Chapter Text
Your feet thud against the wooden stairs as you scramble up them. Arms moving wildly to drag your bruised body faster upwards. Palms finally hit the floor and the brown bubbling mixture spilled across it bites back viciously. You barely have time to even notice the damage as you scramble forward through the makeshift kitchen, chipboard and steel beams rush by as the whip crack explosion sends splinters of bone flying towards your back. The only relief you feel is the absence of their sting into your skin. The noise makes your burning lungs work harder, your mouth filling with the tang of iron.
“Get back here, you thievin’ rat!”
You fling yourself at a metal cabinet. Hands yanking at the flaking handle so you can spin quickly and press your back flat against the cold wall. Fingertips grasping onto the grooves in the metalwork, as if holding the inside of the door like that would have any chance of keeping it sealed shut.
“Fuckin’ vermin, comin’ in tah my home? Messin’ with my shit?” His voice rises with frustration.
His laboured breathing moves across the room as he searches. Shoving boxes and throwing a hand over the tables, clearing them of clutter that crashed to the ground around him. A slight growl started to brush against his throat with every hard breath. You silently clasped both hands to your mouth as you watched from between the small vertical slats. You watch as he stands hunched over a table at the other end of the room. Slowly, he turns, his eyes unknowingly locking with your own. He starts towards you and that pace turns into a stride and he advances, arm outstretched. Adrenaline rushes through you as you release your flimsy hold to switch tactics. You kick the door open as hard as you can. The metal collides with Franco’s shoulder and chest causing him to cry out and stumble back unsteadily. Heart pounding, you hurtle forwards. Wooden crates in the middle of the room provide you cover as you run around them on your way to the door. You hear Franco’s muttered cursing and Lupara’s familiar two clacks as she’s ready to greet you again.
Your mind swirls as you take the risk and leap out towards the door. Lupara gives one last metallic thunk as the bolt locks into place. This time when she fires, you feel the fragments grab at you like claws. You fling open the door as the prickle of tears swells across your vision.
“No one gets away from me!” You hear the enraged voice call behind you
You force yourself forward. The pins of pain scattered against your outer thigh and the length of your forearm beg you to stop but you ignore them. The wounds are seething, but not too deep. They can wait.
Barrelling forward you crash through doors and leap over scattered barrels and debris. That persistent voice throwing insults, always just behind you. You slip in to a side room and look around quickly. Feet softly scuffing the ground as you make your way over to a desk, ducking down just in time to catch a glimpse of your pursuer. You silently shimmy back to cram your body into the small leg space, holding yourself awkwardly but careful, as to not aggravate your wounds. You slump with relief when his quick footsteps pass the open door and carry on down the hallway.
You’re forced to take in the extent of your injuries. Red, raw peeling palms. Upper left leg and lower arm speckled with angry red gouges. You careful dig and pick the shiny, jagged remnants from where they were lodged and throw them down to clatter against the floor. You wrap your hands as well as you can with the scraps of cloth you find. You’re not sure it’s a good sign that the chemical burn doesn’t hurt. You look back out towards the hall. You just need to focus and find some discarded medical supplies.
Peeking out the door to find a clear path, you make yourself step out softly. Ears pricked for even the tiniest of hints of derogatory Italian being uttered. You make your way down to the ground floor, silently scouring through cupboards, desks and drawers. Slinking back out and moving forward with persistence despite your lack of success. As you come back out into the open and glance around cautiously you make the quick decision to slink away through the gap, you’d found last time you were made to endure survival here. Creeping to an area the cameras didn’t quite cover and crawling under a pile of discarded rubble and awkwardly stacked trash you’re relived to see the twisted bars of the chain-link fence hadn’t been noticed and the tight squeeze between them was still available to you. You’d accidently found this little exit when you were trying to hide from a very persistent grunt and it was the best thing that had happened since you got to this miserable facility. Forcing your body through the gap, twisting and squirming, you finally stumble forward. The fence was against a large wall and left little room for you to creep along. Anxiety flaring as you imagined a guard idly turning and spotting you. But they don’t. The other reagents frantically running to complete their tasks and escape the ever-present danger had all eyes on them. No one was there to see you out of bounds.
