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Louis first noticed them sometime in the mid afternoon, when the spring sunshine was stretching across the drawing room in glittering shafts.
The daffodils were set upon the coffee table, a bouquet of around five or six perfect flowers, their crowns angled proudly in the midst of striking yellow petals. A purple, satin ribbon gathered their stems together, tied off in a neat bow.
Louis fetched a glass vase with some water along with his pot of tea from the kitchen. He’d made it for himself as a reward for completing MI6’s latest report, which he set atop the table as he sipped his drink. The ribbon was undone, the flowers slipped into the crystalline water. The disturbance in its surface sent fragments of light dancing across the paperwork in the brown envelope.
The completion of the report was a weight lifted from Louis’s shoulders. Finally, through the combined efforts of MI6, William and Sherlock, they had successfully shut down an illegal trading route through Liverpool, funded by the corrupt aristocracy. The write up had taken quite some time— partly due to the complexities of the operation, but also, in truth, because between every other line Louis wrote, he found himself having to take pause to refocus his mind.
The time he had spent in Liverpool with agent 006 had been more than a little memorable, but for reasons entirely unrelated to their mission.
A door creaked open, rousing Louis from his thoughts. He looked up from the report and the flowers to find a head full of unruly, dark hair poking around the door frame.
“Good afternoon, Louis.”
“Ah, Fred,” Louis set his cup onto its saucer. “I’ve just seen the flowers. Thank you— it’s nice to see a touch of spring make its way into here. Are they from your flower beds?”
It wasn’t uncommon for Fred to take a little time out to brighten the rooms and halls of Universal Exports with his arrangements, usually carefully cultivated by his own green fingers. Admittedly, the bouquets he set around the place tended to be a bit more elaborate than the simple bunch of golden flowers Louis had stumbled upon this afternoon. But there was something in the simplicity of this particular offering that Louis couldn’t help but admire. Daffodils, or Narcissi, were quite the proud flowers— heralding the beginning of spring, and the hope for brighter days ahead. Sometimes it was better to allow such beautiful symbols to stand alone.
Fred was frowning at the vase. “Oh, they weren’t from me.”
Louis looked between Fred and the flowers. “Oh. How … strange.”
“Perhaps Ms. Moneypenny?” Fred ventured.
“Doubtful. She’s out on some administrative errands with Mr. Bonde for Director Holmes today.”
“Ah. Albert, then? Or William?”
Of course, that must be it.
It was normally an evening event; the presentation of gifts and the small fuss they made of Louis each year— a fuss he had still not discovered how to receive with grace and lack of red face, even now. He was grateful to his brothers for making his birthday an altogether understated affair between just the three of them. While the gifts and toast of wine were shared only with William and Albert, Louis suspected Fred, too, had cottoned on to the significance of the date sometime before William’s demise at the Thames. In the three-year-long absence of his brothers, Fred had made a point to sit with Louis later into the evening on that specific February date each time it came around, making conversation about his cats and his gardening, although there were no outward mentions of birthdays or celebration, and they only ever drank tea together. Somehow, Louis couldn’t bring himself to toast his life without William at his side, anyway.
“Yes. You might be right, Fred. A sensible suggestion. I’ll make sure to thank them later.”
***
The opportunity presented itself just as the sun was beginning to set for the day. Louis’ office, usually a trap for any afternoon sunshine, had grown dim, and he considered lighting the gas lamps.
A knock rebounded at the door, the tap—tap—tap a familiar and very comforting pattern.
“Come in!” Louis called.
Both William and Albert stepped into M’s office.
“Evening, Louis,” William flashed his gentle smile. “You’re not still pouring over that Liverpool report, are you?”
Louis shook his head, rising from his desk. “No, that’s all complete.” He nodded at his eldest brother. “The envelope is waiting for you to hand deliver to Mycroft at your earliest convenience, Albert.”
Albert grinned, tucking his hands into the pockets of his coat, which he was still wearing. The pair had been out in the suburbs running some personal errands which had taken them away for most of the afternoon.
“Of course, Louis. I’ll see to it right away.” He inclined his head, turning back towards the door.
“Oh, thank you for the flowers. That was a very kind gesture from you both.” Louis could feel the heat creeping into his cheeks as Albert hesitated, hand half-lifted towards the handle.
He exchanged a look with William.
“Flowers?” William asked.
