  Always.  There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“I know, you’re so good to me.”

“Because I care about you, darling, so I’d like you to tell me why you’re still tense.  I'm going to take you to bed in a minute and I’d like your full attention.”

Damn.  He should have known that Izzy would see he was a bit off.  His lover sees everything.  He really wants to get to the bed part, now it’s on offer, but knows that Izzy won't let him do anything until he's told the truth.

Izzy lets him go and Frenchie looks down, away from his piercing gaze, somehow feeling ashamed, as though it’s his fault.  “I saw him again.  Nigel.  He ‘just happened’ to be in the supermarket at the same time as me today.  That’s the third time in a row.  And... I saw him at the Post Office yesterday too.  He was just going in as I came out.”

Izzy’s expression darkens.  “Too much to be coincidental.  Did he talk to you again?”

“Yes, the usual bollocks about what a surprise it was to run into me again, then commented on a couple of things in my trolley.  Wanted to know if I was a whisky drinker so I said it was for my boyfriend, but I could tell he didn’t believe me.”

“Does he think I’m your imaginary friend?” Izzy scoffs.

“Fuck knows.  I think he watches the house so he must have seen you.”

Izzy shrugs.  “How did you get away from him?”

“I said I had an appointment and I had to go, then went to pay and got out of there.  Fortunately I’d got most of the things I wanted.  I couldn’t get to the car fast enough.”

Nigel Badminton is single, unpleasant, unappealing and... worrying.  Frenchie can see something dark tainting the man’s soul, and is starting to become a little scared of him.   He moved into the house opposite theirs four months ago, following the death of old Mrs Papadopoulos and her family putting the house up for sale, and wasted no time coming over to introduce himself.  Disliking him on sight, Frenchie had not invited him in.

A couple of weeks later the man asked him out for a drink.  Awkwardly Frenchie told him that he was spoken for, that he had a boyfriend and was Nigel inviting both of them?  It seemed that he hadn't appreciated the joke, and since then Frenchie is always bumping into him, the man hanging around the same shops, always watching him. 

Frenchie is very aware that out of the house, he’s vulnerable, but here he has Izzy to protect him.  Despite that, he enjoys going out although he hates that Izzy can't go with him, so he generally doesn’t go further than the local shops and Tesco’s.  There’s a big Morrisons a bit further away but Morrisons is a bit shit and he likes sticking with what he knows.  He likes finding things to buy for Izzy, he loves treating and spoiling his lover, and not just because the rewards are so worthwhile.  Whenever he finds something perfect for Izzy and gives it to him, Izzy’s face lights up as though it’s the last thing he expects or deserves, and that just makes Frenchie even more determined to keep treating him.

With the internet as it is now, he doesn't actually have to leave the house at all, and eventually he probably won't.  Frenchie might not want to admit it but he knows he’s fragile sometimes.  If he didn’t have Izzy he suspects that he’d be quite insane.

“What kind of vibes do you get from him?”

Frenchie gives a little shiver.  “Bad ones.”

“Bring him to me,” Izzy growls, his tone making Frenchie look him in the eyes again.  “I’ll deal with him.”

“You can’t.”

“You know I can.”

He does.  Has always known it.  “Would it hurt?”

Izzy shrugs.  “That’s kind of the point, don’t you think.  Hurt him a bit, make him leave you alone.  More to the point, do you actually care?”

No, he decides, he really doesn’t.  The man has no right to watch him and scare him.  No right to look in his supermarket trolley and scoff at the things he’s apparently buying for his imaginary boyfriend.  The imaginary boyfriend who is very fucking real and looking at him through those lovely eyes, with their fascinating blend of hazel flecked green, and full of the need to protect him.

“If he does anything else, get him to me,” he says again, and Frenchie nods.  Izzy will take care of it.  Izzy takes care of everything.

“Now can we go to bed?  Please?” he asks hopefully, wanting to put thoughts about Nigel out of his head.

He’s given an easy indulgent smile, as though they were not just talking about hurting someone.  “My precious boy, we’ll do anything you want.”

“Then I want to go to bed.”

Izzy kisses him, his lips soft and warm.  He tastes of cigarettes and toothpaste and it’s far sexier than it should be.  He loves that Izzy attempted to cover the smoke even though it doesn't actually bother him, he quite likes a drag himself now and then.  As they kiss, Frenchie’s favourite song comes on the radio and Izzy sways those oh so sexy hips against him and suddenly they are dancing slowly, rubbing indecently.

You put a spell on me.  I’m losing my mind.

“I want you,” Frenchie breathes.  “All the time.  I’ll do anything you want.  You can do anything to me.”

“Anything?”

“Yes, anything.”

“Beautiful Frenchie,” Izzy purrs, pressing himself slyly against him.  “I want to fuck you.  I’m fucking going to fuck you.”

Oh gods, Frenchie’s so hard he could burst.  Izzy is so good to him, always knowing what he needs and always making sure he has it.

He’s led up to the bedroom and Izzy undresses him, never letting him do it himself, and when he’s naked, Izzy places him on the bed, how he wants him, spread out like a slut for him.  He supposes that’s what he is, Izzy’s slut, Izzy’s own special panting little bitch, and the thought makes his dick leak.

For a minute or two Izzy just looks at him, drinking him in with those hot, dangerous eyes, although it's hard to tell the passage of time under that intense gaze.  Then slowly, he nods approval, as though Frenchie’s passed some kind of test, and begins to take off his clothes.   The top peels up and is carelessly dropped, making Frenchie’s breath catch even though he woke up against that chest this morning.  Then the jeans, the button, the zip, parted slowly.

And underneath… nothing, the fucking tease.

With a little shimmy the jeans hit the floor, and knowing he has Frenchie’s complete attention, Izzy gets himself to full hardness before crawling up the bed like a panther, eyes twin dark coals of lust, beautiful and deadly.

Izzy devours him, his hole, his cock, his mouth, eats him out and laps him up and by the time Frenchie’s ready to take Izzy’s cock he’s nearly delirious, panting and begging, undone in every way possible.

He’s never had another lover.  Izzy was his first and will be his last.  Why would he want anyone else when he can have this?

This time it’s on his hands and knees and he watches them in their wall of mirrored wardrobe doors, (another rule he disobeyed) as Izzy pushes into him, their eyes locked.

He can’t look away, knowing he’s been placed there to get the perfect view, and it’s better than the finest porn, Izzy reducing him to a fucked-out mess while he watches his own spectacular destruction.

He won’t deny that mirrors are dangerous, but they can’t harm him and even if they could he wouldn’t care, not while he’s watching Izzy fuck his way right into his soul.  Then Izzy kneels back and pulls him onto his lap, still joined.  “Eyes on the mirror,” he’s told, Izzy’s voice low and commanding. 

He’s sitting on Izzy’s thighs, his legs spread with Izzy impossibly deep within him, his own weight forcing him deeper.  They are facing the mirror, Izzy’s arms around him, his hands everywhere, pinching his nipples and pulling the slender gold rings, stroking his cock, squeezing his balls and all Frenchie can do is watch and take.  Everything burns, his pulsing hole, Izzy’s cock so hard inside him, his nipples, his neck where Izzy is biting him.  It feels like there is no part of him that Izzy isn’t possessing, controlling, exactly how Frenchie wants to be possessed and controlled.

Breathlessly, he obeys, watching everything Izzy does to him.

They are beautiful, he thinks, as Izzy’s hands bring both pain and pleasure, one on his nipple, the other on his cock.  They are contrast, chiaroscuro, exquisite in their differences.

“That’s it,” Izzy whispers into his ear, lips wet from biting him, “come undone for me, baby.  I want to feel you tighten around my cock.  Let it go, I’ve got you.”

And that’s all it takes.  Frenchie watches himself shoot, Izzy’s hand milking him, the come making his hand obscenely wet, the glide slick until it’s too much and he whimpers.

