Archive of Our Own

Wishes Passing In The Night (or: Ten Ways to Say 'I Love You') - A Thibaut/Irfane Fanfiction

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1. Wrapped up in a question.

He likes him at first sight.

Thibaut Berland's life is a simple one and this is not a complicated story. He was already enchanted with Irfane, the moment he heard his voice, without having even met the man; once they do meet, and the warmth of his hand presses into Thibaut's palm for the first time, he is immediately pushed over the edge into enamoured. All during the production of the single he keeps the sentiment. And now the Ed Banger family's met up again at his house for the first time in months, and Irfane looks excited and nervous among blissful strangers, and no one could say Thibaut lacks a sense of responsibility.

"Would you like to stay for a drink?" He asks Irfane as the party's winding down. Would you like to, that is, directed to Irfane and no one else, gazing into his eyes. Everyone else usually assumes a generic level of hospitality when Thibaut is hosting. Irfane is outright granted it, never to be taken back or counter-negotiated at any point during their relationship. Irfane blinks - looks around at the others, either filing out with polite goodnights or retreating to the sitting room with drinks in hand, eventually to stay the night - and then looks back at Thibaut, eyes gleaming with pride.

"I'd like that," he says. "you need any help cleaning up?"

(They talk the night away. Condensation runs off the sides of Irfane's mojito. From then on Thibaut remembers to keep sprigs of mint around, always and always and always.)

-----

2. Through laughter, over a chorus of voices, knowing it’ll strike home anyway.

Xavier de Rosnay validates him first.

"I think Thibaut ought to keep you." He says offhandedly through smoky lips and panna cotta, the very first time they meet outside of Thibaut's studio. By Your Side isn't even halfway finished at this stage. Irfane stares at him. "Nothing's in a name like Breakbot that it only has to refer to Thibaut for all time. Within the next five-or-six years you'll be hankering to release an album together, you mark my words, and it'll be the juiciest summer we've all had in some time. Remarkable. Exceptional. Très bien."

The thought of being so kept never crossed his mind before that point; Irfane has his own projects to lead. But Xavier doesn't seem to be suggesting something subordinate. Even this early on in his and Thibaut's relationship, Irfane takes note of those words - lets them sink in - and is taken aback at how much he doesn't mind the idea.

"Well, thank you," is all he answers Xavier with, but he can't keep the grin off his face. The man nods impassively like he knows it all. (Irfane will concede later that Xavier absolutely called it, and reward him with unprompted cognac for the prophecy.) One validation is soon followed by all of them, for it's not long before Irfane becomes a staple feature of Thibaut's music: one collaboration leads to another, and then another, Irfane's name slowly becoming a fixture around those parts.

"I'm still stunned by how things worked out," he takes to saying whenever they all meet up, the labelmates complimenting their work in between toasts and raucous laughter. Every time, Thibaut beams with pride beside him, and Irfane feels a sense of breathless falling deep in the pit of his stomach. "thanks, guys. Love you all. Love you so, so much."

One day he'll say it to the person who he owes the most to. He just doesn't know it yet.

"I don't know where I'd be without your support."

For now, approval first, among those who would have entrusted Thibaut to few else. He has a lot to live up to.

"No clue at all."

-----

3. Instead of “thank you” or “see you soon” or “drive safe.”

Smiles abound as Irfane lowers the mic, his shallow breaths of relief concealed by a grin to light up the stage. Only Thibaut doesn't smile, and that's more because he's keeping his own nerves in check, not to mention closing off their performance on a professional note. "Merci beaucoup!" Irfane calls into the mic as he replaces it. Neither of them are made for TV, but they did well. There will be time to learn.

Listen, baby, your wish is my command...

It's autumn they've made, not summer, and it's certainly not as juicy as Xavier predicted. (Still some years away.) But the song's been a hit for ages, and the refrain still echoes faintly across the audience to show for it. Thibaut is content. He closes his eyes as he gets up from the piano, then looks up just in time to see Irfane opening his arms in his direction, beckoning him in for a hug. Thibaut is a man of few words and much action, but Irfane tends to do what Thibaut feels long before he actually does it; whether he too feels like going home and lounging in the success of By Your Side, Thibaut doesn't know, but those arms look mighty comfortable.