“Yes.” Louis frowned. “The daffodils you left on the coffee table.”
Albert dropped his hand, turning back around, head tilted in consideration.
“Ah,” William lifted a knuckle to his chin. “We didn’t leave any flowers on the coffee table.”
Louis blinked.
“Perhaps Fred?” William offered.
Louis shook his head. “No, no. It wasn’t Fred. It wasn’t anyone I’d expect to simply—“
He stopped himself short.
A peculiar notion hit him like a brick to the chest.
As unbelievable as it was.
“You know,” William said. “Sherlock has a saying, for when you’re trying to unravel a mystery. When you have eliminated every other possibility, whatever remains, however improbable—“
“Yes, yes I think I have heard him use it,” Louis interrupted. “Thank you. Well, I’m all finished up in here for the day now, and there are one or two other things I must see to before I can retire for the evening, so if you’ll both excuse me.”
He swept past his desk, past unfinished expenses forms he had been working through, past his two brothers, who were exchanging more quizzical looks, and out into the hallway.
It seemed he wouldn’t be needing the gas lamps lit, after all.
***
When he found him, he was not alone.
The dusk was streaked like a watercolour scene, the setting sun painting the London skyline with a palette of warmth which contrasted with the rapidly cooling air. Despite the oncoming chill, the breeze which fingered through Louis’s hair as he walked was soft and fragrant, filled with the earthy scents of spring.
Universal Exports, though at the centre of the hustle and bustle of London on Piccadilly Circus, still boasted a quaint little walled garden to its rear. It was here that Fred grew his roses, and the other members of MI6 would find brief moments of peaceful respite between the pressures of working to protect the people of the British Empire.
There was a wooden bench at one end of a manicured lawn, preceded by a gently meandering path. Upon it, two men sat; one with a long, dark ponytail, the other with a bulky, black overcoat.
Cigarette smoke wound up into the air above their heads as they gazed at a cluster of neatly pruned trees, a sea of daffodils sprouting beneath them.
They did not seem to hear Louis approach.
“… wasn’t a bad attempt, but I’ll have you making shots like that with your eyes closed by the time I’m finished.”
A scoff.
“I’m still a bit bloody put out by the whole thing. He does realise I more than know my way around a firearm, doesn’t he? S’as if I haven’t had his brother out of numerous sticky situations with a gun over the last three years. Never mind all the incidents before that. I’ve had Billy the Kid coaching me before now, for Christ’s sake.”
“Sure you have. He’s not all that, though. As a matter of fact, he and I went a few rounds down at the range the day after you all came—“
Louis cleared his throat loudly as he came to a halt on the grass behind them.
Holmes and Moran both turned in his direction so sharply Louis wondered how their necks didn’t snap.
“Louis …” Holmes stared at him, mouth hanging open, cigarette clinging precariously to his bottom lip.
Moran, on the other hand, had turned back around just as swiftly, staring at the shrubbery before him with renewed intensity.
“Good afternoon. You’ve both returned from the shooting range already, I see. I hope you found the afternoon productive, Mr. Holmes?”
“Oh yeah.” Holmes sucked on the butt of his cigarette in a manner that suggested he was taking great pains not to elaborate on that answer.
“I see.” Louis glanced at the back of Moran’s head. “There are a few matters I’d like to discuss with Mr. Moran. If you’d excuse us, please.”
Holmes made rather an ordeal of raising off the bench, huffing around his cigarette as he buttoned his coat. He nodded and saluted solemnly to Moran, in the manner a person might send a soldier off into battle.
“My brother is back from his errands, by the way,” Louis threw over his shoulder off-handedly as Holmes set off up the path.
He did not received a verbal response, but there was no mistaking the way the beat of footfalls on the stone picked up pace.
He walked around to the front of the bench, seating himself in Holmes’ place.
“Earlier today, I came across a bunch of daffodils which had been left in the drawing room.”
Moran did not look at him. He dragged on his cigarette, hanging his elbow over the arm of the bench when exhaling to the side.
Beneath his jacket, Louis felt the hairs on his arms rise, goosebumps smattering across his skin. Perhaps it was the result of walking so swiftly out of the building that he’d forgotten to pick up his overcoat. Or perhaps it was the effect of the man sitting beside him.
Smoke curled lazily in the air, an earthy, resinous tang stealing the sweeter notes of the daffodils.