“Good boy,” Izzy praises huskily, making him shiver.  “My turn now.”

Letting go, Izzy uses his come soaked hand to push Frenchie down and forward so that his arse is up in the air, the manoeuvre completed so easily that Izzy’s cock didn’t leave him by so much as an inch.  He moans eagerly.  He knows what’s coming and he wants it, desperately. 

He isn’t disappointed. 

Izzy takes him roughly, fingers digging into his hips, hammering into him and chasing his own pleasure with no regard for anything else.  His head turned to the side, Frenchie watches, barely able to breathe as Izzy fucks into him, his eyes as hard as diamonds, teeth bared, dangerous and wild, and his, all his.

As always, Izzy’s surprisingly quiet when he comes, a couple of grunts, more obscene somehow for their lack of noise, then a moan and his cock is pulsing, hands gripping so tightly, Frenchie knows there will be bruises.  His eyes flutter shut, the sensations overwhelming, but Izzy doesn’t pull out, just stays there, panting softly, knowing how much Frenchie loves the sensation of him going soft inside him.  Only then does he slide out, before covering Frenchie’s back and kissing between his shoulder blades, licking up the mess he left there and humming a deep note of satisfaction.

Frenchie never has to worry about cleaning up, Izzy always does it, somehow part of the ritual of sex for him, and a few minutes later he’s lying in Izzy’s arms, cradled against his fabulous chest, the hair soft and warm on his cheek.  Izzy huffs softly, nuzzling into his hair and Frenchie closes his eyes.

They doze for a while in contented silence, only the faint sound of the radio downstairs occasionally catching his ear.  Is that Zayn?  He thinks he hears the familiar strains of Pillowtalk.  He loves that one.

When Frenchie wakes again, Izzy is watching him, a soft look on his face.  He has no idea of the time but thinks it’s probably around 6.00.  Time to be thinking about food soon.  Everything throbs deliciously and he stretches, aware of Izzy’s eyes on him.

“Fuck, that was good, babe.  You hungry?” he asks, taking a strand of Izzy’s silky hair and twisting it round his finger.  “What do you fancy for dinner?”

“I’d say you, but we’d probably never get out of here and starve to death,” Izzy smirks, pulling him in for a kiss.  “Why don't you relax, sweetheart, and I'll make dinner.”

“Yeah?”  Izzy is more of a breakfast and lunch man, usually leaving Frenchie to make dinner, but when he does his combinations are sometimes… eccentric.  Frenchie’s always intrigued to see what he'll come up with.

“Well, it seems fair.  I did wear you out.”

“Some parts of me, yeah,” Frenchie smirks.

Izzy pulls on a t-shirt and a pair of boxers from his drawer, and leans in for another sweet kiss.  Izzy often cooks half-dressed, just another one of his idiosyncrasies, and Frenchie loves him even more for it.

“I love you,” Frenchie says, when he gets to the door.

Turning back, Izzy’s eyes flash with something deeply satisfied.  “Of course you do.”

A few minutes later there's the sound of cupboard doors opening and the fridge, and Frenchie hopes his fire extinguisher is up to date, just in case.  It's not that Izzy isn't competent.  He's amazingly competent, and does everything perfectly.  He just has some strange ideas about things that it’s appropriate to flambé.

When no smell of burning floats upstairs, he goes into the ensuite for a quick shower.  He might not have bothered but he's been made very good use of and he’s still leaking.

After, clean and dry, he pads across the bedroom naked, and happens to glance in the mirror.  There’s a twin flash of something reflected back from behind him, something that catches the light.  It’s only for an instant, but definitely comes from across the road, like… like the sun catching on binoculars.

Like somebody watching him.

Fear coils in his stomach.

He doesn’t tell Izzy.  Izzy’s dangerous, of course he is, but he’ll also worry and it’s not like they can do anything about it right now.  He knows there's absolutely no point going to the Police.  He hasn't been followed, his gifts have told him that.  The man just keeps popping up and they could easily say it was coincidence.  And whilst he knows there were binoculars trained on his bedroom it's not exactly something he can prove.

So he puts it in the box in his head and joins his lover in the kitchen, where he is doing something delightfully normal with chicken, wine and cream, alongside mushrooms, potatoes and broccoli, fortunately nothing in that combination he feels the need to set fire to. 

After, they eat defrosted cheesecake and cuddle on the sofa, watching an old 80’s comedy while Frenchie paints Izzy’s nails a sparkly blue.  Izzy rolls his eyes at the choice but Frenchie can tell that he likes it.  Izzy knows the film but Frenchie hasn’t seen it before.  It’s about two insurance guys who find their boss dead and then have to convince others he's alive, after finding out he’s put a contract out on them.  By the time it reaches the end credits, his stomach is aching from laughing and Izzy is giving him his ‘told you so’ look of smug indulgence, while unobtrusively admiring his nails.

When they go to bed Frenchie makes sure to close the curtains very tightly in their bedroom, and when Izzy falls asleep, head on Frenchie’s chest, he gently strokes his lover’s back with the lightest of touches, and whispers, “I love you so much,” into his soft graying hair. 

Downstairs, the radio plays something soft and soothing.

Frenchie doesn’t leave the house for a week and keeps the bedroom curtains closed.  He uses a sound proofed spare bedroom as his studio, and Izzy’s retreat is the attic they converted a few years ago.  When Frenchie’s working, Izzy disappears up there to play games, write, research and whatever else he finds to entertain himself with.   He could be robbing the Bank of England for all Frenchie knows.

Despite being trapped in the house, Izzy never complains, but Frenchie is restless.  When he’s on his own, he can’t stop worrying about Nigel.  There’s something about the man that scares him.  It’s possible he’s harmless but his aura is off, it’s a dark brown and there are smudges in it and in his experience, that’s never good.  Izzy’s is a triumphant silvery grey, typical of a protector, while Frenchie’s own is yellow with pink tones, signalling love and happiness and compassion.

Several times through the week, he tries osteomancy, throwing the bones into a circle but they show him little and in truth he knows he’s kind of crap at divination.  Once, he thinks they show him ‘be careful’ but that could mean about anything.  Most of his gifts are to do with music, but it doesn’t hurt to try.  There’s no point attempting the tarot because he’s rubbish at that, to Aunt Sadie’s great disappointment.  She could make the cards foretell anything but about the only thing he can do with them is build a pretty tower.

Giving up, he prowls into the kitchen with the laundry basket, thinking he might as well make himself useful.  It’s a dark day and they have several big trees at the back of the house stopping them from being overlooked but that means the kitchen doesn't have as much natural light as their other rooms.  Flicking on the light switch he hears a pop and looks up to see the energy saving bulb flecked with black.

Fuck.

It’s an old house and the ceilings are high and even at 6’1 he can’t reach the bulb.  There’s a small stool under the stairs but he knows from experience that’s not quite enough and he really can’t be arsed going down to the shed at the bottom of the garden for the step ladder.  Instead, he grabs one of the chairs from the table and drags it under the bulb.  It’s a bit rickety but he’s done this before, although not when Izzy was nearby.  He can imagine the trouble he’d get into if his lover found him balancing on a wonky chair.  He loves that Izzy is so protective but it’s only a light bulb, for fuck’s sake.

What he doesn’t expect is the wasp that had been slumbering quite happily in the light fitting, taking offense at his intrusion and flying out angrily, straight into his face before he’s even touched the dead bulb.  Screaming like a girl, he flaps his arms around, the chair twists alarmingly and then gives way.  He windmills for a moment, has an awful sensation of falling, then lands on his back on the hard floor, his head going down with a sickening crack, then pain, and… nothing.

The nothing becomes a bright light shining into his eyes and he becomes aware of several things at once.  He hurts, he’s still on the floor and Izzy is kneeling over him, muttering darkly.  At least he puts the torch out.