Irfane is his magnifier, he thinks, as he hugs him back.

Baby, won't you understand?

Honestly should beget honesty in its turn. "How did I sound from where you were?" Irfane asks as they walk past the piano, past the giant pair of pink lips adorning it, and head backstage. Thibaut senses the need for approval. A guilty warmth thrums in his heart; he's never been one to dissect every performance as soon as he's done, but being a man of few words needn't have meant economical with compliments. "My voice didn't sound too strained, did it? I worried a couple of times."

That your wish is my command...

"If anything, I worried I wasn't matching your energy." He says, and takes Irfane's hand softly. "I believe in you always. You were fantastic. Bravo, Chris."

Irfane responds with the brightest, broadest smile. Thibaut looks on, and makes no secret of looking. Irfane doesn't know that Thibaut was thinking of his lips when he drew up the set design. It's bold enough, sensual enough, yet general enough an image that no one's dug too deep into it - but it's true. They're not mere cherryboy lips, drawn out from the ether of Thibaut's music and nowhere else. Irfane's had the most beautiful mouth as long as Thibaut could remember, pink and plump, pleading to be kissed with any given expression.

The impulse thrums in his heart again. He knows only a few words that could voice it and doesn't think any of them are appropriate.
Being a man of few words shouldn't mean such a blunted vocabulary either, but there you are.

What can I do to make my baby understand?

-----

4. Under your breath while the whole house sleeps, just before you have to leave for the day.

Thibaut sleeps so beautifully.

That one drink so many years ago has turned into hundreds. Irfane is now to be found at Thibaut's place most of the time, to the extent that people call up Thibaut's home phone when they want to get a hold of him. They are habit to one another. No amount of teasing they shrug off could unseat Irfane from his position of privilege, which includes the entitlement to precious sights such as those.

"Thibaut."

Irfane doesn't expect him to reply. True to his belief, when he peeks around the doorway, he finds Thibaut on the sofa - curled up - still fast asleep despite the rising sun outside. He smiles and tiptoes in, taking a seat on the nearby armchair.
That's a major difference between them. Irfane splays out in sleep, often underdressed, forever trying to cool his body. Thibaut would be just as glorious if he stretched out a bit, but he's never been comfortable taking up that much space. He curls up instead, tucked tightly into blankets and hoodies and whatever's nestled closest to his body, hugging himself for warmth or using his hands as a makeshift pillow. It's catlike. It's boyish. It's adorable.

And like all adorable things do, inevitably: Irfane is tempted.
More and more often, he desires to uncurl him. Or curl up with him, nestle close to his chest, see what all the fuss is about.

Not that he thinks he'll learn a thing about curling up by the end of it.

"Ah..."

Thibaut stirs at his admiration. Irfane falls silent. False alarm; Thibaut simply buries himself deeper into the cushions, his breath barely fluttering the tips of his long hair. That's the other thing: he's so quiet when he sleeps, devoid of dreams and sleep-talk and whatever spare thoughts he had lying around before his head hit the pillow.
Irfane doesn't think Thibaut has ever dreamt about him. It's a pity. Irfane dreams about him all the time. Sometimes they're vivid recollections of a performance, daily routine, the manifestation of romantic intent; yet just as often, Thibaut is no more than atmosphere blanketing his dreamscape, insisting on being sensed there without appearing. The carpet rustles as Irfane lowers himself to his knees, laying his head beside Thibaut's softly. Visible or not, Thibaut is always there for him: in real life, in the depths of his dreams, full of metamorphoses and leaving Irfane his glove when he kisses his hand. He's clung to it for only the past three years or so. Part of him feels like Thibaut should never know, lest he withdraw his favours entirely.

So that's how it goes at the end of every night, Irfane gazing at Thibaut gazing into nothing.
In the night there is the tragic and the enchantment. This is their intersection. Irfane doesn't know a word to suit both.

