Chapter Text
Luciano and Sylvester stood along the dark waterfront, staring out at the flickering lights of the Suoesirg as it floundered. Turned out its backup generators weren’t up to the task of replacing a fucking Zapdos.
“Hey, Syl. Wanna come over to my place?”
Luciano hadn’t really intended to speak; the invitation just popped out. By all rights, he should have wanted anything but company tonight. Nic’s face was still vivid behind his eyelids, his disgust, the way he spat the word “traitor.” Luciano should have wanted to return to a quiet house where he could hate himself in peace, with his only comfort being that no one was around to see him in such a state.
But as he and Syl stood side-by-side in the dark evening, numbly staring out at their handiwork, Luciano didn’t want Syl to go far from him.
“Sure,” Syl said distantly. “Sounds fun.”
Neither of them made to move for a long time (or at least it felt long to Luciano). It was only when cops started swarming the pier that he and Syl registered that they needed to get gone.
As they made their way over the bridge to the Aurora Harbourfront, walking together in vacuous silence, a panicked thought finally pierced the hazy vagueness around Luciano.
Fuck, he hadn’t been home in ages. Not since…well…yeah. There was probably dust everywhere, and the fridge was probably full of near-sentient mold, and it had been way too long since he'd changed his sheets, and what if Syl thought he was a total slob? Oh. And there was also all the Lonardo crap he had around. As much as he and Syl had essentially declared war on his family, there was plenty there that he would really rather Syl never see.
“Fuck,” he said, outloud this time. Syl blinked at him, still deep in the haze. Luciano hopped forward and turned, blocking Syl’s way. “Hey so my place is a total mess and I’mma go, uh. Fix it,” he said, nearly tripping over his own tongue trying to get it out fast enough. “You, I dunno, go pet dogs or whatever it is that makes you take forever to get anyplace.” Then Luciano scampered away, leaving a bemused Syl standing on the bridge staring after him.
A manic energy vibrated through Luciano as he reached his place. Damn, there were several packages tucked out of sight and his mailbox was stuffed. He grabbed as much as he could, unlocked the front door and hurried inside. Once the door was locked behind him and he'd dumped his mail on the closest surface, he released his team, flicking on the heat lamps in the sand pit while the pokemon spread through the open space. From there, he flitted from task to task, trying to get the place decent and the worst skeletons hidden away in various closets before Syl arrived.
A while later, once he had gotten most of what he needed done (hopefully), he realized he’d forgotten to give Syl his fucking address. And somehow he’d put his phone down somewhere in his mad scramble. As he was trying to find out what the hell he’d done with it, the doorbell rang.
He jumped at the noise, then cautiously approached the door, checking through the peephole first. It was Syl, still in lilac, right eye under what looked like fresh dressings. Luciano opened the door.
“How’d you know where I live?” he asked suspiciously. “I was about to text ya the address.”
A walk seemed to have pulled Syl out of the numb, vacant state Luciano had left him in. He frowned at Luciano then glanced around him.
“I’m a detective,” he said. “I saw a big house with gaudy Articuno iconography everywhere and far better security than anyone in this neighborhood should need. I didn’t even need to be a good detective.”
“What d’ya mean gaudy?” Luciano demanded. “All my shit looks great!”
Syl gave him one of those opaque looks that Luciano never knew how to handle. Then he shrugged and said, “Well, it is very…you.”
“And that’s s’posed to mean what exactly?” Luciano snapped.
Syl shuffled in front of the doorway. “Are you going to actually invite me in? Or are we just going to stand here all night?”
Luciano almost told him to get lost, but he caught himself. He didn’t really want Syl to go.
“Fine, fine,” he said, stepping aside. “Just a little on edge, ya know?”
“Yeah,” said Syl, coming inside. “Me too. Sorry. I’ll try to lay off the snark.”
Luciano helped Syl out of the velvet lilac jacket of his Espeon getup. Damn, Sammy always killed it with the costumes. It took a concerning amount of self control to not run his hands down Syl’s sides and feel how perfectly he filled out the soft material.
No. Nope. No. He’d already decided he wasn’t going to have those sorts of thoughts about Syl. He tried to think cold, boring ones instead as he hung up Syl’s jacket next to his violet one. It didn’t help that under it, Syl was in a crisp, lilac button down that was ridiculously flattering. And while Luciano’d had his back turned, Syl had rolled up his sleeves to the elbow. It was like he was trying to nail all of Luciano’s aesthetic turn ons.
“Make yourself at home,” Luciano said, tearing his eyes away from Syl before he got into truly dangerous territory (those velvet pants were tight). “Ya want a drink?” he asked, then kicked himself. Syl was trying to stay off pretty much everything while his head was still healing.
“Yes,” Syl said emphatically, then second-guessed himself. “Or, maybe just something to sip.”
“Gotcha,” Luciano led them into his kitchen and stretched up to open the liquor cabinets over the counters. “What’s your poison?” He flinched. Maybe he should not be thinking about poisoned drinks right now. Might risk manifesting something.
“Not picky,” said Syl.
Luciano selected a nice bottle of brandy. He poured them both some, making sure Syl’s had plenty of ice so he could nurse it for a good long while.
As Luciano was grasping for conversation topics other than Lonardos, bees, or Syl’s captivating forearms, Reaper sauntered over, and, clocking that Syl was a Grade-A sucker, started rubbing against his legs, meowing like a tragically neglected kitten. Syl looked down, expression softening, and pet the brazen creature. Reaper purred and squinted up at Luciano with a smug look that said, see—I’m his favorite.