“Hi, babe,” he groans, wincing, recognising Izzy but not entirely sure for a brief moment who he is.  “What… what are you doing?”

“Observing your pupillary light reflex, otherwise meaning that I’m checking you for brain damage, because you clearly have some, you fucking idiot, standing on that chair.  Frenchie, what the fuck did you think you were doing?”

Oh yes, he’s Frenchie, that’s who he is.  He remembers now.  He also remembers that two fucks close together means that he’s in trouble.  Izzy’s angry with him, although when he looks closer, he can see that his eyes are full of panicked tears.

“Changing the light bulb?  I think?  I fell off the chair.”  He feels a bit weird, drunk almost, and nearly giggles.

“You didn’t fall of the chair, you dozy great steaming twat, the chair collapsed under you.  What were you thinking?” 

Two fucks and a great steaming twat.   Yep, he’s really in trouble.  His befuddled brain decides on distraction.

“How do you know about the eye thing?”

“I know a lot of things,” Izzy growls, taking his pulse.  “I fucking need to, taking care of you.”

Still feeling woozy, Frenchie pats Izzy’s arm reassuringly.  “Baby, it's okay, I was just changing the bulb when I got attacked by a wasp and then the chair broke.  Nothing to worry about.”

Compared to some of the things he’s done, this is nothing.  There was that time when…  No, he’s not going to think about that.  Instead he notices that Izzy’s hair is tied back and he looks very handsome.  My pretty Izzy, he thinks a little dreamily.

“Nothing to fucking worry about,” Izzy repeats, checking down his limbs for damage.  “Another inch and you'd have hit your stupid beautiful head on the corner of the unit.  Probably would have fractured your skull.”  He stops to take a breath.  “I could have lost you, you fucking stupid fucking idiotic fucking…”

“Twat?” Frenchie supplies helpfully, when Izzy’s rant suddenly runs out of steam.

“Twat,” Izzy agrees, stroking his forehead.  The tears are still there but he’s doing a good job of blinking them away.  “How do you feel?”

He thinks about it for a moment.  “Quite a few places hurt.  Head hurts.”

“Of course it fucking does, you fell on it.”

“Sorry, babe.  Don’t know how you put up with me.”

Putting a hand under his neck, Izzy gently helps him sit up, quickly checking the back of his head for blood, of which there is none, thankfully.  “I put up with you because I can’t live without you,” he says quietly.  “Put your arm around my neck.”

Frenchie obeys as Izzy puts an arm under his legs and round his back and picks him up as though he weighs nothing.  He knows that Izzy is incredibly strong but he never uses that strength against him unless Frenchie asks him to.  Frenchie might be tall but Izzy makes him feel small as he's carried upstairs and deposited gently on the bed.  Then he remembers the other thing he needed to do and starts to get up, but Izzy pushes him back down.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

He wiggles.  “Iz, need to pee,” he whines, trying to get up again.

Izzy rolls his eyes and sighs.  “Don't you fucking dare.”

He is efficiently stripped before Izzy picks him up again and carries him into the bathroom.  This time carefully placing him on the toilet.  He pulls a face, trying to ignore the throbbing at the back of his head.  “Normally do this standing up, babe.”

“Not this time.  I’m sure your dignity won’t be irreparably damaged by pissing sitting down for once.”

“You eat my arse out on a regular basis, not sure I have any dignity left.”

But Izzy just gives him a look halfway between amusement and concern and crosses his arms.  It's a stance Frenchie has seen before.  It's the one that says I will not be moved so you'd better bloody behave.

Frenchie sighs, and behaves.  He always does, in the end.  “Fine.”  He feels more like a child than a thirty-eight year old man sometimes.  Izzy just has that effect on him.  When he’s finished and disposed of the antibacterial wipe Izzy thrust into his hands, he’s scooped up again and returned to bed, propped up against a small mountain of pillows, the duvet primly covering him to the waist.  Izzy sits down beside him and takes his hand.  A strand of his hair has come loose and Frenchie wants to push it back or wind it around his finger.

“Sweetheart, you could have concussion,” Izzy says seriously, “and I can't take you to hospital, so if I see any signs of deterioration I will be calling an ambulance, okay?”

Panic suddenly grips him.  “Don't, Iz, please.  I don't want to be away from you.”

“I know, love, but I can't risk anything happening to you.  At the moment you seem fine which is why you are going to stay here and rest and I’m going to keep an eye on you.  If you are still all right tomorrow then I’ll let you get up.”

Fucking light bulb, Frenchie thinks to himself, but nods.

“Excuse me?” Izzy asks, gently but firmly.

Frenchie feels himself flush.  “Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” Izzy says, kissing his forehead, then asks him questions.  How old is he?  When is his birthday?  What's his favourite colour?  When he’s asked who the current prime minister is and Frenchie replies, “A complete fucking wanker,” Izzy chuckles and relaxes.

Then Frenchie remembers.  “Babe, I cast the bones yesterday and they said to be careful.  It actually worked!  You know I’m normally rubbish at divining.”

Izzy rolls his eyes.  “Should have fucking listened, then, shouldn't you.”

Well, Frenchie really can’t argue with that. 

They settle and Izzy reads to him for a while, some Shakespeare that he doesn't get, and some Yeats that he does.  His man’s love for poetry always surprises him but it delights him too because it proves that Izzy is more than he appears.  Although, in fairness, it doesn't matter what Izzy reads, Frenchie just loves hearing his voice, light and throaty, unique and beautiful.  He’s always felt that way about Izzy.  They met seventeen years ago, the day after his aunt's funeral and Frenchie has never been alone since.  Izzy is safety and love and everything he's ever wanted, not to mention handsome and kind and sexy as fuck.

Izzy is the only person to truly understand him, who takes his insecurities, his silly ways, his occasional clumsiness and all those other weird things that go on in his head, completely in his stride.  Frenchie has never been loved so utterly and absolutely, so how could he do anything less but love the man just as much in return?

“Why don’t we get married?” he asks suddenly, and hears something romantic come on the radio downstairs.  Good timing.

Izzy lifts an eyebrow.  “Are you asking?  Because for a proposal that’s a bit shit.”

“Yes, I’m asking.  Will you marry me, Iz?”

He watches Izzy’s expression closely, recognises the sadness he’s trying to hide.  “Frenchie, you know I can't.”

Frenchie dismisses his objection with a stubborn wave.  “We'll do it here, in the garden, in moonlight, just the two of us.  We'll say vows to each other and give each other a ring and then we'll be married.  I don't care about anything else, I just want to be your husband.  Say we can.”

It wouldn’t be legal but who cares about that.  They would have said the words and been blessed by moonlight.  “If that’s what you want,” Izzy murmurs, almost shyly.

“You have to want it too, babe.”

Izzy swallows and meets his eyes and just for a moment he looks young.  “I… yeah.  Yeah, I want that too.”

Happy, despite the pain at the back of his head, Frenchie closes his eyes, Izzy’s hand clasped in his.  When he wakes, surprised to find he’d slept, Izzy feeds him soup and hot chocolate, and when he needs the toilet again, allows him to walk slowly, holding on to him. 

“You’d make a fantastic nurse,” he teases, as he washes his hands.

Izzy snorts.  “Fuck off, I’ve got my work cut out just with you.”

“Could get you a sexy uniform,” Frenchie muses, eyes flickering to Izzy’s in the mirror and then away again.  “Something tight and white with stockings and a little nurses cap, oh and red high heels.  You could wear it to take my temperature.”

He watches amused, waiting for the expected ‘fuck off’ but Izzy looks thoughtful for a moment.  “You’d like that, would you?”

Frenchie flounders at the unexpected response.  “I… yeah… Maybe?  I mean, probably… yeah?”

Izzy is suddenly very close.  “You don’t sound sure, chicken.  What’s it to be?  Could be a maid in a little black dress or a sexy nurse with stockings and high heels.”

