#and now claqueleroy has one

[mysunfreckle]

Not that kind of morning after

Claqueleroy, Modern AU, Fluff, 1.1k

Fauntleroy doesn’t remember right away when they wake, it takes them a moment.

When they do remember the whole of last night, it is immediately painfully obvious that they are tucked into their duvet on their own. They roll over and open their eyes.

The smile that jumps to their lips warms them both inside and out.

Claquesous is leaning against the headboard, all the way to one side of the bed. He’s maskless, his long hair messy and sleep-tousled, and Fauntleroy has never seen him look so…dressed down. Sous is not dressy like Montparnasse, but he is always very put together. Right now he looks nearly the complete opposite. They’ve never seen him barefoot, for a start.

He’s still in his T-shirt from last night, but he’s wearing some pyjama bottoms he took out of the pile of clean laundry that Fauntleroy thinks belong to Brujon. And he’s reading a paperback that looks awfully familiar.

“Did you raid my bookcase?” they mutter affectionately.

Claquesous glances down at them, one corner of his mouth moving into a slight smile. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

Fauntleroy wonders how long he’s been awake himself. It’s a usual joke among the Patron-Minette that Claquesous never sleeps. They let themself roll onto their stomach, getting to lie a little closer to him and making it very clear they don’t intend to go anywhere any time soon.

For a moment the near-smile grows a little wider and then Claquesous quietly looks back at his book.

Fauntleroy watches him read for a moment, trying to remember another time they’ve seen him this unguarded. They don’t think they have. Not while he was sober anyway. They want to quietly watch him forever. But they also really want attention.

“Are you enjoying my vampires?” they ask, grinning half into their pillow. They’ve heard Sous speak rather disparagingly of modern fantasy several times.

He hums vaguely, turning a page before dropping his hand on his thigh again.

“Let me guess,” they tease. “You like the bloody parts.”

He smirks, dark eyes darting to their face for a moment. “I’ll give you my review at the end,” he says and he goes back to reading.

Despite everything. Despite the grin on their lips and the fuzzy happiness lingering all around them, Fauntleroy feels a single touch of uncertainty pressing down on the back of their mind. Claquesous is right here. He stayed up with them half the night, talking in between kisses. He slept beside them in their bed. He didn’t even leave after waking up what must be hours before they did, judging from how much he has read already.

They shouldn’t be feeling this way.

Last night he had pretty much said that they could have whatever they wanted, as long as they asked for it. He wants to be with them, but they need to tell him how.

That really shouldn’t be so hard.

Fauntleroy takes in a small, steadying breath. “Sous, could I borrow your hand for a bit?”

Claquesous looks at them again and silently holds out the hand that isn’t holding his book for them to take. Fauntleroy takes it, reaching up without otherwise changing their position, and places his hand on the back of their neck. Asking doesn’t always have to be with words.

For a moment Claquesous does not move at all, keeping his hand still even when Fauntleroy has removed their own, but then he very carefully scratches at the nape of their neck.

Fauntleroy did mean to make a pleased noise in response, to show him this is exactly what they wanted, they did not mean for it to sound quite so much like purring.

Claquesous snorts softly, but it’s a kind, amused sound. His eyes flit back to his page again, but his fingers scratch softly upwards from Fauntleroy’s neck to the back of their head, where he absent-mindedly ruffles and smooths their hair by turns. Exactly what they wanted.

Fauntleroy lets their eyes close, silently enjoying themself. They know that insecurity will come back, feelings like that aren’t beaten so easily, but this is more than enough to chase it away for now. When they peer through their lashes at Claquesous he looks wonderfully content.

They have nearly drifted back off to sleep, when his hand slides a little further down and his fingers begin raking gently up and down their back. Vague feelings of recognition call Fauntleroy back awake and they smile drowsily at the memory. There are no discernible shapes in Claquesous’ stroking now. No squares or triangles. Only swirling patterns that are interrupted briefly whenever he needs to turn a page. Maybe, Fauntleroy thinks vaguely, feeling the warmth of his hand through the fabric of their shirt, maybe they began to fall in love with him as long ago as that.

That thought makes them lie very still for a second, but startling as it is, Fauntleroy is too comfortable to let it shake them. Instead they turn it over in their mind a couple times, smiling into their pillow when Claquesous hand slides into their hair again. For someone who doesn’t touch people much he sure is good at it.