“Don’t believe anything he tells ya,” Luciano said to Syl, glaring back at his cat. “He’s a rotten, spoiled housecat, not a sad little stray.”
Syl snorted, then crouched down and took Reaper’s face in both his hands, rubbing over the cat’s cheeks and ears. “Don’t worry,” he cooed to Reaper. “I know who I trust between you and him. I won’t let your cruel, heartless trainer neglect you.”
“Hey!”
Reaper's purrs would have surely triggered an avalanche if they’d been up on the mountain.
When Syl stood again, with a groan at his protesting knees, Reaper, never satiated, jumped onto the counter to continue shoving his face at his new mark/best friend.
“No counters!” Luciano scolded. “You have never once been allowed on the counters!”
The only response he got was Reaper’s tail swished in his face.
“Get down,” Luciano ordered, finally giving in and scooping Reaper around the middle and dumping him back onto the floor. “Goddamn cat. Go find one of the many, many perches I spent my hard-earned cash on just for your needy ass.”
Syl was hiding his mouth behind his glass, but his visible eye gleamed with amusement.
“You can let your team out too if ya want,” Luciano said, trying to ignore how his face was heating. “Might be a little warm for Truffles though.”
“Probably,” Syl agreed, though he let out some of his other pokemon, including his Espeon, the inspiration for Syl’s criminally debonair auction costume. “Honestly, it’s a little warm for me,” he added, popping the top two buttons of his collared shirt open, revealing his throat and a teasing sliver of his chest. Which should be illegal. Except there was no need for it to be illegal because Luciano was not having those kinds of thoughts, remember?
He needed something distracting—more distracting, that is—a super distraction to distract him from this first distraction.
“So, whatcha usually do in your down time? Any hobbies? Passions?” He smirked. “Vices?”
“Work on cases mostly.”
“Syl, that is definitionally not down time.”
“I dunno. Sleep, maybe read. Sometimes—” a pained look flashed across Syl's face, though it was quickly contained. “Yeah. Most days it's work, then at some point fall into bed.”
Luciano had a suggestion of a bed Syl could fall into. And of whose arms could be there to catch him.
“You play cards?” he asked instead. He truly was a paragon of self-restraint.
Syl shrugged. “Playing cards requires friends—unless you’re talking solitaire, which I somehow doubt. So no, not really.”
“Great,” Luciano said, trying not to think about how fucking depressing that statement was. “I’ll be your friend. We’ll play for money.”
“Will we.”
“C’mon, Syl,” Luciano wheedled. “Nothing like taking some schmuck’s cash to make ya feel better after a godawful day.”
“And which of us is getting cast as the schmuck here?” Syl asked, which wasn’t a no.
“Yet to be determined. That’s the fun part. We can keep it simple—just some Five Card Draw, dealer can throw in additional rules for spice.”
As Syl was considering, a quick string of hisses, followed by yowls and a bright gleam of light demanded their attention. Reaper had taken his trainer's advice and ascended to a cozy looking perch on top of some bookshelves with a view of the whole house. Syl's Espeon, Poppy, had also concluded that it was the best place for her nap and must have tried to crowd Reaper out. Reaper clearly had not been interested in sharing, triggering some scuffle that led to Poppy firing off a Dazzling Gleam in the Liepard’s face.
“Poppyseed Bun!” Syl shouted her full, ridiculous nickname. “No fighting Lucy’s team while we’re here! Leave Reaper alone!”
Poppy glanced at her trainer, as if considering ignoring him, but backed down, while Reaper, ears pinned back and hackles up, gave a final hiss and swat at her. She turned and jumped back to the floor, coming over to sit near Syl and groomed herself, like the retreat had been her idea in the first place.
“You ready to behave?” Syl asked. Poppy flicked her tail dismissively and came over to rub against Luciano.
“Sorry,” Syl said, turning back to Luciano. “So. Cards?”
To the surprise of no one, Syl was a quick study, and rapidly picked up the flow of the game and a concerning number of Luciano’s tells (he needed to focus; Syl wasn't letting him get away with being lazy). And while they kept the game simple, Syl was an effortless conversation partner once Luciano got him going.
Syl seemed to have a bottomless supply of stories: cases, clients, a thousand odd jobs—the guy was a weirdness magnet.
After a few hands, Syl took one of the very battered chips from in front of him and studied it. “So you've played plenty of poker I take it?”
“‘Course. Can't even imagine how many nights we killed playin’ when I was a teen. Haven't bothered with the casino for years though. The dealers cheat.”
“Isn't that part of the job? To make sure the House always wins?”
“Well, yeah, but I am the House. Was the House,” said Luciano. His mind scrambled for something other than his present pariahood to think about. A memory struck him, and he laughed to himself. Syl tilted his head, curious as ever.
“Shit, there was a time a few years ago when we uncovered a little band of four dealers who thought they could get smart with us, skimmin’ winnings, markin’ cards, sleight ‘a hand, the works. Then they made their real mistake, and tried to cheat me and Lus one night.”
Syl took a sip of his drink and held his glass in front of his mouth, watching Luciano as he continued.
“We figured the staff was overdue for some on-the-job refresher training anyway. You know the Battle Roulette?”
“Yes,” said Syl. He was keeping his voice carefully neutral.
“We…we…” Luciano's smirk started to crack. He'd listened to Lustrous tell this story dozens of time. She'd always made it sound so damn funny. “We dumped them one after the other onto the roulette stage and let it spin. Frostbite, burn—I think one might've got the full Voltorb treatment.”