The path finally widened as the wall ended. The concrete wall belonged to a brutalist building with one solitary metal door displaying the word “Stairs” across it. Against the bare warehouse wall lay an enormous collection of unused props and mannequins. You hurried past them and across the concrete floor to the far wall. Another looming wall stood, but the door set in this one read “Docks”.
You’d only dared go in one other time and you carefully recalled every turn you made then to navigate the sterile halls now. Luckily, it was once again empty. Paperwork, charts and half-filled assessment sheets let you know that this area was, in fact, recently used by your captors. That knowledge made you shudder as you used all your hard-earned skills to sneak your way through the winding halls. You made it all the way through without seeing another person and the alleviation bloomed in your chest as you finally found the door you’d been looking for.
It broke its seal with a harsh creak as you pushed against it. Despite your caution it let out a groan as you slipped out and shut with a reverberating thud. You waited a second, sure the noise would bring someone running to recapture you. Silence. You sigh and let the tension in your shoulders sag. You turn and briskly skitter across the cold ground down towards the water’s edge. The putrid water had the added disgust of being slightly warm as you wade through it. You trudge through the slush and make it to the open drainage pipe, crouching down to fit inside. The smell hangs in your throat and bile threatens to bubble up a few times. When you have to begin carefully manoeuvring around rotting, grey body parts you start to wonder if the reward you’re heading for is even worth this. You summon the memories of last time you made this trip and push forward. The water varies in thickness as it was clogged with waste. A slime, a sludge, then back to grey-brown water. The glaring pinpoint of light guiding your way towards the exit. Quickly surging forward, desperate to be free. The loose metal grate is easily kicked free and jump down into the putrid water under the pier. Excitement softly laps against the walls of your stomach. Wary and alert you wade over to the very edge of the worn wood. Peeking out from under it to observe nothing but silence. The main overhead lights off, the observation windows empty, the cameras lacking their bright red recording lights. Unable to contain yourself you burst forward, out from under the pier and through the filthy water to haul yourself up. The pathways designed with their solid fences and barbed wire to keep everyone in makes it extremely difficult to haul yourself up and over. But a few cuts and bruises can’t stop you now, not when you know what awaits you.
Muddy footprints trail you all the way into ‘Angelina’ herself. With the main power shut off to this area when not in use, you’d made the discovery you were delighted to find once again. The powered doors, normally completely off limits to you, now stood open. Behind them, intended only for The Prime’s use, a room almost resembling a tiny hotel room. Missing most of the best amenities, you assumed to keep them from improvising anything more dangerous than they were already allowed. The room is small with a plush couch, a small tv playing re-runs of cartoons you remember from your childhood, a counter sunken into the wall covered lays covered with awaiting treasure. A variety of drinks pushed into the far left corner, a seemingly unused heroin kit, two halves of a plastic food tray, a plastic knife left inside an empty can, multiple choices of ration packets and sealed tins, two and a half crude rows of cocaine, a cellophane wrapped muffin and then at the very far right a clutter of foul milk bottles and bloody teeth.
You’re absolute favourite feature however, and where you find yourself now, is the ensuite bathroom. A private bathroom with hot water? You had taken such a luxury for granted in your old life but here you stood under the water and let the steam billow out and fill the main room. Finally, you listen to your aching body and turn the water off. Wrapping yourself in the awaiting towel and opening the mirror cabinet. You find more than enough medical supplies and finally clean and bandage yourself properly. You slump down onto the couch, unwrapping the stale, hard muffin and placing the bottles of Ko-Lime and Cherry Snap you’d grabbed beside you. Taking a large, lazy bite of the dry pastry as the black and white cartoon animals flitted around the screen before you. Struggling against the half-awake blur until you manage to open your eyes. The room was still dark, lit only by the soft light of the television. You stretch your legs that had been scrunched up to fit on the couch and brush the gathering of crumbs from the front of the towel still wrapped around you.