Suddenly, loud and disagreeable, there is a burst of approaching noise out in the hallway. It’s the unmistakable sound of Brujon arriving home, but Fauntleroy does not realise the racket is actually coming closer until it’s already too late.

“Faun, weren’t you going to ma—” Brujon freezes on the doorstep, eyes shocked and wide as he stares at Claquesous.

Claquesous looks back at him silently, not offering a single explanation, and Fauntleroy can just see the edge of his slightly annoyed expression. They’re none too pleased about the disturbance themself either.

They raise their head just enough to meet Brujon’s eyes. He is gaping slightly and, astonishingly, still here.

“Brujon,” Fauntleroy says slowly and he blinks.

Their roommate seems to genuinely need a moment to remember how to speak. “…yes?” he says eventually.

“Go. Away,” Fauntleroy says with emphasis.

Brujon has never complied with an order to get out of their room faster. He practically trips over the threshold, backing hastily out of the room. He doesn’t even slam the door when he pulls it shut.

“Well,” Claquesous hums, turning back to his book. “That was entertaining.”

“Hm,” Fauntleroy breathes amusedly, letting their head fall back onto the pillow and making a gratified sound when Claquesous resumes the gentle head scratches. It also means that as soon as Brujon recovers enough to remember how to text, absolutely everybody will know. They’re not sure if that’s going to be an advantage or an annoyance. They also decide not to mention it to Claquesous. Just in case he hadn’t drawn the conclusion yet himself and feels inclined to go take Brujon’s phone off him. Because that would mean no more fingers tangled in their hair. And as far as Fauntleroy is concerned the two of them could stay here like this for ever.

[mysunfreckle]

Threads of Ink

Claqueleroy, established relationship, 1.6k of sentimental fluff

It’s late, so late that Fauntleroy no longer has any defences against the drowsiness tugging on their mind, but they don’t want to sleep. Sous is lying beside them in their bed, doing some kind of logic puzzle on his phone and he’s so wonderfully unguarded.

Being with someone like him is nearly intimidating to them sometimes, but they know for a fact that they are the only one that gets to see him like his.

He’s half-covered by their sheets, but he’s wearing nothing but boxers and his long hair is still damp. He’s freshly showered and soft around the edges, lying on his stomach, propped up on a pillow he has unthinkingly started to refer to as his.

As they look at him, Fauntleroy suddenly doesn’t know what to do with themselves for the happiness swelling in their chest. They reach out, putting a hand on his back and the most wondrous thing is that he merely shifts contently and stays where he is. They no longer need to ask permission, he no longer looks at them presuming they want something when they do this. They can just touch him.

Fauntleroy runs their hand over his skin, up to the base of his neck, down to the edge of his waistband. He’s so warm. They keep lightly touching him, just because they can. By the time they’ve started to carefully trace his spine with their fingertips Sous is clearly losing interest in his game. He lets his phone slip out of his grip and slowly puts his head down, making a low sort of animal noise as he lies down flat with his arms above his head. As the muscles in his shoulders shift, Faun’s eye suddenly catches a pattern in the lines of ink on his back.

Claquesous has only two tattoos. A single letter on the sole of his right foot and a large elaborate shoulder piece. It stretches all across his shoulder blades and down his back and to Fauntleroy it has always looked like a woven structure. Like a piece of rough fabric clinging to his skin perhaps. With ragged edges. But now, turning their head, there is a pattern in the lines that does not look either regular or random. They lean a little closer fingertips grazing the spot.

“Sous?”

“Mm?”

“Can I…” They hesitate.

Claquesous turns his head to look at them. His black eyes search their face for a moment and then he smirks. “When’s the last time I told you no, Bouquetière?”

They huff softly and continue boldly: “Can I ask about your tattoo?”

His expression is neutral. “What about it?”

“Does it— Is it meant to be something?” Even with them Sous rarely shares things about his past, and he has had that tattoo for as long as they’ve known him. Longer than he’s been part of the Patron-Minette even, they believe.

He hums thoughtfully, rolling partway onto his side to look at them more fully. “What I asked for,” he says, with faint amusement around his mouth. “Is a pattern as if there is a woven fabric visible underneath my skin.”

Fauntleroy glances at the ragged edge they can see on his shoulder. They suppose that could be the ragged edge of torn skin instead of a scrap of clinging fabric. It’s not a very nice image though.