So maybe it wasn't really a funny story. But Syl should be reminded of just whose company he was keeping anyway. Just cause Syl had seen Luciano get rejected by the nastiest Lonardos on offer didn't mean Luciano was any different from them at the end of the day.
“Don't expect me to reassure your tender sensibilities that I would never do something like it again, or that I feel just so awful about it now,” Luciano said, downing the last of his drink and starting at his reflection in the mirrored window. “It doesn’t matter. I liked what it got me.”
When Syl didn't respond for an uncomfortably long stretch, Luciano braved looking at him again to assess the damage. Syl's mouth was touched by a faint frown, and it took a moment for Luciano to interpret the full expression. He didn't look at Luciano with revulsion or judgment (or the worst possibly: fuckin’ pity). He just studied Luciano thoughtfully, piercing straight through every defense Luciano had with his star-bright eye and still somehow not flinching at the rot under it all.
After what felt like a decade of peering through the layers of Luciano's soul, Syl shrugged. “Try that with me and I'll drag you along by any means necessary. If I'm gonna get exploded by a dozen Voltorb, you're coming with me.”
Luciano didn't know how to respond. Syl kept trashing all the scripts—defensive, evasive, provocative—he'd accumulated over the years. So he said nothing.
Syl, as usual, was unbothered by the quiet. He took the deck and shuffled. Once it became clear Luciano would not be breaking the silence, Syl set the cards in front of him.
“Cut?” Syl asked, giving Luciano a barely-there smile that he couldn’t understand.
He cut the deck and slid it back to Syl.
“Aces high, lucky sevens wild,” Syl said, dealing. He tossed a two chips into the pot. “Starting ante 200p.”
Well…if Sylvester still wanted to dance, what could Luciano do but follow?
“200?” he complained, falling back in step with Syl. The rhythm came naturally, effortlessly. “A single, vanilla pokeball's worth? C’mon, let's get some real stakes here!”
“Then raise,” said Syl, the corner of his mouth twitching a little higher.
“Syl? Syl, ya gonna deal or not?” Luciano asked, having just cut a freshly shuffled deck.
Syl didn't answer, but stared off into the open-plan living room, the expression Luciano had privately dubbed his ‘thinking frown’ back on his face.
“I've always liked the Fletchling line,” he finally said. “I didn't realize you bred them.”
Luciano followed Syl's gaze to the myriad of perches down in the center space of the house. He felt a stir of pride. Talonflame and Crobat’s latest brood was just fledged, and it was a great clutch. Mostly Fletchling this time—only two Zubat, which he usually just had to release—and they were all quick and strong. Good, or at least serviceable natures all around, and the majority were presenting with Gale Wings. Those always earned him a tidy sum from trainers abroad.
“I come by it honestly,” he said, then laughed when Syl raised an eyebrow at him. “Or as honestly as I come by anything. My Nonno—grandfather—bred ‘em. Pops did dogs, but I always preferred birds.”
“How much for one?” Syl asked.
“Syl, if ya gotta ask, ya can't afford one. These are pedigree birds.” Their paperwork was forged, but Syl didn't need to know that. They probably had some blood from Nonno's dispersed flock. And their quality was real enough. “I get offers from top coordinators, from gym leaders wantin’ one for their bratty kids. Last year one went to a fucking Sinnoh League member.”
Syl looked at him with the barest pout touching his lips. No. No. Luciano was not running a charity, even if Syl was going to look at him with mopey puppy eyes—erm, eye.
“Catch one when the wild flocks come back in the summer if ya want one so bad,” Luciano said.
“That'll be months from now,” Syl muttered.
“Sounds like a you problem. Now ya gonna deal or not?”
Syl sighed, took the cut deck and dealt. “Starting bet?” he asked.
Luciano studied his cards and studied Syl. The man had a good poker face, but Luciano just had a sense for him. Cash was getting boring, the brandy was making him warm and loose, and he was winning more than he was losing. Plus, Syl had given him an idea in asking after the Fletchling. Time to make things more interesting.
“I know a guy who's got an in with an ability cap manufacturer. I'll hook ya up. Pay your start up fee.”
Syl looked at him, intrigued.
“It's a good deal,” Luciano said. “Usually costs an arm and a leg to even get to talk to him, let alone get him to sell. But—” Luciano glanced conspicuously at his hand. “I don't think I'll be payin’ up anyway.”
He had a garbage hand—a moderately high pair and nothing else—but instinct told him Syl didn't have much either.
A sly grin crept across Syl's face. It made Luciano’s heart jump up into his throat and thump deafeningly in his ears. He'd piqued Syl's interest. That clever, playful gleam in his eye did something strange to Luciano's chest that not even the most sultry bedroom eyes had ever done to him before.
“If that's how you want to play things,” Syl said.
Yes. It was exactly how Luciano wanted to play things. Forever and ever and ever if it meant Syl would keep looking at him like that. In answer, he set his chin on his hand and mirrored Syl's playful smirk back. Syl's eye crinkled with delight. Something unfamiliar and hesitant and warm stretched between them.
“Let's see,” Syl said, clinking a faded poker chip against his glass. “I'm on pretty good terms with Serenity R&D these days. I could get you something from their stock? Something not on the market yet.”
“I like the way ya think,” Luciano said, raising his glass in a little toast and giving Syl one of his irresistible winks.