Then you hear it again.
The soft noise you assumed had been part of a dream you couldn’t remember.
A faint, pained sobbing.
The clothes you had been wearing were still laid out and drying from when you’d scrubbed them earlier. You paused as you considered what to do. If this was the crying of a trapped or injured reagent you couldn’t just ignore it. You were also one of the best sneaks in this damn place. You pull the towel tighter around yourself and step out of your little paradise. Tracking the sound as it bounces off the walls and echoes softly as you make your way upstairs.
Walking out in the open you’re drawn to a cluster of lights that must be connected to the back-up power. Multiple tiny bulbs encircling the “Lucky 777” sign perched high enough to force your neck back as far as it can go. The sobbing is clear now as it tumbles out of the large opening in the side of the building’s second story. Finding the stairs and as lightly as possible making your way into the main hall of the casino. You freeze when you see him. Even from the back, slumped over the bar wailing and groaning, he’s unmistakable.
Every instinct screams at you to run, muscles reflexively tense and ready to spring into action. But you can’t help but just solemnly look on. You can’t help but know exactly how he feels in this moment. Instead of running you find yourself slowly moving into the room, circling around and keeping distance. From this angle you can see the empty bottles and scattered shot glasses. Face wet and red. Mumbling slurred and incoherently to himself. It’s truly a pathetic sight and yet...
“Franco?” You feel yourself say just above a whisper.
He doesn’t take any notice of you at all, head still flat against the bar.
“Are you ok?” Genuine concern in your voice.
He just continues to sniffle and grumble mournfully.
Without really thinking about it you reach a hand out and gently touch his back. Gingerly at first but when it makes him hiccup and coo softly you find yourself gently rubbing your hand back and forth across his spine. The wet sobs simmer down into small whimpers and the mumbling evolves into a gentle hum.
You can barely believe yourself. Only hours before you were running desperately away from this man you now comforted.
It wasn’t long until you realised that the soft hums had turned into a gentle, rhythmic snore.
“Franco?” You questioned with an air of disbelief to your voice.
He remained absolutely dead to the world, slumped against the bar top, almost sliding forward off his stool. You couldn’t help but find the absurd humour in all of this and you chuckled softly to yourself. You stand quietly for a moment; eyes fixated on his face. You reached out a hand and brushed a tuft of dark blonde hair from his eyes. You draw your hand back slowly and sigh.
“Ah, fuck it.” You breathe.
As carefully as possible, you crouch slightly, wrapping one arm under his knees and the other behind his back. You picked him up and he flops into you roughly.
“How...are you so small.... but so heavy?” You exclaim through gritted teeth.
You are at least grateful that his weight had pinned your towel against you, especially as you navigate the stairs back down and into your secret room.
By the time you get to the couch your arms are burning and you let him down a little harder than you mean too. Although you are certain at this point not even a bomb going off would wake him.
You found yourself watching the soft light of the television dance across his features. If Easterman had ever been right about anything, it was the fact there was just something so mesmerising about Franco.
You broke your trance and gathered your things quickly, resetting the room as much as possible while still daring to take another muffin. You had to be out of here and hidden by the time the first trials started up again so you could slip back out with the other reagents.
Now dressed, supplies in hand, you pause by the door. You take one last look before you slip away.
Blood pounded with the rhythm of hoof beats in your ears. Franco had woken up in an extra foul mood and your escape plan had been foiled by him the last few trials. He was extra harsh with the reagents today too. Normally content to fill them full of shrapnel and laugh as they ran. Today he stalked each of them with deadly accuracy. Taking his time and savouring their torment.