They wrinkle their nose without realising and Sous laughs softly. Fauntleroy’s eyes dart to his, caught, but they still feel that odd spark of wonder in their midriff. Hearing him laugh out loud has not yet stopped becoming a novelty.

“What made you ask?”

Fauntleroy makes a soft noise. “I thought I saw a pattern,” they answer. “In one of the…strings, I guess, one of the threads.”

Claquesous gives them an odd sort of nearly smiling look. “Mm. And did you read it?”

They blink at him. “Read it? What do you mean read it?”

He smirks. “Oh never mind, then,” he hums and moves to roll onto his back.

“No!” Fauntleroy protests and they grab him by the shoulder, trying to force him to lie back down on his stomach again so they can see.

Sous struggles, but only barely, so Fauntleroy throws in their weight. They force his shoulder back down, climbing on top of him to sit down straddling his hips, with two hands planted flat under his shoulder blades. Claquesous makes an amused, pleased sound and Fauntleroy feels a spark of heat glow on their cheeks.

“If you wanted a fight you could have asked,” they say sweetly, quickly lifting the pressure of their hands.

“Not nearly as fun,” he says unconcernedly, his voice slightly muffled by the pillow.

Fauntleroy sniffs at him and they softly stroke his skin again as they try to find the irregularity in the lines of ink that caught their eye. They don’t find it. But they find a completely different one. And then another. And another. There is a pattern of thickenings in threads of the woven fabric. Not easily seen from a distance, but this close up it’s clear that the ink is thicker in some places, the lines not as delicate. Almost as if whoever spun the thread was careless in doing it. Except… Fauntleroy traces down one horizontal ink-drawn thread with their index finger. It thickens and thins, thickens and thins.

“…is that Morse code?”

Claquesous makes an approving sound. “Guessing you don’t read it?” he hums.

“Who does?” they demand. “Why would—” Now they know what they’re looking for they can see the pattern of dots and stripes quite clearly. Scattered here and there across the strands, distributed just well enough to blend into the illusion of a woven fabric. There aren’t too many threads that have the code in it. They count no more than thirteen. Maybe fourteen. “Why did you make them put Morse code on you back?”

Claquesous folds his hands under his chin, the movements of his shoulder blades making the tattoo shift. “Because it’s the fabric of my existence.”

Fauntleroy slants their head. The fabric of his existence… “What do they say then?” they ask curiously, their fingers lingering on a cluster of dots. “There can be only a few words here.”

“Not words, dates,” he says. “I don’t really keep stuff, you know. No pictures, mementos— This is something I can’t lose.” His carefully neutral tone of voice wavers for just a second. “I had it done when I left home.”

“Oh, Sous…” Fauntleroy doesn’t quite know what to say. That’s… They smile widely and reach up to squeeze his shoulder.

He makes a half-grumbling, half-fond noise and dislodges a hand from under his chin to tap his spine at the base of his neck. “That’s my birth date.”

Fauntleroy leans in closer. “So that’s one…nine…” That’s a lot of symbols for one number. Their eyes dance over his skin, taking in pattern after pattern and in an impulse they let themself slide off Sous to grab their phone from the nightstand.

Claquesous pushes himself up to turn his head towards them. “What are you doing?”

“No,” they whine. “Keep still.” They sit back down, playfully pushing against his back. “I want to decipher them.”

“Oh I see, and I’m supposed to stay put while you learn a code that has existed for nearly two hundred years.”

“You’re the one that had someone write outdated cyphers on your back,” they chide, scrolling on their phone until they’ve found the list of numbers.

The grumbly noise he makes sounds far too much like a chuckle for them to listen to it.

“You don’t have to tell me what they belong to,” they say, teasingly dragging a finger down his spine. “But I’m gonna read them!”

They do wonder what they refer to, these dates. And also in what order they’re supposed to be. But they do feel like it might be pushing their luck to demand to know. Only, they’ve just seen something that can’t be right. They check again their finger resting under the line on his skin and their eyes darting to their screen and back again.

“This one’s from the beginning of this year?”

Sous doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t move either. They trace the line back. To the month. The day. That’s—

Fauntleroy slides off Claquesous, landing seated sideways on the mattress. “…you still add dates?”

Claquesous turns around and sits up, his hair tumbles forward in a partially dried mess. “Yeah.”