They played round after round, Luciano still won more, but the margin slipped. Syl's face was terribly distracting. Luciano wasn't sure which was the worse culprit: his mouth or his blue, blue eye. They were both far more intoxicating than any drink Luciano could have poured.
So of course he had to ruin it.
He and Syl considered their latest hands. Fuck, he'd gotten lucky, obscenely lucky. He'd pulled a straight—a high one too. There was no question this would be his best hand of the night. He needed to get something truly special out of it.
“Lucy?” Syl asked. He studied his cards with detachment.
“‘Sup?”
“What would get you to bet a Fletchling?”
Was he really going down this road again?
“I told ya already, Syl. No way you could afford one.”
“That’s why I'm trying to get you to gamble,” said Syl dryly. “Come on, there's gotta be something worth it to you.”
Huh. So Syl would offer just about anything for a Fletchling. Luciano had a killer hand. So maybe Syl would even be willing to—
“Suck me off.”
For the first time that night, Syl's composure evaporated. “W–What?”
Luciano hadn't meant to say that. He wouldn't have, except that while their fun card game kept his mind occupied, the rejection, the vitriol of his friends—his family—still clawed through his body, shredding his insides irrespective of the anesthetizing distraction Syl provided. And the latent agony had apparently regressed him twenty years, back into a kid betting sexual favors cause he couldn’t think of a better way to get into the pants of the boys he liked, to get some kind of attention or affection, while still leaving himself with a thin cover of plausible deniability.
Syl stared at him, face now truly blank in a way that Luciano’s intuition couldn't get any read on.
Well it was out there now. And he had told Syl his Fletches were way out of his price range—
“Okay,” Syl said, still totally unreadable. “One blowjob wagered.”
Wait what? He wasn't—this was—what? Luciano stared at Syl, but he might as well have been trying to suss out the emotions of a plank of wood. Syl was giving him absolutely nothing.
Did the man somehow draw a royal flush or something? What could he possibly have to be willing to bet something like that?
But no, that wasn't giving Syl enough credit, and Luciano couldn't afford to underestimate him now. Syl had been a lawyer—a pretty good one, too. He knew how to hardball negotiate.
But on the other hand, Syl was one of the most repressed people Luciano had ever met. Hell, the Don’s favorite pastime seemed to be seeing just how flustered he could make Syl with even the tiniest gestures of affection—and the answer was always a fucking lot!
But on the other other hand, he'd just watched Syl almost trick Lustrous into releasing Truffles back on the ship. He could bluff damn well when he needed to.
But on the other other other hand—
“Lucy,” Syl said, yanking Luciano out of his head. “You gonna make good on your word?”
Shit. “I always do,” he said, hopefully sounding more convincing to Syl than he did to himself. He gave Syl another wink to try and save at least a little face. “You win, then a Fletch is all yours.”
They laid out their cards at the same time.
“No fucking way!” Luciano said, flying to his feet. It sent Poppy, who had settled on the chair next to him, skittering away.
“Hm. Well, flush beats straight,” Syl said placidly, though he couldn't bring himself to look at Luciano. “Now do I get to pick from the options or—?”
“Keep your pretty little ass planted right there,” Luciano snapped. “You'll take the one I pick and you'll be fuckin’ grateful.”
Syl grinned at him, hesitantly meeting his eyes now, though it was shakier than before. Luciano stalked down to the perches and looked over his flock.
Or tried to. He couldn’t stop thinking about Syl's mouth. How those lips, which looked so perfect crooked in a smirk, would look just as perfect wrapped around his cock.
Fuck, he was already mostly hard and he couldn't seem to exorcize the image from his brain. He needed to cool off. Literally. Somewhere away from Syl. Hastily, he selected the most bad-tempered, difficult Fletchling from the clutch and grabbed its pokeball. He made his way back upstairs, tossing the ball to Syl and walking fast enough that he hoped Syl wouldn't get a chance to notice the incriminating bulge in his pants.
“Hey Syl I still feel coated in fucking pollen from your goddamn bee stunt and I'm gonna go shower so pour yourself another drink if you want or not I don't care,” he said in a rush, not waiting for a response. He almost ate it tripping over Poppy as he hurried past.
When the bathroom door banged shut behind him, Luciano leaned against it for a moment, trying to get a hold of himself.
It would be even better if you could have Syl get a hold of you, noted the least helpful part of his brain. He begged it to shut the fuck up.
It was a relief to wriggle out of his now too-tight pants. The purple silk had no elasticity and Sammy had already tailored the pants to hug him closely. He shucked off the matching violet waitcoat and the dress shirt under it and then got the shower going nice and chilly. He sputtered and shivered when he jumped in and spent a moment just letting the chill water pour over his head and down his shoulders.
He was getting cold, but he wasn't cooling off. How could he? Syl would have looked so good on his knees, his mouth fitting perfectly around Luciano’s dick.
Fuck. He probably wouldn't settle down until it got out of his system.
He gave in, taking himself in hand and let his imagination run away. Syl on his knees in front of him. Syl with his mouth hot and tight around his length. Syl looking up at him, visible eye hazy with lust.
It didn’t take much. Luciano shoved the heel of his free hand in his mouth to muffle the noise he made as he came. Standing there, shivering in the cold spray, his head started to finally clear.
Oh. Shit.
As if he hadn't been enough of a traitor already, he'd just gotten off fantasizing about a Lafayette. And not just any Lafayette, the Don's Lafayette.