“Do you like flowers?”
It was not a question he had been expecting.
“I … think it was rather a bold move.”
Moran looked at the cigarette in his hand. His lips twitched. Lines creased his clean-shaven skin, briefly framing a smile that vanished as quickly as it appeared—but not before imprinting itself in Louis’ mind, nestled among every other smile he had ever caught before. “It’s your birthday.”
Blast. So he knew, too.
Louis cleared his throat, frowning at his own hands now, face heating, searching for the best way to alter the course of the conversation—
“Happy Birthday, Lou.”
He looked back up at Moran before he could help himself. The earnestness of the view before him stole his breath; the sunset, the daffodils, the sounds of London, the breeze toying with his hair … all of it melted into a blandness far surpassed by the perfection to be found in a sharply cut jawline, eyes of flint all too often edged with a reckless capriciousness, brows now lifted in a manner so docile, it tugged crows feet into faintness, a war between youth and experience which had reached its peak in Moran’s fourth decade.
“I usually celebrate much later in the evening.” Louis rose from the bench, smoothing his trousers, pausing only to allow the next words to escape before he had chance to overthink them. “Feel free to find me then.”
***
On the surface, their partnership after returning from Liverpool adopted the same indifference as had been found when leaving for there: there were no verbal acknowledgments made, no profound changes in their demeanour towards one another, no differences in the routine of working as superior and agent.
Who would have been eagle-eyed enough to notice the way they stood half an inch closer together in a group, the way Louis’ gaze lingered just a fraction longer in Moran’s direction when he addressed a room, the way the teapot was always left prepared to brew a pot of camomile infused relief when Moran would wander into the kitchen in the loneliest hours?
Certainly one man might; the man who perhaps knew both of them better than any other living soul on earth at that current point in time.
But William chose not to speak such observations aloud. It was about time, after all, that the pair of them resolved whatever odd tension had existed between them for so very long. Better not to spook them before they’d even fully decided what it meant. These things could take time, he understood all too well himself.
It was for this reason that, despite his own ache of guilt at having missed the previous three, William made a point of cutting Louis’ humble 27th birthday celebrations shorter than usual. He ushered Albert and his half-finished bottle of wine out of the Universal Exports drawing room at 11 o clock prompt, choosing to ignore the 6ft 6 silhouette he had caught lingering beyond the doorway 10 minutes prior.
***
“Thought they’d never leave, Jesus Christ.”
“I do like flowers.”
Words rushed between them, breathless, careless, incoherent conversation as Louis found himself wedged against a bookcase by Moran’s enthusiasm.
“Thank god, s’always worked for me in the past, but you’re not—”
“— a woman?”
“—easily pleased,” Moran growled, breath hot against the shell of Louis’s ear as his fingers folded greedily into the material of his nightgown.
Louis sucked in a breath, head tilting backwards to collide with another of William’s many thick volumes. He closed his eyes, clinging on to any shred of decency he might still possess as Moran’s reverent, messy kisses seared into his skin, trailing in a molten path down his jaw and throat.
“We should be careful,” he managed, half groan, half whisper as Moran deftly undid the sash at his front, revealing Louis’ neatly buttoned nightshirt beneath. “Everyone saw what you left today.”
Moran hummed in agreement, but his words were contradictory: “Are you ashamed?”
A very good question.
But Louis wasn’t. Not of the gifted flowers, not of Moran, not of what they were doing, but—
“It complicates things. You—” Louis cut himself off, gasping as Moran’s prosthetic splayed against his stomach, cold and rigid through two layers of cotton, and spanning almost the entire width of his torso. He was pressed back into the shelves. “If we’re doing this, you shouldn’t be working under me.”
Moran paused in his worshipping of Louis’s neck. He twitched a brow at Louis, that devilish smile that could so easily undo all the resistance in a man flickering over his lips in challenge. “Really? Since when did we follow all these bloody rules.”
“If Director Holmes were to find out …”
“Mycroft Holmes is too busy with his eye on Albert to give a damn if one of his subordinates is adopting the same work ethic as he once did. The man is a lot of things but he doesn’t strike me as a hypocrite, Lou. He’s got more sense than that.”
Louis flushed hotly. The image of his brother and superior engaged in anything illicit behind closed doors was certainly not something he wished to entertain when Moran had one hand teasing under the hem of his nightshirt at the small of his back, the other dangerously close to the throbbing erection in his slacks.