Only innocence knows that.

(His hand twitches, moves towards Thibaut's - then draws back.)

There is a language only the innocent know. It's best exemplified in the kind of I love you children chirp when they cling to parental figures and beloved things - when they sincerely think that more is better, sweet wordy je t'aime biens and intense bursts of je t'adore painting over the core idea. Irfane has long since forgotten this language, but Thibaut still seems to know it. His demeanour can so seldom be described without those additional features, and yet if Irfane does so, he'd lose the je t'aime lurking beneath the surface.
Every day he can either do justice to Thibaut or his feelings. Today he sides with Thibaut, as he's always done.

"Je t'adore," Irfane whispers - smiles at the sting of vulnerability - and leaves as quietly as he came. His morning has begun and he needs a smoke. He'll leave one in the pack for Thibaut later.

-----

5. Straightforward. Soft and heavy, like morning before the coffee’s started brewing.

In the night Irfane is there.
In the day as well.

Thibaut is often slow to wake. Irfane's long since tasked himself with brewing the morning coffee because of this. He makes it strong enough to jolt one out of the groggiest moods, but lately, Thibaut's been feeling uneasy about this state of affairs. He's not sure whether he wakes so slowly because he's become lazy, or because something's wrong with him, or because he likes Irfane caring for him; whatever the truth, this situation isn't tenable unless he does something about it.

"... Oh, you're... you're awake? I didn't expect - mon Dieu, what time is it?"

He's not ill. Thibaut rules that out the first time he tries out something new. He goes to bed at ten and wakes at six, and by the time Irfane peers around at ten to seven, he's bright and alert with a perfectly reasonable amount of sleep under his belt. Not laziness, either, not consciously so; with no one to witness his waking, he's quick to get a grip on himself. All that remains is a conclusion he's hesitant to accept. By the time Irfane finds him, he's still brooding, knees pulled to his chest and staring at the wall.

It's nothing against Irfane. But it seems to make him anxious. "Thibaut." He says softly as he sits down next to him. Thibaut looks away - a telling change from his usual demeanour, and one that cuts Irfane to the quick, although he'll never confess it - but soon hesitates, before turning back to face him fully. He's never let raw emotion overcome responsibility. "You don't seem like yourself. You can trust me with anything, you know that - what's wrong?"

Thibaut doesn't respond for a while. Unlike too many people in the world, however, he's honest about stating problems and solving them. "I'm long overdue for my turn," he says, and Irfane tilts his head. "I haven't shared in breakfast duty for some time, have I, and that's not right. I wanted to make you something for once. If you'd let me?"

Irfane near melts with relief. Thibaut is glad to see him glad, at least until he starts feeling guilty again. It flares up stronger when Irfane also follows him into the kitchen, tying his own apron around his waist. "Since you insist: two eggs, hard-scrambled, with buttered toast on the side," he says as he reaches for the coffee. His strong back tautens under his shirt. "I'll help, too. You still want your coffee how you usually take it, or are you too awake?"

Thibaut's eyes are hooded as he turns to the frying pan, shamefaced but appreciative.

"How it usually is. I love what you do with it." It slips out, then, just like that. Thibaut pauses, but ultimately holds himself to what he said; honesty is better expressed frequently than not at all. "You do it so well, Chris."

But Irfane is silent for the rest of the morning and then he regrets ever saying anything.

-----

6. Casually, as if you don’t mean it. Trying like hell not to mean it.

Thibaut isn't the only one who emerges with regret that day.

They're good by afternoon. They always are. But for days and weeks Irfane thinks over what the other said, and for days and weeks he kicks himself for keeping that accursed silence. He ought to have said something. Anything. Even a few generic words would have sufficed (not that Irfane thinks Thibaut is worth that little), just so that Thibaut knew he appreciated the compliment. But the moment has been long lost, so he swallows his pride and waits for the next one - a chance, he'll soon discover, that proves a fickle customer.

Maybe he needs another dose of Xavier's blessing. Too bad he's busy with his own projects.