No. No. It wasn't like that. (Like what?) He'd…he'd just been thinking about facefucking a family rival. That. That was something a Lonardo would do. (Could he still be a Lonardo? Did he even want to be?) Of course. It was just about putting a rival in his place. It wasn't like he'd been imagining Sylvester all flushed and trembling and blissed out under him—or maybe in his lap—moaning his name against his lips as he set a pace just fast enough to keep Syl breathless. Fuck, Syl was a little human furnace too, he’d be so deliciously hot inside—
Luciano slammed the shower faucet all the way over to cold. Freezing water pounded over him and the sensory shock washed away all his traitorous fantasies. He didn't leave until he was too frozen to feel much of anything.
Eventually he emerged, back in his purple outfit (he’d been in too much of a rush to grab a change of clothes and there was no way in hell he was gonna wander around in any state of undress with Syl there). He was hopefully not suspiciously blue or shivering. But Syl wasn’t looking at him anyway, instead leaning over the table, head on his crossed arms, talking to his new Fletchling. The bird was peeping back at him, sounding like it was sassing him. Syl didn’t seem concerned at all with its contrary streak, patiently holding out seeds he pulled from who knew what bottomless pocket of his bag, taking it in good humor when the little thing pecked him.
“What do you think of ‘Amaretti?’” Syl asked.
“They’re pretty good. Better the second day,” Luciano answered.
“I meant as a nickname. Think it suits him? Thought I’d go with something to honor your rich cultural heritage.”
“I think you have the nicknaming tastes of a ten-year-old.”
“Says the guy with a Liepard named ‘Reaper,’” Syl retorted.
“Hey, that ain’t my name! He came that way!”
“Uh huh,” Syl said. “And no one's ever changed a nickname before.” Syl finally looked up at him. That warm, hesitant thing between them was still there, but it was a little frayed after Luciano’s antics. He tried to think of what he could do to fix it. Poker—cards in general—were out, for the night at least. Syl seemed contentedly occupied for now.
“You want some coffee?” Luciano asked. It would give him something to do and a hot drink sounded great after his ice shower.
“Sure,” Syl said. “Sounds nice.”
Luciano walked into the kitchen, considering. He pulled out the bean grinder and was about to scoop some from one of the containers on the counter when he paused, remembering one of the packages he’d brought in. He went and retrieved it, opening it with his switchblade.
He’d ordered the specialty coffee—some of the best Alola had to offer—to get here around the time Nic and crew would be back in town, thinking maybe he could tempt them over for even a little while. It was the sort of coffee you only got for special occasions, the sort that listed the names of the individual farmers and roasters and pokemon who produced it.
But this was a special occasion, Luciano decided. Happy Not Dying Day to both him and Syl.
And it wasn’t like Nic would have come over anyway.
As Luciano opened the criminally expensive beans, he considered his options, finally settling on the french press. He ground the beans to a perfect medium-coarse, set the kettle to a little below boiling, and got brewing.
“You take it black, right?” Luciano called once the water was ready.
“Yup.”
When the grounds had steeped for exactly four minutes, he poured them each a generous mug. The coffee was rich and slightly frothy. It smelled heavenly. When he turned, he was startled to find that Syl had moved from the table to the outside edge of the counter and was watching Luciano with his usual intensity. The Fletchling—Amaretti—was perched on his shoulder.
Luciano tried not to react to the attention. He set Syl's mug over in front of him and focused on pouring a generous splash of brandy into his own coffee.
“Want some too?” Luciano asked.
“Probably shouldn’t,” Syl said, but held out his mug anyway and gave Luciano a conspiratorial half-smile.
Luciano gave him a splash and then the two of them clinked their mugs together.
“To not being dead yet,” Luciano toasted.
“To not being dead yet,” Syl echoed.
They each took a long pull. Luciano hummed in pleasure. It was perfect: strong, dark, well-bodied and velvety, and the brandy added just a bit of bite and another sort of warmth. He looked up at Syl to see how he was enjoying it and froze.
Syl was staring at him with wide eyes, completely still and completely silent. He had just a touch of foam on this upper lip, and it might have made Luciano laugh if he hadn’t been so alarmed by Syl’s expression.
They stared at each other for long enough that panic started to filter in at the edges of Luciano’s brain, though he didn’t know what he could have possibly done.
Finally Syl moved, just barely. He glanced down at the mug and then back up at Luciano, but it was enough to break the freaky spell of stillness.
“I…” Syl started. “You? You made this, Luciano?” he asked.
“Yeah?” Luciano answered.
Syl took another sip, slow and savoring.
“I…I’ve never had coffee this good,” he sighed. “Hell, I don’t know if I’ve ever had anything this good.”
Luciano positively glowed with satisfaction as he took another sip himself. “Damn right it’s good,” he said. “Better be for the price.”
“Oh? How much was it?”
“Again, Syl, if ya gotta ask, ya can’t afford it,” Luciano said.
Syl snorted and shook his head. “If you say so.” He took another sip and examined the kitchen. “Though why didn’t you make it with that?” he asked, indicating the restaurant-quality espresso machine on the far counter. “That looks much fancier than the little pot thing you used.”
“Yeah, and it makes the best espresso,” Luciano said. “But I didn’t want espresso. French press is a immersion extraction, not injection. You keep all the oils and it's got better body and richness to it, almost like hot cocoa in texture. Perfect for dessert. Espresso’s great for mornings, but the shots are too small for—” He cut himself off abruptly. He was babbling. His friends always complained, saying they just wanted a damn drink, not a university lecture about coffee of all things.