You’d managed to stay hidden and clear of his war path so far but it was always so hard to even guess how much time had passed in this place. It wasn’t really questioned if a reagent went missing but you didn’t want to push your luck and be away from the sleep rooms for too long. You don’t want to find out what happens if they decide you’re a liability.
The thundering boom of Lupara pulls your focus as you skim along the shadows and out of sight. You watch the reagent he’s hunting be sprayed with pellets and tumble forward. Franko clasps the shotgun tightly as he drives the butt down over and over until their head is spread across the floor. His breath heaving and guttural, he stands over the body with piercing, pure fury filling his eyes. You move as softly as possible to get further back, aiming to make it behind a forklift near some large crates scattered around. You glance at your target and back to Franco, fingertips brushing against some boxes to help guide you through the darkness. You feel the curve of the glass for just a second before your wandering hand knocks it from the box’s ledge to smash against the ground. Time seems to stop as your body freezes. Franco’s head snaps straight to the noise and with a building growl he storms towards you. Your body finally unlocks and you fall backwards as you try to flee further back into the pitch black. Kicking your legs against the ground frantically you manage to scramble backwards. You know he can’t see you but you’re too close, too panicked, too loud. His forward charge brings his outstretched arm to brush against your shoulder, clambering when it touches you to try and grab hold of you. You cry out as you raise your arms defensively and fall flat against the cold stone. Refusing to let you out of his grasp he falls on top of you, grabbing your wrist with his left hand and raising Lupara up with his right. You gasp and fling your only free hand against his chest to try and push him off.
The contact makes him pause. Your breathing is erratic and wild as you prepare to suffer the same fate you were just witness too.
“I know you...” He mumbles softly.
“Wha-what?” You manage to stammer.
His grip on your wrist relaxes slightly, his eyes soften.
“I remember...your hands” he says lowering Lupara slowly.
“Oh, uh, I-” Thoughts all tumbling over one another as you focus on your hand pressed against his heart.
His unseeing stare moves through the darkness to find you, lured by the sound of your voice.
“I thought you were just a dream” He murmurs with a breath of disbelief.
Your own breath steadies as he places both hands down at your sides, his right leg hooked over your left, keeping it pinned while his left rested against your pelvis. Glad for the blindness so he can’t see the flush of heat spread up your collarbones and across your cheeks. From your palm across his chest, you feel his own heart quicken.
A scream snaps you both back to the present and Franco bristles at the commotion.
“Here, Doll” You feel him push something small and cold into your hand “I gotta go get these greasy lil shit stains!”
He pushes himself up with a grunt and cocks Lupara. Two reagents spring down from the roof of the train to your right and sprint past. Their screams when Franco strides out of the darkness and appears suddenly beside them is all too relatable.
“Get here, ya mutts!” He shouts taking a shot that rips the skin from one of their shoulders "Chi diavolo credi di essere?”
As the trio are swallowed whole by the shadow cast by the overhead catwalk you let your head lull back and a shuddering sigh leaves you.
One hand on your stomach and the other brushes across your forehead. You push yourself up to sit and turn over your hand, uncurling your fingers to reveal Franco’s gift to you. A small flat key with a paper tag tail. The tattered paper reads ‘Vault Override’.
You carefully creep across the floor, threadbare carpet barely covering the wooden planks below. A far-off bellowing scream causes you to press yourself down and against the centre bar. Working your way around the stuttering mannequins and through the small gap to get behind the bar and to the large steel pillar, topped with a large red button locked behind wire mesh. Running your fingers along the metal you finally spy a small circle outline near the very bottom. You lean in, cheek pressing down against the dirty ground and the small keyhole comes into focus. You fish the key from your pocket gingerly and bring it to the slot. The reverberation of each pin sliding into place shocks you and the final twist that starts the electronic whir of the shutter lifting makes you jump to your feet. You almost can’t believe this is real. Creeping forward and quickly rushing under before your luck has the chance to change.