But yes, as mentioned previously: Xavier absolutely called it. Four years from when they sat together in that cafe, Irfane and Thibaut are indeed making a new album together, melding Irfane's identity seamlessly under the Breakbot moniker as if he'd always been there. "In a way, you always have been," was what Thibaut had to say about it, laughing heartily as he draped an arm around his shoulders. Hardly unjustified praise. For over half of Breakbot's existence Irfane worked with him; by this point, sharing the name is what he's owed, at the very least. How this compliment could cut so deep, Irfane has no idea - but he's dwelt on it ever since, swinging between elation and despair.

Not just that compliment, either. Any praise Thibaut has to offer him throws him into turmoil. Yes, he knows Thibaut adores his work; yes, he knows he's excellent at what he does, but he's getting really desperate now, because he doesn't want what he does to define all of his affections for Thibaut. His old promise has come back with a vengeance: love you all, he told everyone who supported him, and now every time Thibaut hears that phrase, he'll attribute to it no more than the casualness Irfane accustomed him to.

It's no longer the time for everyone, he thinks, only us.

Fortune lets Irfane glimpse her favour, at long last, during an afterparty. Just as quickly, she snatches it back. But not before allowing Irfane to register that he and Thibaut are alone, it wouldn't be entertaining otherwise; Thibaut's leaning back against the wall, his glass nearly empty, his hair tied up in a messy ponytail. His eyes are glazed with the evening and his fingers tremble for the lack of a cigarette, but Irfane has never seen anybody so utterly correct in his surroundings before.

"May I?" He slips him a Marlboro. The sides of Thibaut's eyes soften in gratitude. "I've got a li - oh shit, yeah, can't do that inside, can we?"

"No, but I'm happy to sneak out in a bit." He swirls his glass. "Get a new drink, too, while we're at it. How're you feeling, Chris, I'm beat."

Irfane would feel the same, but Thibaut never fails to lend him strength. "Not so tired I couldn't stay for a smoke and another drink. Still might be best to turn in for the night after."

"You said exactly what I was thinking." Thibaut downs the rest of his cocktail, slim elegant fingers pressing against his glass. Irfane tries not to stare. "Come on. Outside? Balcony?"

In a hypothetical scenario, followed by passionate wooing and Pedro warily pressing an ear against the backstage door, outside would have been the correct choice. But Irfane's logic, valid in its own right, is that they might be accosted by well-meaning friends, bouncers, or lingering partygoers there. So the balcony it is, two thin streams of smoke spiraling into the cold night air, Thibaut's arm snug against his and the traffic blinking distant beneath them. Perfect, as far as places for confessions go. "This is good, isn't it?" He whispers, his thumb tracing the edge of the cigarette filter.

Thibaut raises an eyebrow. "What can possibly be not good when you're by my side?"

"Mec, be serious," Irfane laughs, flicking away his cigarette, but his heart's aloft. How necessary he is to him, how precious. He takes in a deep breath. "... Thibaut, I..."

Thibaut's ringtone cuts through the air. His expression remains exactly the same, softly inquisitive, but as he fumbles for the phone in his pocket his gaze is no longer for Irfane alone. "Pardon," he says as he glances down at the text; Irfane falters without another word, the moment falling away like a crumb, too soon brushed away. "Vinco. Mass text. He's dropping by, he's heard we're in the area. What shall we do?"

Irfane groans inwardly. Would it have killed him to hold off for a minute? Vincent has a perfectly decent and well-accepted love life in his turn, which isn't helping the resentment. "Is he coming with Sebastian?" Thibaut shakes his head, then shrugs, indicating he's not sure. "I guess we should... uh, at least wait to say hi."

"Alright. We'll go after." Then just to add to the torment, Thibaut rests his hand atop Irfane's with such certain softness he feels like he's about to crack inside. "And I'll have a mojito while we wait, just so I can deal with him..."

"I'll get it." Irfane pats his shoulder and steps back from the balcony, feigning a stretch, face turned so the other won't see. Thibaut blinks and asks if he's sure, but he doesn't answer. "Watch my stuff, will you? Two mojitos."