“Too small for what?” Syl asked.
“Huh?” Luciano asked, looking up.
“You said espresso shots were too small. Too small for what?” Syl fixed him with his bright eye, as eager as he always was when investigating something. Wait, was he…actually interested?
“Oh, um. Just like I was saying, I wanted something more dessert-y, something you can sip, or spike. I mean, you can do that with espresso, but ya usually need to put it into something, like a latte or cappuccino. But something this high quality, I’d rather drink straight black, maybe a little boozy. And I thought I remembered ya sayin’ ya liked your coffee black.”
Syl hummed thoughtfully. “Guess I don’t actually know much about coffee at all—other than it being an absolute necessity for lawyers, cops, and detectives.” He smiled again at Luciano, though it mostly shone in his eye. “Or maybe I’m the real common denominator there.”
“Can also confirm its an essential nutrient for caporegime, too.” Luciano said. “Or maybe that was just me.”
It was still tenuous and fragile, but the fraying edges of that warm thing between them smoothed back into place.
After a few minutes of contented sipping in silence, Syl asked, “So then does roast actually matter? Like the whole light, medium, dark?”
Luciano would have thrown his mug at Syl if it hadn’t still been a third full of some of the best coffee in the goddamn world. “Does it matter?” he cried, unsure if he’d ever heard such sacrilege before. “Of course it matters! Put light roast in an espresso machine and ya get sour dirt water! Next you’ll be askin’ me if the size of the grounds matter!”
“Huh. Is ground size a thing?” Syl asked, tilting his head. “I thought there was just the one size they all come in from the store.”
“Agghhh!” Luciano wailed in disgust and horror and despair. “Syl, what the fuck have you been drinking your whole life?”
“My assumption was coffee.”
“That shit ain’t deserving of the word,” Luciano muttered. “‘Is ground size a thing?’ he asks! Nah, Syl, how bout ya just end up with a mouth full of grit from your french press? Or hot water that’s maybe at best heard of coffee at some point in its life when ya try to make espresso with course grounds? Is ground size a thing?”
He took a breath to continue his tirade, but Syl interrupted him, pushing his mug across the counter. “Top me off before you get going?” he asked. “And maybe we could move somewhere a little more comfortable. My feet are killing me.”
“Oh. Sure,” Luciano said, taken aback. He couldn’t remember if anyone had ever let him go on this long. He should stop. Syl didn’t care about coffee grinds. He rinsed the silt from their mugs and poured them each another cup, though Syl declined the brandy this time. It was just a hint more bitter than the first round, though still damn fantastic. He and Syl mosied over to the overstuffed couch in front of his TV and sank into the plush cushions at opposite ends with relief. He hadn’t realized how much his feet ached until Syl had mentioned it.
They sat in silence for a while, Luciano determined to let Syl change the subject.
Finally, Syl spoke. “So what size of grounds did you want for this?”
That was all it took to set Luciano off again, despite his intention to shut up. He rambled in no one direction, with Syl asking his own questions and listening like there was gonna be a test at the end. As the hours crept by, they spun off into other topics, though Luciano wouldn’t have been able to say what exactly they spoke of. Everything under the sun and nothing at all.
Despite the strength of the coffee, the brandy eventually started to win and Luciano’s…not good, but stable mood slipped as the weight of the day persisted. He fought the heaviness in his eyes and his chest. He still wasn’t done talking with Syl (would he ever be?) and sleep only held nightmares anyway. So despite how warm and comfy his spot on the couch had become, Luciano stood and stretched.
“Need a smoke,” he said as Syl watched him move with a relaxed interest. “I know you’re off ‘em, but you want the air?”
Syl hummed appreciatively and took Luciano’s proffered hand to pull himself free from the plush couch cushions. They stopped briefly in the kitchen for more coffee (and brandy, in Luciano’s case), with Luciano pulling out some insulated mugs this time around. Syl, the freak, took his and, pausing only to slip his shoes on, walked out into the winter night in just his shirtsleeves while Luciano bundled in a coat, hat, and scarf.
Luciano stepped outside, stuck a cig in his mouth and glared at the sky. It had started to snow again. He wasn’t fooled by how gently the big, fluffy flakes drifted down; this was the kind of snow that piled up quick.
Syl had brushed a stretch of wooden rail clear and was leaning his bare forearms on it, looking out at Riverview. Flakes caught in his hair and Luciano had to tamp down the compulsion to give it a good ruffle and shake them all free.
Snuffling from below indicated Syl’d let Truffles out, and as Luciano came over beside Syl, he saw her rooting around in the fresh powder beyond the deck. With a shiver, Luciano set his mug down and fished out his lighter, then inhaled deeply once he’d lit up. He held the hot smoke in his lungs for one, two, three seconds before blowing it out in a cloud. Immediately the buzzy fatigue behind his eyes eased and heat spread through his core, guarding against the stupid temperature.
Annoyingly unbothered by the cold, Syl stared out into the night, both hands wrapped around his mug. He didn’t smile, or even say anything, but something in his bearing told Luciano that he was happy.
“Glad one of us can enjoy this terrible weather at least,” Luciano grumbled, curling his fingers around his mug to keep them from freezing, careful to not drop the cigarette.
Syl gave him a curious look—and Luciano must have put more brandy than he thought in the coffee because a humming, giddy kind of warmth spread through him, chasing the nicotine hit.
“So go inside,” Syl said bluntly. “I’ll come back in a while.”