Still, while his reputation was important, it was not Director Holmes’ opinion of him that he was concerned about. Moreover, it was the fact that his ability to do a job could be brought into question. Louis was worth little to them all if his leadership was deemed flawed.
And yet, even more than that—
He swallowed, bracing himself against a shelf edge with the heels of his palms. “You are a military man. You, of all people, should understand the dangers of compromised judgement.”
Moran’s fingers stilled, their warmth disappearing from the base of Louis’s spine. He eased back, his touch reappearing at Louis’s cheek. A thumb ran the line of loyalty, a mark charred so deeply into Louis’s skin that it met the fabric of his soul.
“You think I’ll lose my respect for you?” Moran murmured, and now his voice was edged with something delicate; that steady finger of his brushing against a trigger, featherlight, a hair’s breadth from devastation. “That I’ll question your orders because I’ve had you laid out under me on a bed?”
Louis’s gut tightened.
How he wanted to be back there, in that draughty little Liverpool hotel room with its tarnished mirror and its creaking floorboards and its roaring grate, the world seemingly caught in a state of suspended animation beyond those four walls as Louis’s entire sense of reality unravelled within. He had discovered precipices and depths to pleasure he’d never imagined possible, all at Moran’s touch, his lips, his whispered promises and Louis' begged releases.
“It’s only natural,” Louis heard himself say, his body present in the drawing room of Universal Exports, his mind wrapped in bedsheets behind a locked door.
To his surprise, Moran let out a little huffed laugh.
“Well, then. S’pose flowers aren’t really much of a gesture. So let’s try this.”
A metal grip wrapped in a glove found Louis’s hand at the shelf edge. Fingers slid between Louis’s own, an intrusion, hot skin parting for cold steel readily until their hands lay joined snugly against mahogany and book spines.
Moran held him tightly— not so tightly as to hurt, but enough to impress upon Louis the commitment in the words that followed:
“From now on, any command you give me, I’ll follow without question. That’s a promise. My life is yours, Louis. Do what you want with it.”
Moran didn’t wait for a reply. He kissed all the remaining breath from Louis, cradling his face, holding his hand.
“Since it is your birthday, feel free to test out my resolve. I’ll be in my room.”
Louis watched him leave, the distance to the door turned trivial by the strides of his long legs.
His heart beat wildly in his chest— irrationally so, something about the image of Moran’s retreating back triggering the ache of parting that Louis was so intimately familiar with.
He wrapped his nightgown around himself, re-tying the sash, acutely aware of his vulnerability in such a communal space, where anyone might stroll in to find him looking so disheveled. He took a deep breath, and he scrambled to reorder his thoughts. To employ some sort of reasoning before his feet carried him away on instinct.
It was silly. It wasn’t like before. Like all the times Louis had watched such things happen in the past. Moran wasn’t going anywhere. He would be in his room, like always, if Louis chose to seek him out.
He itched to follow in hot pursuit, but there was a stubbornness within him which made him hesitate.
So, instead, he took himself off to the kitchen, resolving to make himself a drink at least, before he did anything too reckless.
***
The clock on Moran’s mantlepiece ticked.
He tried to pretend he wasn’t aware of it; wasn’t counting every last second of being denied the opportunity to finish what he had started.
He wanted Louis to stop holding back. For too long, Louis had lived his life at the bequest of others: William, Albert, now Mycroft Holmes. But what did Louis want, really? What would Louis do, if the shackles of duty and expectation were lifted from his shoulders? What would he do, with a person that promised unconditional servitude to his cause?
Moran had seen flashes of Louis’ inner fire— usually, when there was a knife in his hand and blood on his shoes. Louis had as much steel— as much will— as any of them, but all too often it was tempered by fear of rejection. Moran had lived enough years by now and had both served and commanded enough men to recognise such a trait when he saw it.
“Speak what’s on your mind,” he’d once implored. Well, now. Time to see what Louis would do with an entire room of silence to fill.
The clock continued to tick.
Moran shifted to the edge of his bed, hunched over in his half-buttoned shirt and trousers. Elbows rested on knees as he flexed his prosthetic, staring at the parts of his glove which had begun to wear thin.