Gulping, Frenchie finds himself nodding.  He’s unleashed a monster.  “Yes, that one.  Please, if you would.”

He’s rewarded with Izzy’s most wicked grin as he’s helped back to bed.  “Then I will.  When you least expect it.”

“Fucking hell,” he whispers.  “You’ll give me a heart attack.”

“Good thing I’ll be a medical professional, then,” Izzy replies archly, tucking him in.

Surprisingly he sleeps through the night and wakes feeling much better.  He’s still a bit sore in places but his head isn’t aching and the lump on the back of his head seems to have gone down.  After Nurse Izzy gives him another thorough examination, and pronounces that he does not have concussion, but that he is still an idiot, Frenchie is released from medical custody and permitted to get up and have a shower.

“What’s for breakfast?” he asks, sitting on the bed, a towel round his waist, thinking that bacon and egg wouldn’t go amiss.  It’s usually Izzy’s province but he never minds suggestions.

His lover grins.  Shows his teeth.  “You are.”

Oh.

Frenchie shivers, thoughts immediately going from breakfast to getting railed.  If Izzy wants to fuck that means he’s definitely not got any concerns about him.  Frenchie feels himself stiffen.  Yep, definitely no problem down there.  “You want to eat me?” he asks coyly, opening his legs, never one to waste an opportunity.

In an instant Izzy is on his knees in front of him, spreading his legs further apart, and the towel gives way, revealing his cock, well on the way to being hard.

“Just parts of you,” Izzy says appreciatively, eyes on the glistening drop of moisture on the tip.

“You’d better have them, then,” Frenchie encourages, looking under his lashes in the sultry way Izzy likes.  “Can’t have you going hungry.”

He describes his dick as pert.  Izzy describes it as fucking gorgeous.  It’s not big but just long enough to reach the back of his Izzy’s throat and he moans as Izzy swallows around him.  The man has absolutely no gag reflex and dives on his cock like it’s his favourite treat.  He loves to take Izzy in his mouth but usually uses his hand as well because Izzy’s quite a bit bigger and he’s never got the hang of the throat thing, not that Izzy would ever force him, and never seems to mind.  Whenever Frenchie blows him Izzy looks on him like he’s a thing of wonder and that more than makes up for anything Frenchie thinks he lacks.

He falls onto his back when strong hands grip the back of his thighs, pushing them effortlessly up and apart, and whines when Izzy pulls off his cock, instead using his skilled tongue to breach his hole and drive him out of his mind. 

“You’re going to come for me,” he’s told, and he almost pants with relief, until Izzy continues.  “But only when your cock’s in my mouth.  Don’t you fucking dare come if my tongue’s in your arse or I’m on your balls.  Understand?”

He knows the threat’s meaningless, but it’s delicious nonetheless, and he nods quickly.  “Yes, sir.  I won’t, but what if…”

Izzy pinches a nipple, making him yelp.  “Don’t.”

God, he loves this sexy, kinky man, so attentive and caring and yet so keen to shatter him into a thousand pieces.  Shatter me, my love, he thinks eagerly, as the tongue sinks back into him.

When the tongue withdraws, his legs are released and slick fingers replace it, opening him as Izzy goes to his balls, sucking them in and he’s never been more thankful that they are neat and tight and a perfect fit in that wicked mouth.  By the time Izzy returns to his cock, Frenchie’s begging, and he’s lost track of how many fingers Izzy has in him.  It could be ten for all he knows, and the second Izzy’s mouth goes back on his cock, he’s coming, unable to hold it in any longer, whimpering with relief as Izzy takes it all, drinking him down with filthy relish and a satisfied hum.

Breathless, shivering, still impaled on Izzy’s fingers, Frenchie keens as Izzy suckles his dick, not letting him go soft, knowing damn well that he can usually get it up again quickly.

The fingers ease out and Izzy’s up and crawling over him, his dick pressing against his slick hole instead, pausing there.  His eyes are dark and glittering and his voice is a rough growl.  “Look at you, pretty thing.  Fuck, I want you.”

His attention is intense and wonderful and Frenchie couldn’t refuse if he wanted to.  He doesn’t want to.  He feels powerless and it’s perfect.  “Then have me.”

Hard and slick, Izzy pushes into him, the thick, hot, perfect length of him exactly what he needs.  “Don't move,” Izzy hisses, pushing in deeper.  “Keep perfectly still.”

Slick with lube, Izzy’s cock feels huge against Frenchie’s sensitive rim, and he can’t help moving his hips.  He’s rewarded by another hard pinch on his nipple.  “I told you not to fucking move.”

“Can't help it,” he gasps.  “You feel so good.”

Izzy bottoms out but doesn’t move.  His gaze turns predatory.  “You love me.”

“You know I do.”

“Say it,” Izzy instructs.

“I love you.”

He is rewarded with a crooked pleased little smile.  “You like doing what I tell you.”

“Yes.”  Always.

“Good boy.  Then just lie there like a doll and take it.”

Izzy’s eyes are amused at his sudden confusion.  A doll?  He tries though and finds it more difficult than it sounds.  Going limp when there’s a thick cock in his throbbing arse, isn’t easy, but he tries nonetheless, letting his arms and legs flop.  Izzy grins, all teeth and approval.  “That’s it, just like that.  Let me take what I want, pretty doll.”

Izzy leans down and kisses him and he keeps his mouth a little parted but immobile, not responding, and there’s something sexy and wrong about it that has his cock twitching.

“Well done, beautiful,” Izzy whispers against his lips, “you’re doing so well.  Now... keep... perfectly... still.”

He punctuates the words with devastating little thrusts of his hips that has Frenchie trembling.  Each one deliberately sliding over his prostate, making sparks fly behind his eyes.

They’ve done so much together, but they’ve never done this and Frenchie wonders what it would feel like to truly not be able to move his limbs, because this, just as it is, is amazing.  He likes having no control when they fuck just as much as Izzy likes having it, but this is another level.

Closing his eyes he lets Izzy do what he wants and doesn't make a sound when Izzy pulls out and rolls him onto his front, putting his head on one side and arranging his arms loosely to the sides.  His legs are straightened and put together.  Then Izzy is straddling his thighs and pushing back in, and he wants to moan at the thick smooth glide of him, wants to push back to make him go deeper, wants even more to show Izzy in the arch of his back and the flex of his spine, how much he loves what they do together.  How much he craves his lover’s touch.

But he does nothing, save for the increase in his breathing, even when Izzy settles down over him and licks small, gorgeously stinging bites down his neck, across his shoulders, making him burn, and all the time fucking him deeply, smoothly, maddeningly slowly.  He has never felt so contained, so held within himself, so close to bursting.

“What a good doll you are,” warm lips tell him, kissing his neck, his throat, the sensitive skin behind his ear.  “Keeping so still.  I want you to make a mess for me, pretty doll.  Can you do that without moving?  I think you can.  I think you’d do anything for me.”

Oh god, he would.  Anything.  He doesn’t speak, can’t speak, but Izzy knows.  He always knows.

With a low chuckle, Izzy starts fucking him properly, harder, catching his sweet spot every thrust and Frenchie feels it building, syrupy and sharp and overwhelming and unable to be kept in.  His breathing is coming in gasps now, more noise than he probably should make but he can’t help it, can’t contain it, as he comes onto the towel beneath him, his belly almost branded by the heat of it.

“Oh fuck,” Izzy gasps, dropping his head onto Frenchie’s shoulder.  “Good boy, such a fucking good boy.”  As his own orgasm follows, filling him with powerful, hot pulses, each one sending a shiver of intense pleasure through Frenchie’s body.

Izzy collapses down onto his back, cock softening but staying inside, humming contentedly.

“Fuck, what was that?” Frenchie groans, getting his breath back.  He aches and throbs, and it feels wonderful.  He’s spoiled and he knows it.  Just when he thinks they’ve done it all, Izzy comes up with something new.