Luciano went rigid, smoke curling up into the sky from the cigarette between his fingers.
“I don’t smoke in the house,” he said stiffly.
“Huh. Something, something bad for property values?” Syl offered.
It was an easy out and Syl provided it himself. No reason not to take it.
“Eh, the giant sand pit's already doin’ the heavy lifting on that front.” Luciano took another drag. What was it about Syl that made him want to be honest? Truth felt so foreign on his lips, but it flowed readily even so. “Right after I first moved in, Nic was helpin’ me set up the place. I went to light up and you’d ‘a thought I was about to make some kind ‘a blood sacrifice all over the nice hardwood floor and new furniture with how he bit my head off. Guess it stuck.”
Syl graciously didn’t point out that any chance of Nic coming on over for a social visit was well and truly dead now that Luciano had betrayed him and everyone else he’d ever cared about. But he was even more pathetic than Syl could know. It had been years since Nic could be bothered to visit him, his ostensible best friend. Whenever Nic and his clown crew were back in town, Luciano always found himself on their dumb, drafty boat (ship, Nic would correct without fail).
But what if he does? asked some stupid part of his brain. What if he does and you didn’t listen and—
“Well, as you've pointed out plenty of times, I let a six kilo Swinub walk all over me and fill my place with snow for several years, so I'm not gonna throw any stones from this glass house,” Syl said dryly, taking another sip of his coffee and making a pleased noise in the back of his throat.
There it was again, that thing Syl kept doing that Luciano didn’t know what to make of. Luciano would say something, perfectly teeing himself up for mockery or condemnation. He’d brace for it, for Syl’s mouth to curl with a flash of cruelty and for him to tear into whatever weak spot Luciano had just exposed. But every time, Sylvester took whatever humiliating or terrible thing Luciano had admitted and just…accepted it, often responding with a self-deprecating comment of his own. So Luciano kept going, exposing more and more of himself, desperate to find the borders of Syl’s tolerance, a way back to the kind of relationship he understood.
Luciano didn’t know what to do with acceptance.
The snow was falling thicker now. The air was still and the clouds were low, which thankfully meant it wasn’t as cold as it might have been, but Luciano still needed something to bitch about cause his insides were all twisted up.
“Fucking snow. Fucking city,” he said, glaring out into the night.
“I think it’s beautiful,” said Sylvester softly.
Luciano was taken aback by Syl’s quiet sincerity. Syl didn’t say it to rebuke him, but he felt bad anyway.
“I’ve always loved snowy nights in the city,” Syl continued. His voice was musical and resonant and pensive. “I love how it’s dark but not dark—everything wrapped in this pinkish-orange glow when the low clouds and fresh snow are reflecting the streetlights off each other. It’s all so still, so hushed.”
Syl’s musings were interrupted by the scraping of a passing plow, but the suddenness with which the noise appeared and disappeared only seemed to reinforce his point.
Less than twelve hours ago, Luciano might have taken great joy in ripping into such sentimentality. Now instead, he nursed his cigarette and watched Syl watch the snow, trying to find some key that would make this weird Lafayette finally make sense. Syl was wrapped in that peach-colored glow he so admired, his normally blue eye shining gold. Snowflakes landed on his long, soft eyelashes, but aside from the occasional blinking when a particularly big one caught, he was content to be dusted. He still didn’t smile, even with his eyes, which were where Syl’s rare smiles usually shone through most clearly. It made Luciano reconsider and decide his prior assessment that Syl was happy was…incomplete. There was also a sadness to him, a loneliness that matched the quiet city around them. Watching him made Luciano’s heart ache in a peculiar, sweet way.
Melancholy. Luciano had always thought it was such a pretty word—and so of course he’d made sure to never use it. But pretty words suited Syl.
Syl didn’t notice Luciano’s investigation, or if he did, he didn’t seem to care. He just looked out at the city and the snow, the fog of his breath dancing away into the cold air.
They stood beside each other in the quiet, glowing night for who knew how long. Long enough for Luciano to nurse the cigarette until it was just a stub threatening to burn his fingers. Long enough that they’d finished their coffee and Luciano’s nose and fingertips had gone numb. But he couldn’t bring himself to break the moment.
Something shifted, almost imperceptibly, in his chest. As if for Luciano's whole life, his heart wasn’t quite set right and snagged with every beat. He hadn’t noticed—couldn’t notice when he’d never known anything different. But standing there in the cold and the melancholy with Sylvester, it was like his heart settled properly for the first time, beating smoothly and without obstruction. Nothing had changed. He was still the same man who’d betrayed his family, the same man who Nic thought should have been eager to die if his Donna willed it. He still looked out at the same snow and the same city he’d always glowered at.
But Sylvester was right. The snowy night was beautiful.
Luciano would have contentedly stood beside Syl until dawn and beyond, even if he’d probably have frozen to death along the way. Thankfully, he was spared such a fate when there was a series of crashes and a burst of furious yowling from inside. He and Syl rushed back in to try to break up a renewed battle for the bookshelf perch. Luciano’s coat was good protection as they hauled Reaper and Poppy apart, but Syl ended up with a few long claw slashes on his bare forearm. Once the pokemon realized they’d hurt Syl and been loudly scolded by Luciano for it, they sat, chastened and gloomy, on opposite sides of the couch.