Perhaps the flowers had been the better gesture, after all. Perhaps he should have swallowed his words back down and just kissed all the reservations right out of Louis’ head.
But unlike Louis, Moran was not one for keeping his thoughts to himself.
Finally, it came: that quick-fire double knock which only M used.
Moran straightened. Louis did not wait for the invitation to enter, likely unwilling to be caught slipping into a bedroom that was not his own at this hour.
He pressed the door closed gently with his back, his hands tucked neatly behind him. Both men stared at one another for a long moment.
Moran kept his mouth firmly closed, despite himself.
“I think you might have misunderstood me, earlier,” Louis said evenly.
Moran cocked a brow. “How so?”
When Louis brought his hands around to his sides, something fluttered against his thigh, gleaming in the lamplight. Purple.
A satin ribbon.
Moran glanced at it, then lifted his gaze back to Louis. Waiting. Intrigued.
“It’s not what I think you won’t do under my leadership, that has me doubtful. Rather, what you will.”
Moran could smell the wine on Louis, now. More so than before. He wondered whether Albert's bottle was still half-full on the kitchen counter.
“Go on," he coaxed, hands threaded together before him as he listened intently.
“Sentimentality is a sure-fire way to cloud judgement. Certainly enough to get oneself killed, under certain circumstances.”
Louis took the ribbon between both hands; ran fingers along its length absently, smoothing it out.
Moran watched the elegant twist of his fingers, transfixed. “Ah.”
Louis was concerned that Moran’s judgement was impaired enough by their new-found closeness to get himself done in?
Interesting.
“I’d prefer it if you kept your life, Moran, rather than give it to me.”
Moran ran his tongue over his bottom lip, chapped from being out in the elements with his rifle all day as he taught Holmes how to think like a sniper. He rubbed his jaw. “You do realise that my say in this matter only goes so far,” he pointed out, knowing he was about to say far more than he should. “Since I’m also sworn to your brother, albeit for different reasons.”
Louis stared at him a beat longer, violet eyes intense as he digested the words. Then his eyes fell to the floor. His knuckles paled as he gripped the ribbon tighter.
It seemed that William would always be the card that could trump both of their hands.
Louis must live. Above all else, Louis must live.
Moran’s life was Louis’s entirely; it would always be expendable where Louis might be put at risk. The ironic thing was, nothing about their evolving relationship had changed this.
It had always been fact. William had made it so long ago.
Moran cleared his throat. “That’s the ribbon from my flowers, hm?” He eyed it, and then locked eyes with Louis once again. He could see the fire now; see it through the purplish sheen to Louis’ irises. The tell-tale violent, crimson flecks were glowing. “What are you planning to do with it in here?”
Louis’ gaze swept over him beneath long lashes, and the sudden flash of anguish Moran had witnessed at the mention of William had vanished. Now he was once again Louis with a singular goal in mind.
Appraising. Haughty.
Already, Moran could feel himself getting hard.
“As M, there may be times where I ask you not to act. Can you promise me that you’ll obey such a request?”
Sit. Stay.
Moran knew what he was being asked. Still—
“I made a promise to William.”
Louis’ jaw tightened. “Then you are dismissed from your position as a 00 agent.”
Moran scoffed.
Louis did not speak. He began to fold the ribbon back upon itself, pocketing it.
Moran gawped. “You’re serious? What, here? Now? Like this? You’re just going to dismiss—”
Bright eyes snapped back to his, tumultuous enough to burn skin without the barrier of lenses. “You are either mine to do with as I please or you are not. Please choose.”
Fuck. Well, hadn’t this been what Moran had hoped for? Hadn’t he wanted Louis to pursue his own desires regardless of the expectations of others, for once?
Louis looked down his nose at him. Moran grit his teeth, his mind whirring.
He had hoped to relinquish a little control to Louis in matters of their — what was this, a relationship? — but not like this.
“You gonna give me some time to think about this, or …?”
“I refuse to lead someone who prioritises my life over their own. I— I will not lose someone else dear to me.”
Dear to me. For a moment, the words set off a warmth which spread through Moran’s chest. But it was short-lived.
He tutted loudly. “You’re not just a life though are you? You’re M. I’m an expendable agent. Now who’s choosing sentimentality over sound judgement?”