Kissing his neck, Izzy chuckles and climbs off, fetching a cloth to clean him up with, first his arse and then his belly, although he’ll probably need another shower.  When he’s done, Frenchie holds his arms out and Izzy comes back to lie with him, nuzzling into his neck.  “Did you like it?  I thought it would be fun to do something different.  It also meant you weren’t moving your head around too much.”

Okay, that’s kind of hot, Izzy thinking of him even when they’re fucking.  And then, because he’s Frenchie and his stupid head gets the better of him sometimes, because what if something different really means the rest of the things they do are becoming dull, he blurts out, “You're not getting bored of me, are you?”

He was a virgin before Izzy, his own hand hardly counting.  Izzy was so patient with him though, so kind, as he taught him about sex and what two men could do to each other.  Even now, years later, something new can catch him out and his former inexperience still shows, but he knows Izzy finds it charming, or he did.  What if he’s not enough anymore?

Izzy leans up, his expression intense.  He doesn’t roll his eyes, or tease, just looks at him steadily.  “What the fuck makes you think that?  Baby, I will never get bored of you,” he says in that whisky roughened voice, smooth and smoky and dipped in honey.  “You are everything in the universe to me.  You are my beautiful Frenchie, my precious boy, my reason for existing.  Doubt everything in this world, my angel, but never me.”

Fighting back the prickle of tears because he’s just had one of the top ten great fucks of his life, and really, not the time to get emotional, Frenchie looks at him with a wobbly smile.  “Everything in the universe?”

Seeming to consider, Izzy’s mouth twitches into a slow smile.  “Everything,” he confirms. “With a cherry on top.”

Snorting a laugh, Frenchie presses into Izzy’s chest, just as the radio downstairs starts playing Hozier.  It’s faint but he can just make it out.

And I’ll be anywhere that you are.

Izzy kisses the top of his head and takes a cigarette from the pack on the bedside table, then lights it and takes a quick drag before holding it to Frenchie’s lips.  “Daft twat,” he says fondly.

“I know,” Frenchie agrees, filling his lungs with smoke.  Unlike Izzy he only has the occasional one, and they don’t smoke in the house as a rule, but will sometimes share one after particularly good sex.  That fuck seems to qualify.  “I just get… scared of losing you sometimes.”

Because he could and they both know it.  Not by choice but things could go wrong.  It wouldn’t take a lot for Izzy to be taken away from him.  “You won’t,” Izzy says firmly.  “We belong together, baby, and I won’t allow anything to part us.”

Frenchie wriggles up and rests his head on Izzy’s shoulder, wishing he could be so certain.

While Izzy makes breakfast he thinks about venturing out.  The Tesco just outside Huntingdon is big and has an extensive clothes department and he likes the thought of buying something for Izzy after taking care of him so well.  Izzy would never admit it but he likes clothes.  At first it was mostly leather, but over the years his wardrobe has expanded to include finer things, silks and satins and soft wools.  It doesn't even have to be black now, he's branched out into lovely dark greens and midnight blues, blue jeans rubbed in all the right places, denim jackets and baseball hats even though he only has opportunity to wear them in the garden.  He likes jewellery too and loves it when Frenchie tells him he’s pretty, so he’s bought him bracelets and pendants and earrings.  Those are special presents though, saved for special days.

It will be September soon and then autumn will be upon them.  Izzy likes to sit outside and smoke on the swing seat they have at the bottom of the garden, so Frenchie thinks a nice jacket would be good, or a fleece lined hoodie.  A hoodie is better for this time of year though, and Izzy likes them.  He'll go and see what they have.  They need milk anyway.

He replies to emails with looming deadlines for a couple of commissions, neither a problem as the work is complete.  He attaches sound files to each, his ‘first drafts’ and sends them off.  He knows already that the clients will be happy with them.  They always are.

That done, he looks for Izzy and finds him in the utility pulling a load of washing out of the machine.  Even after so long, there’s something just so fucking adorable seeing a man like Izzy Hands being so domestic. 

“Nipping to Tesco, babe.  Can you think of anything we need apart from milk?”

Izzy frowns, far too cute a look on a man who’s separating his socks.  “Are you sure you’re up to it?  Got your phone?”

“Not five, babe.”

“I know.  A five-year-old would have more sense.”

Laughing, Frenchie hugs him, their fuck has put him in a stupidly happy mood.  “I was thinking of steak for dinner.  What do you think?”

Izzy brightens.  “Steak, cheesy mashed potato and salad?”

“Perfect.  Ice cream for after?  What flavour?” he asks, at Izzy’s nod.

He receives a kiss on the cheek and a pat on his arse.  “Surprise me.”

Tesco is relatively quiet in the morning, all the pensioners not usually coming out until lunchtime.  Catch Tesco at around two in the afternoon and the average age of the customers shoots up to around eighty.

He finds Izzy a zip up hoodie, black and plain but fleece lined and perfect to keep out the autumn chill when he goes outside for a fag.  He'll buy something more expensive online but he loves coming home with a gift.  By the time he's got milk, the steaks, salad, some ready-made mashed potato and decided on lemon meringue ice cream, he is surprised to see that over an hour has passed.  It's then he realises with relief that there's been no sign of his stalker.

By the time he gets home, having avoided the elderly rush, he’s forgotten all about Nigel.

Until he gets out of the car and fumbles at the front door for his key, shopping at his feet, and feels the edge of a blade at his neck, cold and sharp.

“Darling, I think you’ve been trying to avoid me,” an oily voice says, far too close to his ear.  “And it absolutely won’t do.”

Ice runs through Frenchie’s blood.  Where the fuck had he come from?  Waiting at the side of the porch, his mind supplies, out of sight.

The knife at his neck feels huge.  He's glad he can't see it because it's suddenly difficult keeping his legs steady enough to hold his weight, when what he actually wants to do is drop to the floor and roll into a ball.

It’s all right, he tells himself.  Be strong.  Izzy’s inside.  Izzy will protect him.

“What do you want, Nigel?” he asks, hating the tremble in his voice.  The knife doesn’t move.

“I’d have thought that was obvious, darling.  I want you.  You’ve kept me waiting long enough, don’t you think?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Frenchie whispers, feeling his heart pounding.  He flinches as a heavy hand lands on his shoulder.

“Oh, I think I do.  Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

Yes, that’s exactly what he needs to do.  He needs to get Nigel inside.  To Izzy.

He gathers his courage.  Swallows heavily.  “You’ve got me, all right?  You're not going to have much fun with me if I'm bleeding out on the floor.  I know you've got the knife so I’ll behave, but take it off my neck, yeah?”

The hand grips more firmly, but the knife is eventually withdrawn.  “Good boy,” the man says.  “I always knew you weren’t stupid.”

That, more than anything, infuriates Frenchie.  He is Izzy's good boy.  Izzy’s and no one else’s.  The anger fizzes through his blood and gives him strength.

Retrieving the key from his pocket he opens the front door, listening, and realises with an icy stab of dread that the house is silent.  The power has gone off again.  He can’t hear the radio.

There is no one to save him.  

He is on his own.

Fear eclipses the courage but he refuses to give in to it.  He can do this, all he has to do is get the electric back on.  Before he gets hurt.  Or killed. 

He can do it.

Nigel pushes him inside and Frenchie hears the rustle of bags.  The bastard has even brought the shopping in so nothing will look suspicious.

The front door closes behind them with the dread finality of a coffin lid being dropped and Frenchie jumps.

“What’s the matter, darling?” Nigel coos, still behind him.  “Still think your invisible boyfriend is going to help you?  We both know you don’t have one.  I've been watching you for months.  You shop alone, you drive alone, you are alone.”