"Two? Have I inspired you tonight?"

"Don't you always?" His laughter rings like marble in an empty glass. "Love you, Thibaut. Be back in five minutes."

He was right. Thibaut does not hear us when he hears that word.

Mojitos are better at home anyway, he thinks.

(Home: another word an us cannot yet be assumed for.
Irfane swirls his drink, thinks of his own neglected apartment on the opposite end of Paris, and swigs the realization with a grimace. It is a silk and bitter sensation.)

-----

7. With a song on your lips.

Can't you see that in the meantime
I'm just a bird without wings,
And I am longing to take flight
Unexplainable attraction,
Like a mayfly and the light...

This is a reflection on the cadence.

They're at a restaurant. Irfane's friends with the owner, a man who collects souvenir shotglasses and saves them bottles of red in vintages they've never tried and likes to play their music when they're around. Right now they're halfway through, By Your Side and their dinner both; Irfane steps out to take a call, and Thibaut looks up as the familiar song comes on, dabbing his mouth with the napkin.

Official policy is that Thibaut doesn't pick favourites. He can be silent or wax lyrical about any of his songs as he wishes, because they're his songs. He wouldn't have created them if he hadn't wanted to bestow a charm unique to each and every one. (Call it his interview answer.) But deep inside, he's only human, and he has a softer spot for some songs in his heart than the others. This is one of them.

But my hopes keep on disappearing
As you vanish out of sight...

Thibaut leans back, closes his eyes, and indulges.

It's not often he does that. Nothing to do with official policy. Thibaut's one of the more easygoing producers in the label, but he too likes to look ahead, preferring to focus on the future than dwell in the past. But without the past to ground him, he wouldn't know how to choose a direction to steer himself in. Tonight he's decided that Irfane provides it. It's no coincidence that he has a soft spot for all of their collaborations above all else.
He especially thinks of 'The Mayfly and the Light' as Irfane's song more than any of the others; Irfane gave him the lyrics for that one, as well as the interpretation, almost the moment Thibaut proclaimed the music complete. Irfane was as cool as ice for 'Baby I'm Yours', aptly contemplative for 'Another Dawn' and 'A Mile Away' - but he's dreamy here, sweet-voiced and plaintive, liquid enchantment in Thibaut's ears to this day. (He has no idea of any advice Xavier might have given Irfane during this period, but he did ask Irfane to stay by virtue of his work on this song.) 'The Mayfly and the Light' was completed so quickly they never had the chance to discuss it much, but Thibaut's thought on it enough for both of them.

He still marvels at how Irfane handles the chorus, voice rising and softening to absolute tenderness, flawless progression from his crooned, agave-scented verses. He embodies the song's spirit best, Thibaut thinks, in the way he sings the 'unexplainable': he skips a small half-beat in that line before he begins, an effect Thibaut hadn't suggested and doesn't carry over to the second half of the chorus. That pause ('-un-ex-plainable') quickens the breath and hastens the word; he'd say it adds the sense of falling, past the music or down an abyss or into love, preserving the flutter of the enraptured heart - akin to a mayfly's wings, indeed, quite unexplainable. Magic shines brighter when it's subtle.

That's Irfane all over, really. Thibaut smiles quietly as the song comes to an end. He's loud, he's brash, he's outgoing - but Thibaut gets to see him beneath all of that, inundated with sleep and charm over cinnamon pancakes or shyly offering suggestions. He could ask for nothing more other than for this status quo to hold, for the magic to continue. As he sips the wine and contemplates the dessert menu out of the corner of his eye, he sees Irfane return: windswept, bright-eyed, oddly determined.

"Is everything all right?" He asks as Irfane sits down. ("I'm cool," Irfane nods, and hastily returns to his pasta.) "Our song came on while you were gone, I was thinking of you. You must be tired of me complimenting your singing by now, but what can I say? - It's the truth."

Irfane chuckles wryly with him at that. Thibaut has no idea what he just sparked in him. "Hey... Thibaut?"

"Mm?"

The owner is trying to talk on the phone in the background.
He twists a dial. The music volume briefly drops to nil. Pin-drop silence.