“No. I’m asking for clarity before we move forwards. Either I will have you entirely, with me, trusting my intentions with regards to my own safety, or not at all. I trust my brother’s judgement implicitly, but I will not have either of you hold my life in higher regard than your own.” Louise’s voice grew stronger with each word, his conviction taking root between them like sprawling ivy, clinging to Moran, threatening to bind them together irrevocably, even as he faced the possibility of being removed from Louis’ side professionally. “Please choose, Moran.”
Moran swallowed.
Christ, he was a stubborn bastard. “Fine, I’ll have a word with William and—”
“You’ll do no such thing. If William asks you to stay by my side, to watch my back, then so be it. But you will promise me that you won’t ever do so recklessly at the risk to your own life. You’ll listen to my wishes on the matter before making any judgement calls of your own.”
Moran rolled his eyes. He leaned back onto the bed, elbows planted in the duvet. “Well that’s a lovely idea, innit, but I doubt there’ll be time for tea and a lengthy discussion on the matter when it comes down to it. If I need to protect you—“
“I can protect myself, if the alternative is a risk to your life.” Even in his nightgown, with his shorter stature, Louis struck an imposing figure at the doorway. He loomed while Moran lay back on the bed, still the stronger physically.
But in will?
“Choose. Now. Is your life really mine to keep, or are you relinquishing your agent status?”
He was entirely M now. It was the voice of a man who had been forced to find his own feet in the world, left alone for three years. The urge to cling to things around him too precious to lose had clearly only intensified, but now he knew how to get what he wanted as a leader, rather than a petulant child.
If Moran got himself dismissed from Louis’ side, William would string him up. But he didn’t want to lie—
Moran sat forwards again, running both hands through his hair. “Bloody tie me up with that ribbon, Lou. Do something. Anything other than this. Because I can’t—ah, shit. This is blackmail.”
The response was sniper-fast. “You said yourself, we don’t play by rules. Let’s not forget who we are.”
“Hell!” Moran growled, clenching his fists against his thighs. “Fine. I won’t do anything stupid. Won’t go jumping in front of any bullets for you, shit like that. But you’re gonna have to promise me you won’t put yourself in the path of them.”
“No. Tonight is my birthday. The only one promising anything is you.”
Christ. The bloody flowers were enough. Why’d he open this door? Why’d he let him have the upper hand like this? They could be long-occupied under the sheets he was sat on by now, if he’d just kept undoing Louis with his mouth rather than giving him these ridiculous sentiments.
Moran’s jaw ticked at his own idiocy. “Make me, then,” he threw back childishly.
“That’s coercion.”
“Aye. So it is. Hope you’re up to it, because my loyalties are not so easily tested.” He lifted his chin, baring his throat like a dog surrendering to its master. To hell with it, if Louis was really getting what he wanted tonight, they could at least both enjoy it. “Come on, then. Is that a leash in your pocket, or did you want me to wear a pretty bow?”
Heat flushed across Louis’ cheeks and down the length of his neck. Now he looked livid.
The grate in Moran’s room had long burned down to embers, but the air between them crackled and simmered.
Thus far, Louis had appeared content to follow Moran’s lead in their handful of desperate, secretive rendezvous since Liverpool. But Moran knew about that feral fire that burned deep within Louis; seething, incendiary, and he also knew it was rare for Louis to allow it to blaze at its full wind, even less so now that they were no longer so easily excused for violence.
He wanted to see how fiercely Louis could burn.
So he continued to stoke the blaze. “Come on, don’t back out now. You brought that in here for a reason, clearly.” Moran fought for his best condescending tone. “Might as well put it to good use. Let’s see if you can use that to make me—“
“Stop talking.”
Louis had stepped further into the room. He stood before him now, close enough to cast a shadow. Moran stayed seated, elbows on his knees, looking up. From here, he could see it all — the tremor in Louis’ fingers as he reached into his pocket, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.
“Gag me, then,” Moran said. “Not that it’ll get you any promises.”
Louis drew the ribbon back out from within his nightgown. “No.”
He stepped in closer, knees brushing. Moran arched a brow—half challenge, half invitation—and then Louis kissed him.
It began slow, molten and languid; quite distinct from what had transpired between them in the drawing room. But Moran was already impatient, and perhaps he’d misread the extent of Louis’s anger, because a tender hand came to his jaw as he began to deepen the kiss. Now he could taste the desperation on Louis’ tongue, along with the wine he’d been drinking with his brothers. Moran wanted to be drunk too, but in a different way.