Frenchie takes a steadying breath.  “Why were you watching me?”  He knows, of course, but needs to engage him in conversation, needs to normalise this, to show that he is not afraid, to even pretend that he wants it.

Not afraid?  He’s fucking terrified.

“Isn't it obvious?  You've been teasing me, you little slut.  I've seen you in your bedroom, touching yourself.  That's what you are, isn't it, a little prick tease, who pretends he's got a boyfriend.”

Now Frenchie wonders how long those binoculars have been trained on him.  How many times has Nigel seen him naked, unaware that he was being observed.  He should have seen Izzy too, but somehow he hasn’t.

“All right,” he says, trying to steady the tremor in his voice, “I’ll admit it, I don't have a boyfriend.  I made him up.  Just makes me feel safer at night, you know?  Safer if people think there's someone else in here.”

He hears a derisive snort.  “Well, it didn’t fool me.”  He jumps again as he feels the hand leave his shoulder and make its way down his back to cup and squeeze his arse, the touch, even through jeans, horribly personal.  “You’re going to scream so loud when I fuck you.”

Sickened, Frenchie schools his face into blandness, and holds up his hands.  “I’m going to turn round, okay?  So we can have a proper chat.”  There’s no acknowledgement but the hand drops away so he takes that as permission.

So I can look you in the eyes, you bastard, he thinks, working out his plan, such as it is.  Talk to him, win him over, get him to relax, get him to trust you, the words go around in his head like a mantra.  He’s not going to die here, he refuses to.  He has the rest of his life to spend with Izzy and no fucking bastard rapist is going to take that away from him.

His lips and throat are dry but he forces himself to ignore them.  He can just see the knife in his peripheral vision, still gripped in the man's hand.  Instead he looks into the man’s blue eyes and faces him without flinching.

“Yeah, I’m a screamer.  It’s good that you like that.  So how about we get to know each other?  Sit down and have a little cuddle, yeah?”

“Do you seriously think that’s how this works?” Nigel sneers, but Frenchie is sure that he has not mistaken the interest in his eyes.

He shrugs, trying to look calm.  “Don’t see why it can’t.  You want me, that’s obvious, and you're a good-looking guy, so why not.”  The words are like ash in his mouth but he forces himself to say them.  “It doesn't have to be about knives, yeah, when we can both get what we want.”

Nigel studies him coldly.  “And what is it that you want?”

Thickening his accent a little, knowing that it makes him sound softer, Frenchie moistens his lips, the man’s eyes on him, hungry now.

“We could have a good time, you and me.  Maybe start with something nice, a sexy slow dance, what do you think?  Get us in the mood.  We could even do it skin on skin.”

Nigel looks at him suspiciously, and Frenchie wonders if it’s too much, that Nigel might lash out feeling that he’s losing control.  It’s certainly not the way the man would be expecting it to go, but it’s too late now to take it back. 

Trembling inside with the effort of showing no fear, Frenchie peels off his t-shirt, slowly revealing his gold pierced nipples.  Watches Nigel's eyes open wide and darken with lust.

“Do you like?” he asks, a little flirtatiously, trying to look like he’s preening.

Almost hypnotised, Nigel reaches out, rubbing a thumb roughly over a nipple.  “Beautiful slut.”

“You know I'm not,” Frenchie says gently, forcing himself not to flinch.  “You've been watching me for months, you know I don't have anyone here.  I've been waiting for you, babe, waiting for you to come and take me.”

The knife is being held loosely now, Nigel's eyes on his chest, his skin.  Frenchie knows he wouldn’t be able to get if off him but if he can get him to put it down, he might stand a chance.

“Yeah,” Frenchie croons, “you like that, don't you.”  With all the courage he possesses he walks up to the man and starts unbuttoning his shirt.  “Skin on skin, yeah, babe?  We just need the radio now.  Something sexy to set the mood.”

Nigel seems to gather himself, gripping the knife harder again.  “The radio’s annoying, find a CD.”

It’s then that Frenchie knows he’s won.

“Don't have any, just the radio.  I get it up easier if I've got some music.  Good for relaxing, you know?”

“I don’t need fucking music,” Nigel hisses, all the same looking distracted as Frenchie slides his hands into the undone shirt.  The last thing he wants to do is touch the man, but it’s just skin, warm and smooth.  The disgust is in his own head.  Although… the longer his hands linger the more he feels… darkness.  He desperately wants to snatch his hands away but he makes himself withdraw them slowly.

“Well, I do.”  He wants to scream it but keeps it in.  Keeps it quiet.  “It'll be more fun this way.  Trust me, babe.”  He cocks his head.  “Can you hear how quiet it is?  The electric must have tripped again.  I just need to turn it on in the switch box under the stairs.  That okay?  You can watch me, no funny business.”

Nigel nods, gripping the knife again.  “Go on.  I’m watching you.”

Ducking under the stairs Frenchie flips the switch, silently sighing with relief, Nigel’s eyes on him the whole time from his place between himself and the front door.

“There,” Frenchie says brightly, trying to keep the fear from his voice.  It’s obvious that the fridge has just groaned back to life.  “Let’s have a little music, shall we, and then we can… get close.”

His eyes flicker to the knife and then to Nigel’s face.  “The radio’s in the kitchen.  Come on.”  Turning his back on the madman with the knife is the hardest thing he’s ever done, but Izzy will be there in a minute.  Izzy will protect him.

He leans over the unit to the radio.  Turns the dial.  Hears the click.

Music starts to play, and if he hadn’t been so terrified he’d have rolled his eyes.

Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?  Where’s the streetwise Hercules to fight the rising odds?

Izzy begins as a sparkle, a swirl of energy, becoming a flow, a river, and then he’s just there, solid and real and deadly, looking exactly as he had when Frenchie went out - jeans, a lovingly cared for Iron Maiden t-shirt, hair loose and swept back, the hero he’s been holding out for.

He looks at Frenchie and smiles, then his smile falters, puzzled for a moment at his undressed state and his pleading expression, then his eyes flicker to the door.

To the man with his shirt undone.

And the knife.

His eyes turn black.

Then he grins.

It’s heart stoppingly terrifying and utterly magnificent.

“What?  Where did you come from?  Who are you?” the man stutters, backing up, his eyes suddenly wild.  He looks like a man trying to find a rational explanation when he's just seen someone appear out of a radio.

“The question you really need to ask,” Izzy purrs, putting himself between Frenchie and the intruder, “is what are you.”

The man holds the knife up in front of him, imagining that will keep him safe.  Licks his lips.  “All right, I’ll bite.  What are you?”

Izzy’s grin gets wider, grows more teeth.  “I’m the thing that lives in the darkness, the thing that eats the souls of silly little men like you.  Men who think that all they need is a knife to get what they want.”  He pauses, feeding on the sudden terror in the other man’s face.  “Oh, and I’m his boyfriend.”

“You can’t be,” Nigel splutters, something overtaking his fear for a moment.  “I’ve watched the house for months and I’ve never seen you.”  Then he realises what he’s said.

Stalking forward Izzy catches the man by the throat and sweeps him backwards until he’s pressed up against the kitchen unit.  Frenchie knows how strong those hands are and he cringes at the expectation of hearing bone breaking.  But instead Izzy looks at him curiously, studying him as though he’s an insect under a magnifying glass.

Just as Nigel plunges the knife into Izzy's side.

Frenchie screams.

Izzy hisses and stiffens, not letting go, then sighs theatrically.  Pulling the knife out with his free hand, he drops it, the clatter on the floor making Frenchie jump.

Nigel’s eyes widen impossibly in shock, as he gasps for breath.

“I fucking love this t-shirt, you little shit,” Izzy hisses furiously.  “It's vintage and you had to go and put a fucking hole in it.”  He doesn’t mention the hole in himself, but Frenchie knows that it will already have healed.  “I was just planning to hurt you a bit, teach you a lesson, make you go away and not bother my boyfriend again, but you came at him with a knife, Nigel, a big fucking knife and I don't forgive things like that.  I could have forgiven the t-shirt, maybe, in a year or so, but not what you’ve done to Frenchie.  Not for what you wanted to do.”  He pauses, glancing to Frenchie.  “How bad is this man?  The truth.”