The small interior allows your constant fear to be replaced with boredom. A twinge of anxiety at what Franco has planned for you does twist in your gut now and again. Did he send you here to protect you or to save you for after the lights go off? You had no choice but to wait and find out now. The time drags by as you snoop through cupboards, draw in the dirt on the countertop and lie on top of the worktop to avoid the spray of brown blood over the floor. The abrupt creak and whir of the vault door makes you jump up, a fresh swirl of anxiety gripping your stomach. The single bright light make you shield your eyes and squint against it. A few blinks and you can make out his full silhouette against the glare. You lower your arm slowly and the black outline cocks it’s head at you.
“You truly are real...” His voice low and husky.
“Yes, Sir”
“Sir? Ha! Finally, some fuckin’ manners ‘round here!” He lets Lupara fall from where she rests over his shoulder.
“C’mere, I got a lil somethin’ I’ve been savin’ for a special occasion”
The silhouette moves out of the door way and you warily follow, peeking your head out of the vault. The blaring light is from an overturned lamp, its shade broken below where it leans bent against a pool table. You turn your back to it and an elated jolt makes your heart jump. It’s like getting to see a rare and exotic animal up close, a private tour inside a tiger’s cage. You’d only ever seen him with anger, blood and vicious words and yet now he sat perched at the centre bar. The very few lights that remained powered bathing him in a soft glow allowing you to take in his details up close. The crease lines starting to form in his brow, a scar above his eye you’d never noticed before, the way the tufts of hair that struggled to grow around his old wounds curled into little devil horns. Although, you couldn’t help but imagine them more as bunny ears. However, his big doe eyes had always been your favourite and getting to see them lucid and awaiting you gets you to take a few more careful steps towards him. The mannequins around the room still and silent, watching on intensely.
“C’mon! I’m off tha’ clock, I don’t bite unless I’m gettin’ paid” He chuckles.
You take another step forward and track his movements warily. Two smudged shot glasses waited on the counter top in front of him as he plucked the rag from the bartender’s plastic hand and used it to wipe the dust from a large bottle of whiskey. You start to close the distance as he focuses on breaking the seal and reaching over to fill both glasses. The bottle is set down and he picks up a glass and raises his eyes to you. You feel the elastic tug to run but hold your ground. He slowly slides the small glass towards you and your eyes flick to where Lupara lays silently right beside where his elbow is perched. He follows your gaze and laughs shortly. Slowly extending a hand out to pop her open by the bolt, revealing her empty barrels.
He picks up his glass and gestures it towards you. He commands your gaze, eyes firm but genuine.
“I wanna thank you for what yous did fah me las’night”
A smirk tugs at the side of your mouth and you let your guard down enough to slide onto the seat beside him. He shifts side-to-side with what feels like anxious excitement at the accepted invitation.
“You shouldn’t drink like that if you can’t handle your liquor” You gamble with the playful jab.
Taking the untouched glass and lifting it to your lips, keeping time with him to drink in sync. He slams the glass back down with a laugh as you cough and splutter.
“Now who can’t handle their liquor, huh?” He taunts back.
You take a deep breath and let out two last deep coughs.
“Uh! Is this whiskey or plane fuel?!” You ask patting a fist against your chest.
“How dare you! This is a fine vintage, ya bum!”
You set the glass back roughly against the bar and wipe your mouth against your wrist with a croaky gasp.
“Maybe I just need to try another taste?” You challenge playfully.
“That’s tha’ spirit!” Franco laughs refilling both your glasses.
“On three!” You bark, a growing confidence swelling in your chest.
“One, two-” You both tip your heads back and let the burn light up your throat and settle in your stomach.
You shake your head and growl at the sensation. Franco doesn’t even seem to notice the chemical pang.
“You givin’ up yet, Doll?” He teases, fingers locked together and tucked under his chin as he leans across the bar towards you.