He reached out, his fingers curling around the sash of Louis’ gown as a long, elegant hand found his throat in return.
He tugged.
Louis bit down on his lower lip.
“Shi—“
The word died before it could escape. Louis’ thumb pressed hard against his jugular. The pressure vanished as quickly as it came. Moran spluttered, tasting blood.
Louis pulled back, glaring. A dot of crimson glistened on his own lower lip.
Oh, he was livid, alright.
Before Moran could speak, something at his hip caught the light.
Louis’ gown was undone. Tucked into the waistband of his slacks was a knife.
Well.
Moran wiped his lip with his thumb, scowling at Louis. “Thought you wanted me alive?”
“And I thought you wanted coercing?”
“Was hoping it would involve a little less pain.”
“Liar.”
Moran growled. “You bring that here on my account, too?”
“No. As I said before, I am perfectly capable of being responsible for my own life.”
Moran didn’t remember seeing the weapon when he had Louis against the shelves in the drawing room. So he was making a point, then.
“And the ribbon?”
“Give me your left hand,” Louis said.
Despite himself, Moran obeyed.
Slow fingers wrapped satin around his wrist, winding the ribbon several times before finishing with a neat bow.
Moran snorted. “So you did want to make me look pretty?”
Louis rolled his eyes. “I’m gift-wrapping my birthday present.”
“Oh?”
Louis nodded at Moran’s prosthetic hand, which was dangling against his right thigh. “You may do as you wish with that.”
Moran frowned. “And this?” He held up his left hand, with its purple decoration.
“That,” Louis said softly. “Belongs to me.”
Moran grinned. “Ah, I see.” He reached forwards again, toying with the lower buttons on Louis’ nightshirt. “Fair enough. You can have it. How do you plan to use it?”
Louis’s lips curved into a faint, almost polite, little smirk—soft, precise, but with a flicker of something sharp beneath it. Moran felt like he’d missed a step on a staircase—gravity pulling him where he hadn’t expected.
Louis covered his hand gently, prying it away.
“I’m not. And neither are you.”
“Huh?”
“Put it on the bed and do not move it until I tell you to.”
“Hang on just a minute—“
“Do I have to tie it to the bedpost instead? You have that little self-control?”
Oh. Oh. He really was a sadistic little shit, after all.
Moran’s jaw pulsed as he glared, opening and closing his left fist, flexing the fingers that had been so close to undoing Louis less than an hour ago. Why on earth had he thought encouraging this was a good idea?
Tying him to a bedpost would be pointless—they both knew how easily Moran could escape if he wanted.
But maybe that was exactly the point.
Choice.
Moran lifted his prosthetic hand and studied it.
Cold. Dead. Unfeeling. Maybe that was why he’d taken Louis’ hand with it in the drawing room—perhaps he’d known all along the promise he was being asked to make was one he couldn’t keep.
He swallowed. He didn’t want to touch Louis with it. It was fine, functional, for fighting. But not for tenderness.
“And you?” he asked, lowering it slowly, eyes locking with Louis’s. Louis followed the movement with an intensity that made Moran’s pulse quicken. “What will you do while I’m incapacitated like this?”
Louis pressed his index finger to the knife handle tucked at his waistband. Then, with deliberate ease, he pulled it free—the blade’s sharp, silvery tip catching the light. He laid it gently on the bed beside Moran’s prosthetic hand, before re-fastening the sash of his nightgown. “Nothing. Yet.”
Moran chewed on the inside of his cheek as Louise perched himself on the bed beside the knife. His movements, as always, were elegant — too composed, too deliberate — like he was balancing on a knife’s edge himself.
“This is how you want to spend your birthday?”
“No. I wanted you to give me your word that you would not endanger yourself for me. And then I wanted to spend the rest of the night in your bed.”
Moran cursed under his breath, dragging his gloved hand down his face. “Louis— Christ— I don’t want to lie to you—“
“Then don’t. Swear your life to me and mean it.”
Moran slumped back into the sheets. He covered his eyes with his forearm. Satin tickled his cheek as he let out another growl of frustration.
The mattress shifted. Something brushed Moran’s thigh, and then that enticingly familiar weight settled across his hips.