Touching him had been enough.  Frenchie couldn’t see details but he’d felt pain and screams and hope fading slowly in the dark.  He’d felt death.  “Bad.”

Izzy nods, unsurprised.  “No loss to the world, then.”

“What?” Nigel squeaks.  “No, you can’t.”  

“I think you’ll find I can,” Izzy corrects him, his voice suddenly lower and darker, full of anger and teeth.  “I have somewhere for you to go, Nigel, a dark place where you're going to be all on your own and no one is ever going to find you.  You’re going to spend eternity wishing I'd killed you.”

Nigel wets himself.

Glancing down, Izzy snorts derisively, although Frenchie can understand it even if he has no sympathy.

This Izzy is fucking terrifying.  And so beautiful it hurts.

Letting go of Nigel's neck, Izzy puts a hand on either side of his head and squeezes.  Nigel screams but instead of bursting, his head narrows and elongates becoming soft and pliable and elastic.  It’s sickening and almost hypnotic and Frenchie can’t tear his eyes away.

Frenchie could stop it but he doesn’t.  He could speak out, but he doesn’t.  It’s not inaction, he wants Nigel gone, because he recognises the darkness in the man now for what it is. 

Pure evil.

The smudges on his aura have turned jagged, and Frenchie might not have the powers of his Great Aunt but he recognises the marks of a killer.  The man has raped before and would have raped him too, had he not found the courage to face him.  And then, he knows absolutely, that Nigel would have killed him.

The screams are getting smaller, echoing now, as Izzy squeezes him, narrower and narrower, and then Izzy starts feeding him into the radio, pushing him in a bit at a time.  The screaming cuts off abruptly once his head goes in, but Izzy keeps squeezing until the ribbons of flesh are all that’s left of his arms and legs, still flailing helplessly as they too are pushed in.  And finally, when there's nothing left and the radio has swallowed him completely, the song changes to one Frenchie doesn't like and then he knows that it will only play dark unpleasant songs from now on.

Izzy sinks to the floor, exhausted. 

“Turn it off,” he grates, catching his breath.  “Turn the fucking thing off.”

But Frenchie can’t move.  He’s frozen, still hypnotised by what he’s just witnessed.

“Milo,” Izzy barks.  “Turn it off.  Now.”

Startled at the use of his name, Frenchie obeys and clicks the radio off, terrified that Izzy will disappear.

Only… he doesn’t.  Izzy is still there.  On the floor.  Exhausted and breathless… and there.

His own ordeal forgotten, Frenchie slides down onto the floor and pulls Izzy into his arms.  His darling, his secret lover, who might be a demon, or an angel, or fuck knows what, who was trapped in his radio and could only come out when it was turned on.  His darling who is suddenly free.

Suddenly, both of them are crying, holding on to each other with all the strength they have left.  They cling to each other, desperately.  Not worrying about the puddle on the floor nearby.  They can clean up later.  Right now they need each other.

“You’re free,” Frenchie says thickly, wonderingly, stroking Izzy’s tear streaked face, learning each beloved feature as though seeing them for the first time.

Izzy swallows, looking like he still can’t believe it’s true, despite just stuffing Nigel into his prison.  “I’m fucking free,” he echoes, astonished.  “Because of you, love.  You were so brave.  If you hadn’t lured him, got him to trust you just a bit, got the power back on…”

It’s too much to contemplate.  Frenchie shakes his head, giving a little hiccup, a sharply in-drawn breath.  Tries to sound normal.  “Fucking electric and its fucking timing.”

“It wasn’t random, it was the dryer.”

“What?”

“I put my socks and underwear in the dryer, then I fancied a coffee.  The minute I turned the machine on, there was a pop and I was back in the dark.”

The dryer and the coffee maker were enough to overload the circuit and neither of them had realised.  He's got to get someone out to it, but then realises that it doesn't matter anymore.  Izzy will never be going back into that dark place.

Izzy is free.

“Are you all right, baby?” Izzy asks him, concerned, wiping away his tears.  “I didn’t ask, I’m sorry, everything got a bit... busy.”

“I’m fine,” he reassures, and realises that it’s true.  He might have a few nightmares about the knife but he knows he's pragmatic enough to be able to put it behind him, and to be honest he’s locked most of it away in his box.  Yes, he hasn’t stopped trembling, and yes, he was terrified, but he faced that fear.  He looked Nigel in the eyes and had not allowed the man victory.  “Might not sleep well for a couple of nights, but I really am fine.  I’m more worried about you.”

He releases Izzy just enough to see the rip in his t-shirt.  “Can I see?  Please?”  He has to make sure.

Izzy nods and raises the fabric.  There's some blood, still wet and red and awful, but not as much as he expected, and it’s already drying.  The wound itself has gone.  There's nothing there, not even a scar, just pale perfect skin.

“I don’t know what I am,” Izzy confesses, looking down at the unscarred flesh.  Neither of them do but Frenchie has never cared.

Frenchie takes his chin, making him look into his eyes and see the truth there.  “You’re Izzy, my Izzy, that’s all that matters.”

Green eyes turn black.  “I’m not... human.”

Parts of Izzy are not entirely human, that’s true, his eyes, his strength, his unnatural ability to heal.  But Izzy still bleeds, he has a heartbeat.  Frenchie has lain awake many nights listening to its comforting rhythm, accompanied by the faint sound of the radio from downstairs.

Izzy eats, he breathes, he shits, he sleeps.  He’s human in every way that counts.  More than that, he loves.

Izzy is his beautiful sweary rock, who protects him and keeps him safe, who wipes up his tears and cares for him when he does something stupid.  Which is alarmingly often.  And beyond all of that, he is Frenchie’s only love.  His first and his last.

He knows that Izzy has no memories from before his time in the radio.  He had nothing, not even a name.  He chose his name himself, Israel Basilica Hands, from a book of pirates they found on his aunt’s shelves, both the book and the name drawing him to it.

Whatever he is, Frenchie suspects that his aunt captured Izzy and trapped him, intending for Izzy to take care of him when she was gone.  Frenchie’s not exactly incapable of looking after himself but all the same he can’t be angry when it gave him the love of his life.

“I don’t care,” he murmurs.  “I don’t care, my love.  You’re perfect exactly as you are.”

Then a dreadful thought occurs to him and he stiffens, suddenly cold.

“What’s the matter, love?” Izzy asks, concerned.

“You’re free.  You... you don’t have to stay here anymore.  You don’t have to stay...”

With me.

He can’t make himself say the words but they are there, nonetheless.  He hasn't even said them and they burn his throat.

“You’re right,” Izzy says softly, understanding, “I don’t have to now.  I could go and try and find my way in a world I've never known, but that world would mean nothing to me if you weren't in it too.  I don't have to stay but I want to, more than anything.   Did you think I was lying when I said that you meant everything in the universe to me?”

Frenchie shakes his head.  “But you weren’t free then.  You had no choice.”

“Well, now I have, and that choice is you, Frenchie, it will always be you.”

Izzy’s truth is utterly without guile or artifice, as it has always been, and Frenchie quirks a smile, feeling the cold fingers of dread recede.  “I have the feeling there should have been ‘you twat’ on the end of that.”

The corner of Izzy's mouth twitches.  “I came so close.”

“You held back?  I’m impressed.”

“Wait until later and I’ll give you something to be impressed about,” Izzy smirks.

Becoming more serious, he kisses Frenchie’s hand.  “We need to clean up.  Make it like he was never here.  Are you up to that, baby?”

Frenchie nods and they help each other to their feet.