“If you need to pretend it’s my fault you can’t keep up that’s fine” You reply slyly, pouring yourself another.
He snatches the bottle from you and fills his own glass.
“Oh! I ain’t backin’ down now, look at you! You’ve almost got tha’ hang of drinkin’!”
“Come on then!” You smile smugly before emptying the glass.
He finishes a second after you, both slamming your glasses down to be refilled.
“So what vintage is this, then?” You ask watching the liquid swirl and slosh.
He turns the bottle to himself, spinning it in his palm to find the label.
“1935 Premium Blend, Oak barrel aged”
“Oh so, it’s not even that old?” You scoff.
He puts the bottle down against the bar and leans it back with a finger.
“It’s my birth year.” He says with a distant look in his eyes.
“Oh!” You chirp as the alcohol warms you “So this really is a special occasion?”
“Yeah, well...” His eyes narrow and he lets the bottle fall back flat on its base “Wha’s tha’ point ah keepin’ track in ‘ere, eh?”
You study him for a second then lift the bottle and fill the small glass in front of him.
“Happy maybe birthday, Mister Barbi” You lean forward, your glass lightly extended towards him.
He snorts and scoops up his glass, clattering it against yours before swallowing it in one gulp. You drink yours more slowly before refilling the glasses again.
“A maybe birthday?” He questions with the start of a drunken drawl.
“Well, it’s your birthday whiskey, so maybe this counts as your birthday” You reply in a low hum, drowsy eyes half lidded.
He watches you serve up another round and switches to look at your face as you slide his drink across to him. You catch his stare and look back with the slightest tilt of your head, eyes inquisitive.
“I really do appreciate you puttin’ me tah bed last night...”
You perk up and let out a small laugh as you pick up your glass and wave him off with your other hand.
“Oh! It was nothing, don’t worry about it!”
He runs a gloved thumb against the rim of his glass and watching the brown liquid rock back and forth. You’re starting to not feel the burn as you finish this round in one quick gulp.
“Why’d you stare at me for so long?”
His question snaps you back to focus on him properly. You can’t read the flat tone he asks in but your head is getting bubbly and the truth tumbles out.
“I just think you’re beautiful” You chuff and try to hide your face behind your fingers, unable to stop the wide, smitten grin.
His whole body stiffens upright and he seems taken aback. Unsure wether to be flattered or offended.
“Get outta here! Be serious, will ya?” He rebuffs with an irritated tone.
The intoxicated swirl isn’t letting you hide anything even if you wanted too. You feel the blush cover your already warm face. You let your hand become a resting place for one of your cheeks and your fingers trace your ear.
“I am!” Your insistence slurred slightly.
He leans down, looking up at you with a hand pressed against his chest. His gaze becoming frustrated as he convinces himself this is mockery.
“Look at me, do ya think I’m stupid? I-”
“Sometimes...” You use the word with authority to cut him off. Shucking off the shy, cautious demeanour to turn towards him, stretching a leg out to rest your foot between his on the footrest. Letting one shoulder sag and the other rise up to meet your jaw, not letting his eyes leave yours.
“I want you to catch me. I let you catch me.” You continue the interruption with a low, smoky inflection “Sometimes, I let you wrap your hands around my throat just so I can look into those big, baby blues.”
Now it was Franco’s turn to look at you, face red and flustered. You reach over and brush your fingers across his cheek. He reaches up quickly to hold your hand against his skin, drinking in the affection. Visually he gives nothing away, but against your palm you feel him quivering.
“I know what they say about you,” Your voice smooth but serious “and I couldn’t give less of a shit!”
“I know you’re a good boy”
Small and trembling you’re not sure if he looks ready to cry or burst. You let your hand, still covered by his, slide down to the side of his neck. His pulse hammers hard against your fingertips. You move closer, lips parted and pause, giving him one last chance to change his mind and shoot you dead.