Moran glanced beneath his arm. Louis was straddling him, knees pressed into the bed on either side. His face was a study in fury and determination, but held together in that dangerously composed way only he could manage. In one hand, gripped tightly but with purpose, was the knife.
It wasn’t pointed at Moran.
It was at his own throat.
“Oi, what—” Moran jolted upright, his bound, left hand twitching upward on instinct.
“Don’t.” Louis’ voice was quiet, but it cracked like a whip.
Moran froze. His hand hovered helplessly in the space between them, the satin bow a mocking ornament in the low lamplight.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice low, incredulous.
Louis’ expression didn’t falter. “Listen to me. No more. I refuse to do it— I won’t be left behind any more. You all ask this of me, but do you ever consider the unfairness of it?”
“Louis…”
“I have done it. I have lived without you. All of you.” Louis’ breath shuddered, but he didn’t look away. “I learned what it is to grieve, again, to move forwards, again, to carry the will and wishes of you all onwards. To live for the sake of everything that was sacrificed to allow me to do so.”
“I know, hey, listen—“
“And it was sheer agony.” Louis’ voice cracked. He swallowed. “Why must it always be me? Why am I given the responsibility? You, of all people, know what it’s like to be the only one who remains when the dust settles. To begin over again. To live with a heart that has lost too many fragments of itself is a pain worse than death.” He shook his head. “Please, don’t make me do it yet again. I don’t want to play that part anymore.”
Moran didn’t move. Didn’t reach for him, even though his whole body screamed to. “I’m not going to touch you, Lou. I’m not going to grab that knife, even though I want to—because I get it. I get what you’re trying to tell me. It’s your life.”
His voice went quieter. “And I also trust that you’re not a suicidal little shit.”
Like him.
And like William.
The silence between them pressed in, thick as blood.
“So, bloody hell—” Moran clenched his fist, knuckles blanching. He brought it to his forehead, grounding himself in the sensation, in the ache of restraint. He grit his teeth.
Say it.
Just say you won't die for him.
But it’s a fucking lie—
And perhaps, then, this was the true test of what love was supposed to be.
“Louis. Everyone—I—we—” Moran sucked in a breath. “You’re loved. That’s why. That’s why we’d rather die for you than live a life without you.”
Louis blinked slowly. “If that’s the case, then please—allow me to return the sentiment.”
Moran stared up at him.
He stared, and stared—and for the first time since their eyes had ever met, he realised he was truly seeing Louis in full.
All those times they’d clashed, challenged one another, measured strengths and silences. All the times Moran had felt picked apart beneath Louis’ gaze, stripped to sinew and sin—he’d thought Louis was the one doing the dissecting.
But he’d been wrong.
It wasn’t just abandonment Louis feared. It was being denied the chance to love in return. To love with the same impossible loyalty he had been shown.
Moran’s hand dropped back to the mattress with a dull thud, the purple ribbon trailing after like a soft surrender.
Above him, Louis didn’t move. The knife still hovered at his throat—not a real threat, they both knew, but more than enough to make his point. His gaze flicked to Moran’s open hand where it lay by his head.
“I’m all yours, kid,” Moran muttered, voice low, hoarse with the weight of it. “Do your worst.”
Louis fell upon him, their mouths meeting with clumsy desperation—the firestorm finally breaking. It knocked the breath from Moran. Every swipe of Louis’ tongue, every graze of his teeth—it was nothing compared to the weight of what it meant.
For once, Moran let go. He let himself be undone.
Louis’ hand found his. Skin to satin. The knife pressed between their palms as their fingers slid together and locked. Moran’s knuckles were shoved into the mattress, helpless under Louis’ breathless hunger.
“Say it,” Louis whispered against his mouth. “Mean it.”
“S’yours,” Moran breathed, lips catching, noses bumping.
“Properly,” Louis said, voice sharper now—urgent, pleading. He rolled his hips down, once—hard.
Moran saw stars.
“Fuck, I—”
He clutched Louis’ hand tighter, the cold handle of the knife wedged between them. The pulse in their fingers. The fire in their blood. So alive. Both of them. Bound by breath, by skin, by choice.
“Choose.”
Something pulled taut in Moran’s chest.
Your life over mine.
“I promise,” he said hoarsely. “I won’t die for you.”
And in the silence that followed, Moran hoped—deep in some hidden, quiet place—that fate would not test him on this. Because he knew in the bones of him, that it would lead to betrayal.