Irfane turns his fork slowly in his hand.

"... Chris?"

He raises his head to meet Thibaut's eyes and the status quo comes crashing down.

-----

8. Over a nervous smile, biting back the just-this-side-of-desperate hope they’ll say it back.

He doesn't believe him.

-----

9. Slipped under your tongue, twisted into something else.

This is only a brief moment, but an important one. Thibaut's mind races as he tightens his hands in his pockets, conscious of Irfane's downcast head beside his, as they wait for the lights to change.

I wasn't actually calling anybody out there.

Irfane's voice, neither cool nor dreamy nor contemplative.

I was practicing. I had an entire speech prepared, thought it might catch your attention better.

Hoarse, rather. Desperate. Thibaut's only ever heard Irfane speak in that tone a few times, always when he worried that Thibaut was injured, wronged, or unresponsive. Irfane was always more collected about his own pain.

But sitting here, looking at you, on top of all the years we've been through together... I don't think I'll need it.

He must have been hurting so bad Thibaut can't even process it.

I'm in love with you, Thibaut.

The lights change and they hurry on.

They haven't talked yet. Not really. Irfane was quick to reassure him that he expected no immediate answer; clearly he thought Thibaut wouldn't believe him, that his confession was doomed to blow over, even before he mustered up the courage for it. "I know I put you in an awkward position," he'd said, nervously twisting the edge of his napkin. "and I want you to know I... I never want to do anything to make you uncomfortable, no matter how I feel. I'm happy for us to never speak of it again if that's the best thing to do."
But it's not that Thibaut doesn't believe him. He's stunned, but if he had to place a word to this feeling he'd say he was elated. His current paralysis is him chiding himself for putting Irfane in this position - Thibaut's never been dishonest, but he could have been bolder before things turned out like this. It's just that a restaurant, accompanied by unfinished plates, was no place to hash out those intimate feelings in detail. "Not here," was the only thing he could think to say, the moment they were both done. "let's go."

Irfane had looked at him so sadly. "If you want me to go ahead-"

"No," Thibaut had been very firm about that. "with you."

His intent was read. Irfane had seemed more hopeful then, knowing Thibaut wasn't rejecting him. But silence is long and hope is fragile. They really need to close the door behind them and be together, safe and private, within the next few seconds. Thibaut's too aware that his prolonged silence is setting off all sorts of alarm bells in Irfane's head, and curses the endless stream of traffic ahead of them, sealing them off only a bridge away from home. At this state, when they're finally alone, the two of them might just dissolve into a mess of apologies instead of getting anything done. Irfane looks like he's hovering two steps behind; to show him that he's still here and willing to talk, Thibaut wordlessly reaches out for him at the final set of lights, pulling him close and squeezing his shoulder in reassurance.

Irfane hesitates - and leans in, just as silently, shaking as he exhales.

-----

10. With a soft sigh. Past exhaustion and frustration and despair, like it’s the only good thing left.

All masks crack open the moment they are alone.

Irfane's held out as best as he could, but then he sees Thibaut stoop to unlock the door for what he catastrophizes as the last time, and he just can't take it any more. "I'm - I'm sorry, Thibaut, I'm so, so sorry," he blurts out, hiding a sob behind his hand. The tears haven't reached his eyes yet, but they are there, boiling tempestuous over the deepest fount of his heart. "I never expected you to say yes, God knows I just sprung this on you without warning, but this is killing me. I need you to say something. Please. If you don't want to think about it tonight that's fine, if you want me to go home I understand-"

Little does he know this is the first time Thibaut's thought twice about that word: home.
Little does he know that Thibaut understands, just like that. Thibaut always took for granted that Irfane knew he'd been enfolded into his hospitality, exactly like how he was embraced into Breakbot. Knowing Irfane had been destabilized all along spurs him into action: before he can melt into tears, Thibaut presses him against the wall and kisses him without a word, tilting his head up to meet lips better. The door clicks shut behind them. They haven't even turned on the light. The Parisian traffic can't be heard where they are, and so they stay suspended there, rustles of fabric and breath and pounding heartbeats the only sound.