The warm puffs of air as your breath mingles and heats your skin against the slight chill of the room. With a lurch of your heart, you gently press your lips against his and you can’t help but be surprised at how tenderly he presses back. The first few are small and awkward only in the way of discovering something new. Mapping out his features as you discover the way he turns his head to better meet yours. Fingers against his throat slide to the back of his neck, tracing soft spirals again his skin. A small, helpless whimper leaves him, his breath shaking as you take the lead. For all of his posturing and boasting regarding sexual prowess out in the trials, here you have him reduced down to a helpless, mewling mess.
Utterly desperate for your touch.
You pull away slightly just for him to trail your movement longingly. You tilt your head back slightly, forcing him to look up at you with pleading eyes, warm and vulnerable. You smile at his adoration of the comfort your lips provide.
Your own ache doesn’t let you tease him for more than a second before you easily give in and your hands slide in to cup his face. He holds your upper arms with a firmness that makes you think he’s afraid you’re a dream that might just slip away from him. You meet him more voraciously this time. The giddy rush across your skin and the pulsing heat between your legs causing you to bury yourself against him. He tries to meet you in your hunger but surrenders when he becomes overwhelmed by your appetite, allowing you to devour him.
You finally break away to rest your forehead against his, letting out a happy sigh followed by a drunken giggle. Franco breathlessly steadies himself against the bar, utterly captivated.
“Sorry!... Sorry, I didn’t even-even ask if that was ok! How rude of me!” You scold yourself wobbly, pulling away further.
Franco stayed where you left him, starry eyed and looking up at you in awe.
“You really think those things about me?” He asks barely above a whisper.
You finish off the drink you left on stand-by, barely noticing the fumes swirling in your nose. You smile and take his hands.
“Really, really.” You insist “You’ve been so brave out there in that big old world”
You have to pause as your stomach turns and threatens to expel its contents. Franco barely seems to notice as he clings to your every word.
“It’s not kind to any of us, this place...this fucking place” You screw up your nose and look up past the facade to the warehouse ceiling high above “In here. Out there. We’re always at someone else’s mercy, ya know? If we were back out there it’d be the cops, society, your own family...At least in here they cut the crap before they fuck you over!”
You let out a bitter half-laugh and shake your head.
“Sorry...rambling...” You pour yourself another drink.
“I know how tah get that gear off ya”
“Hm?” You inquire through a mouthful of spirits.
He gestures to the Murkoff issued equipment permanently attached to your body.
“It took me a few goes tah figure it out, there’s a trick to it”
You shake your head.
“I can’t” You say regretfully “I’ve already been away too long, and, and I snuck in here! I’ve been bad!”
You break out into a fit of giggles and lean back as the world spins, grabbing hold of Franco’s out stretched hands to stop yourself from falling back. He stands unsteadily and wraps his arms around you to keep you perched on your barstool and pressed tightly against him. You gasp at the sensation and roll your head back across your shoulder to bring your face up close to his. You’re amused even as he stumbles a little and falls against you and you both almost tumble onto the floor. You grab at him to steady yourself, your arms around his shoulders allowing him to nuzzle into your neck. His weight pushes down into you as he holds you both steady, pressing kisses against your throat. The sensation is interpreted by your lightheaded brain as tickles that make you giggle even harder and tuck your head in. He can’t help but snicker either interrupted only by a soft sigh when you bump your forehead against his, giving a tiny affectionate rub with your brow.
“No, no,” The words tumble from him “I want you to stay here with m-with me”
Using the bar for support he manages to pull you both upright, sagging just slightly.
“If I take it all off...they’ll think ya dead an, you know, yous could stay...”
“Won’t you get in big trouble?” You gasp, scandalized by the suggestion.
“I never tried it before” He shrugs “but I wanna...for you”
Your brain tries to process the consequences before giving up and letting a wide smile break out across your face.
“What’s the worst that could happen?”