“What did he touch?” Izzy asks, suddenly brisk.  “We’ll need to clean everything that could have a fingerprint on it.  A solution of water and vinegar will do it.”

Frenchie tries to remember.  “Just the knife and the inside of the door.  I opened the door and he closed it behind us.  He was behind me at first so he could have put his hand on the hall table, in the corner.  Best include it, just in case.”

“Good boy.  There's no CCTV in the road, a couple of people have ring doorbells but none that show his door or ours.  At this time of day most people are at work, you’re the only one who works from home, so it's extremely unlikely that anyone saw him coming over.  He'll just have disappeared.  We may get a visit from the Police but only because they’ll be asking everyone.  We saw nothing, we know nothing, okay?”

Frenchie nods.  He’s still shaking, he realises.  “What about the knife?”

Izzy considers.  “It’s got his fingerprints all over it so the Police need to have it, but it’s also got my blood on it.  The last thing we need is someone testing that.  I’ll use gloves and clean the blood off, wrap it in cardboard, label it ‘murder knife’ and we’ll throw it in the household waste at the tip inside a bag of rubbish that can’t be traced to us.  When it’s sorted through, it’ll be found and should find its way to the Police.  Hopefully by then they’ll have gone through his house.”

He wants to ask how Izzy knows about fingerprints and knife disposal but he suspects that Izzy knows about a lot of things Frenchie has never had to think about before.

“He’d done it before.  Raped,” he explains, at Izzy’s quizzical look.  “Killed too, I think.  There was a darkness in him that got stronger the closer I got to him.”

“Then hopefully the police will find something in there, something to start them investigating.”

Frenchie nods.  “He was arrogant.  They will do.”  He shudders, looking at the radio.  “What do we do with that?”

Izzy’s eyes flash.  “We smash it,” he says, voice suddenly cold.  “We smash it to fucking little bits.”

The house is clean and smells a bit of vinegar but it won’t linger.  The strangest thing is having Izzy but the radio not being on.  For seventeen years the radio has been such a part of Frenchie’s life he hardly notices it, now its absence is deafening.  But it’s also… nice.  Silence with Izzy, he’s discovering, is comfortable and easy.

They are sitting on the swing seat at the bottom the garden.  Izzy is just finishing a cigarette, his hands as steady as a rock.  Frenchie’s are still trembling.

His arm is around Izzy’s shoulders and his lover fits snugly against him as though they were made for each other, which of course they were, when he thinks about it.

Izzy is wearing his new hoodie even though it’s not really chilly, with a fresh t-shirt underneath.  Frenchie has promised to get the damaged one mended.  It will always be a reminder of the events of this day, but for now he's glad he doesn't have to look at it.

Never, in his life before, has he been as afraid as he was today, yet he’s disquieted to realise that he's still a little scared.  Despite how happy he is that Izzy is free, everything is going to change and he's afraid of what that might do to them.  He has never been a man who copes well with change.

“What do you want to do?” Frenchie asks him, aware that he sounds brittle, and hopes that Izzy puts it down to the stress of the day.  “Now that you’re free.”

He has no right to prevent Izzy doing anything he wants, and he wouldn’t.  He wants Izzy to be free, yet he’s honest enough with himself to admit that he liked Izzy being dependent on him, despite the fact that Izzy has always been the one in charge. 

“I don't want a grand adventure,” Izzy replies, after a minute’s thought, blowing out smoke.  “I've seen enough of the world from my computer to know that I’m quite happy here.”  He smiles at Frenchie, almost shyly, the lines at the sides of his eyes deep and beautiful.  “I want to do the ordinary things, the little things.  I want to go into a shop and buy something.  Eat a meal that someone else has cooked.  I want to say hello to someone I've never met before, and... I think it might be nice for us to have friends.”

Us.  Frenchie feels his eyes prickle.  Such little desires, small, inconsequential things that most people take for granted every day.  But to Izzy, who has lived the entire seventeen years of his known life, in one house, with one man, they are huge.

They can go out now, together.  They can make friends.  There’s a nice guy, John, who works in the charity shop he visits looking for vintage t-shirts for Izzy.  He’s asked Frenchie several times to bring his boyfriend to join their queer team at the local pub quiz, but he never could.  Until now.

He suspects that Izzy will know the answer to everything and will be superb at quizzes.  They won’t know what’s hit them.

His smile fading, Izzy studies him, and perhaps he can read what's going on in Frenchie's mind, maybe he can see the hope and the fear, because he puts the cigarette down and takes Frenchie’s face in his hands, kissing him, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss Frenchie loves.  Izzy tastes of smoke and something uniquely Izzy that Frenchie has never been able to define, but it’s familiar and safe and all he ever wants.

“I love you,” Izzy says softly, not letting go.  The precious hands that pushed a rapist into the radio, are soft and warm and gentle against his skin.  “Every day I've spent with you has been the best day.  I don't want a new life, because I love the one I've got.  Don't ever think it's not enough, sweetheart.  I belong here, with you.”  Then his smile broadens.  “Fuck knows, someone’s got to keep an eye on you.  Who knows what you'll do next.”

As Izzy speaks, this beautiful not entirely human man that he loves, Frenchie feels his heart lighten, his fears loosen their hold.  He would have travelled the world if Izzy had wanted it and he knows he would have hated it.  But he would have smiled and done his best to be happy because Izzy would have been happy.  The fact that Izzy is happy right here is more than he ever hoped.

Everything is going to change, and yet it’s also going to stay the same.  Their lives are just going to be even better.

“I love you too,” he murmurs, twisting Izzy’s hands and kissing the palms, looking into those lovely eyes.  “There’s so much I want to show you.” 

Not the world, but right here.  Izzy has never been past the end of the drive.  He’s never learned to swim, never been to a beach or smelled the ocean.  He’s not even been in a car.  He’s never eaten out, never shopped, never walked in the park or along a river bank, never stood beneath a tree when the leaves are falling, never fed hungry ducks.

Frenchie wants to teach him, show him the wonders around them in their little market town.  He thinks it’s probably wise if someone else teaches him to drive though.

Then something occurs to him.  “Iz, you don’t exist.  I mean, you do, but officially…”

Wryly, Izzy nods.  “I have no identity.  Yes, I know.  But there are... ways.  A problem for another day though.”

Aware of how difficult it is to navigate through modern life without documentation to prove who you are, Frenchie knows it's something they'll have to look at eventually.  He's also very aware that in their seventeen years, Izzy has not aged a day.  It’s possible that he never will.  Something else that they will need to think about, but they have years ahead of them now.  The radio has been destroyed, smashed utterly beyond repair so there is nothing that can take Izzy away from him any longer.

Finishing the cigarette, Izzy drops the butt into the metal bucket he keeps there.

He takes a deep breath.  “It’s time.”

They walk, hand in hand, to the edge of the drive, the barrier that Izzy has never before been able to cross.  Izzy's warm fingers clutch his as though he's afraid, and perhaps he is, a little.  But they're going to do this together.  Izzy is free and real and has a new life to begin.

Frenchie squeezes his hand.  “Ready, babe?”

Izzy moistens his lips nervously, swallows, nods.  “Let’s do it.”

“Together then, yeah?”

Izzy’s sudden smile could eclipse the sun.  It's full of joy and hope and love.  His hand squeezes back.

“Together.”

They take a step.

How shall I hold my soul, that it may not
be touching yours?  How shall I lift it then
above you to where other things are waiting?
Ah, gladly would I lodge it, all-forgot,
with some lost thing the dark is isolating
on some remote and silent spot that, when
your depths vibrate, is not itself vibrating.
You and me - all that lights upon us, though,
brings us together like a fiddle-bow
drawing one voice from two strings it glides along.
Across what instrument have we been spanned?
And what violinist holds us in his hand?
O sweetest song.

Rainer Maria Rilke

“Love-Song,” from Possibility of Being