For his part, Syl didn’t seem fazed, grabbing his first aid kit from his bag while Luciano hung up his warm layers. The slashes weren’t so deep that they’d need stitches, but they were long and they were the kind of scratches that got infected easily. Syl didn’t ask for help as he sterilized and bandaged the cuts, but he also didn’t object when Luciano reached over to hold the gauze pad in place while Syl wrapped a bandage over it and taped it off.
When he stood again, Luciano couldn’t help but sway slightly as a dark haze clouded his vision for a moment. He checked his phone. It was three in the morning. Between all the nerves and the preparations and the actual infiltration, they’d been up for more than thirty straight hours at this point and not even caffeine and nicotine were enough to hold off the crash that was coming. Syl seemed dead on his feet too.
“Wanna just put some nothing on?” Luciano asked, nodding to the couch with the pokemon and the TV in front of it. It was what he did when he sensed a particularly bad night ahead. Sometimes quiet voices from the TV filling the silence and dancing lights breaking up the deepest shadows kept the worst nightmares at bay. It also meant he didn’t have to figure out sleeping arrangements for Syl, which sounded like way more problem solving than he was up for.
Why would he need special arrangements? You’ve got a bed. He’d fit so nicely in it with you, said that unhelpful part of his brain.
“Sure,” Syl said wearily. “S’long as it’s not the news.”
They returned to the couch, forced closer this time by the two pokemon lying forlornly on either side. Luciano flipped on the TV, finding some late-night talk show neither of them gave a shit about, then sank into the cushions and let the babble of TV run through his head as pleasant white noise. His arm and leg were idly resting against Syl’s due to the feline-imposed proximity, and Luciano could feel the tension slowly leaving the body next to him. At some point Reaper, who was next to Syl, uncurled and started trying to sneakily ooze into the man's lap.
“You’re s’posed to be actin’ like you’re sorry,” Luciano chastised. “Not like a shameless hussy.”
Reaper’s only acknowledgement was to blink lazily at Luciano cause he’d already gotten his head and shoulders into Syl’s lap and the pushover was giving him a thorough rubdown of his face and neck. He purred like a jet engine and wiggled so Syl could give him a belly rub.
“You’re pathetic,” Luciano informed his cat. Disgusted, he settled deeper into the couch and decided to rest his eyes for a few minutes.
Luciano was jerked awake when his head was jostled and knocked hard into Syl’s by the man’s violent sneezing fit. Syl was leaned up against him, apparently having fallen asleep with his head on Luciano’s shoulder. And given the impression of Syl’s hair on his cheek and the monstrous crick in his neck, Luciano had been using Syl’s head as his own pillow.
Once the sneezes died down, Syl was left shivering and made soft, unhappy noises in his throat. Alarmed, Luciano reached over and pressed the back of his hand to Syl’s forehead. He was burning with fever.
“Fuck,” Luciano said, extracting himself from the couch. “Syl? Syl I think you caught my bug.”
Syl whimpered and tried to curl into the warm spot Luciano had left. “M’skin hurts,” he mumbled, miserable.
“C’mon now,” Luciano said, digging his arms under Syl and pulling him up. “You’ll be more comfortable in a real bed.”
Syl sagged bonelessly against him, no help at all as Luciano tried to navigate him across the house and up the stairs to his loft bed. Fuck, Syl was a small guy, why was he so damn heavy?
Eventually he managed to pour Syl into his bed and pull up the blankets around him. With Syl more comfortable and the shivers abating, Luciano ducked into the bathroom, only to find he’d never gotten around to replenishing his stock of cold and flu drugs before all the bullshit kicked off. He returned to Syl’s side with a mere glass of water instead.
“Syl. Syl,” Luciano said. Syl looked blearily up at him. “I’m out of flu medicine, so I’m gonna run to the Mart and grab some. I won’t be long. Try to drink some water in the meantime.”
Unmasked distress flashed across Syl’s face and he grabbed Luciano’s arm. He was blisteringly warm, even through Luciano’s sleeve.
“No—Lucy,” he said, looking up at Luciano with one wide, watery eye. “I’m…I’m fine. You don’t have to leave. Please—don’t leave.”
Luciano did not expect Syl’s distress to hit him like a bat across the chest. For a moment he couldn’t say anything. Well then…guess he wasn’t going out after all.
“Okay,” Luciano said uncertainly, sitting on the edge of the bed. He dug out his phone and settled on texting Cordelia—she wasn't far away and was probably the most responsible of their little party.
LM: hey syl caught my bug and im outta drugs
LM: think ya could grab some flu meds and swing by? i wanna keep an eye on him
P’s gf: I told him this would happen.
LM: ill pass it along :/ drugs?
P’s gf: Yeah, fine. Be there in 30.
LM: kk
P’s gf: You know people usually say thanks when someone does them a favor.
LM: yeh thanks see ya in 30
“There,” Luciano said. “Cordelia’ll be here with more drugs in a bit, so I don’t need to go anywhere. Happy?”
“Good. That’s…good,” Syl whispered and slumped back into the blankets. When it seemed like Syl had dozed off, Luciano stood and stared down at the man—the Lafayette—tangled up in his sheets.
He sighed and rubbed wearily at his face. “Guess I shoulda been more specific when I was wishin’ for ya to fall into my bed,” he muttered under his breath. Syl’s eye flickered open.
“Wh’ was that?” he asked.
Luciano hoped Syl was too wracked with fever to notice the bright flush that swept up his face. He swallowed carefully and tried to slip into his annoyed Capo voice. Thankfully he was well practiced at it.
“Nothin’. Just that you better be grateful I’m such a generous soul and am letting you have my bed.”