Sometimes you come to an edge that just breaks off.

It's a good thing. Little by little Irfane becomes aware of the details -Thibaut's hair against his cheek, how his arms have gravitated around Irfane's torso, the kittenish tickle of his tongue against the tip of Irfane's own. It's a good kiss because it's so certain; Thibaut has his knees buckling like years have passed since his confession, as if this was mere routine between them.
Thibaut has such a gentlemanly mouth. A dream image of their set flashes past Irfane's eyes, the pink parted lips and Thibaut standing pretty behind them. He still doesn't know the secret behind those lips, nor that he's just tapped into Thibaut's thoughts on the matter - but the important thing is that at long last, he's on the track to finding out. After a short eternity Thibaut parts from him, leaving behind a small nuzzle and a diver's sigh. Irfane stays there, dazed, staring into the cosmos.

"This has always been your home." Thibaut says softly. Without further ado he turns the light on, dispelling the universe and painting their home around them, all over again for Irfane's sake. Gold milk spills across their shoes. "I wanted to make that very clear before anything else. That's why I insisted we come here, Chris, so that we could talk about us without interruptions."

Irfane is speechless. Thibaut's thumb traces the edge of his lip.

"I'm sorry I was quiet for so long. Seeing you made me realize I made hasty assumptions about the two of us: I thought you were content with how things were, if anything, that I was demanding too much of you." Thibaut reaches forwards and holds him tight, sighing into his hair. "I was just too afraid to ask for more. That's on me, Chris. I will never tell you to go away, so please, don't be sad. You have no idea how much I've longed to kiss on you."

Irfane stares at him. Slowly, though, he begins to chuckle - then to laugh, swallowing back the good kind of tears. That's a strange sentence in every language they have between them, but the little sense it does make in love's terms, oh, how excellent it is. "Kiss on me," he chokes out, then throws his arms around Thibaut's narrow waist, opened again to innocence. "you damned fool. You gave me such a fright."

"I never was all that good at words. You write the pretty ones."

"You did absolutely fine." Irfane kisses him again. It's briefer this time, but full of promise. "Although I think it'd do my heart good to hear it again. Please, Thibaut?"

"Very well."

Thibaut leads him in, sits them both down on the sofa, holding Irfane's hand. Five years of desire wash through their bodies. "My home has been yours since you first visited, Chris, almost from the moment you walked into my life. Everything here is yours as well as mine. That includes myself, since you ask." He kisses his forehead. Irfane sighs contentedly and links their fingers together. "Thank you for asking, Chris. Thank you for always being there. Know that I love you, and that I want to be more to you than I currently am."

"You always were." Thibaut raises his eyebrows, questioning. "Every time I've said I loved you, I meant it. Even when you were with everyone else, even during all those afterparties, even if it sounded casual at the time."

Thibaut ponders upon this for a while. The responsible half of him wants to scold Irfane very gently, lavishing him with kisses and fond little sighs, asking how he was meant to tell - but then, he hasn't been much better in that regard. All too often he'd wrapped up his je t'aimes for Irfane tightly, embedding them in casual greetings and well-wishes, but without ever saying it out loud. Irfane smiles beside him, knowing what he's thinking; Thibaut cuddles him with a happily-resigned sigh. "How on earth did we say it so many times and still end up missing every instance?"

"Don't ask me. I guess we're just too polite for our own good."

"Maybe, although you do remind me. We never stayed for dessert, did we, would you like a drink?"

The same question that brought Irfane to his home, the First Question, loaded with years of meaning. Irfane may not want a mojito right now, but the willingness to make him one is there, as well as everything else, from snacks to affection to beds in which they can awake sweet next to each other. Irfane knows this, but nudges him on the rib, demanding to hear it clearly. "Try again."

Thibaut smiles. Innocence finds a way, always extravagant, always honest, always truthful. "Would you like to stay forever?"

Irfane laughs and buries his face into the other's shoulder. "That's more like it."

That's all they need, really.