They look at him with the strangest lump in their throat. “And you added the day I asked you out?”

The softness in his eyes is masked immediately with a smirk. “I added the date you crawled into my lap and tried to kiss me.”

Their cheeks burn with heat. “Same thing!” Their heart does a wild beat. “When— when did you—?”

This time his expression is steady and warm. “When I last went home to Toulouse.”

When he last… Fauntleroy tugs at their sleeves, far too full of feelings to still know what to do with their hands. “But that’s months ago.” Their voice comes out very small. “That’s…only a month after?”

He’s smiling, they can only tell because they know what to look for, but he is. “What exactly is your point, Bouquetière?” He doesn’t even manage to keep his voice free of fondness. “As far as I’m aware dates don’t change with the passing of time.”

“Oh shut your mouth,” Fauntleroy protests, all their happiness dancing electric on their skin. And since they really don’t have the words right now to stop him from smirking like that, they do what they have long thought is the best way to deal with any Sous-related situation where words fail them: they crawl into his lap and kiss him.

[mysunfreckle]

Trying on masks

[A bit of fluffly Claqueleroy I squirrelled away but am posting now because I’m horridly frustrated with the angst-to-fluff prompt I’m working on.]

“You won’t fit them. Not properly anyway.”

Fauntleroy starts. They hadn’t heard Sous come in. “That’s not—” they protest, stepping away from the open display case full of masks. “I didn’t want to—

“Your face is slighter than mine,” Claquesous continues, as if they weren’t stammering awkwardly at him.

“I know,” Fauntleroy swallows. “I was only looking because they’re pretty.”

Claquesous smiles, very faintly, but Fauntleroy still notices. It comes with most of his face being obscured, when there’s only his mouth and eyes to read, every minute change becomes noticeable.

That is the only reason.

By now Claquesous is looking thoughtful, slanting his head slightly. “Would you want to try them if I had some that might fit you?”

Fauntleroy blinks up at him in surprise. “I— Yes, I’d love to. I mean, if you don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t offer it otherwise,” he says with a mildly amused tone that is doing something to Fauntleroy’s insides.

They sit down, biting their lip slightly as they watch Claquesous take an old box out of a cupboard.

“I wasn’t always as careful with buying the correct fit,” he hums, taking off the lid and looking through the contents.

They hear the rustling of tissue paper.

“This one might fit you,” Claquesous muses, taking out a soft grey mask that looks frightfully delicate to Fauntleroy.

Claquesous holds it out to them, but they hesitate to take it. Claquesous is so very particular about his masks, they really weren’t expecting him to offer them to wear any.

“You don’t have to,” he says, drawing back a little and Fauntleroy feels a pang.

“No!” they say hastily. “I just, I don’t want to break it. What’s it made of? It looks so fragile.”

Claquesous’ posture relaxes. “Gauze and paper,” he says, putting the box aside. “It’s stronger than it looks.” He sits down beside them and something sparks in his eyes as he looks at them. “Rather fitting, isn’t it?”

Fauntleroy almost smirks at that, but suddenly Claquesous leans towards them and Fauntleroy’s heart stutters.

“Shall I, then?” he asks and Fauntleroy nods, but it’s strange. This feels so oddly intimate, so very different to the way he normally touches them.

Claquesous brings the mask to their face very carefully. When he put sit in place he does it so carefully Fauntleroy does not even feel the need to close their eyes. They gaze up at him studying the quiet concentration written on his face. He’s looking at them so attentively. His fingers are softly pressing to Fauntleroy’s temples now and they feel hot. They feel the pressure of ribbons being tied and as Claquesous adjusts the mask just a little his hand brushes past their cheek.

“That looks beautiful on you.” Claquesous leans away from them and Fauntleroy swallows.

“Really?”

They raise their hands to touch where the mask covers their face. It reaches just past their mouth.

Claquesous is still looking at them. His lips forming the mere ghost of a smirk, but the look in his eyes so warm.

“I think…” Fauntleroy murmurs. “I think I want to take it off again.”

Claquesous has barely lifted the mask away from their face before they throw their arms around his neck and kiss him with the full intention of taking his breath away.

[mysunfreckle]

Yarn

Jehanparnasse (established), Claqueleroy (beginning), Modern AU, ~615w

In general Montparnasse is not inclined to be bothered by anything while he is sprawled out on the couch with Jehan in his arms, but at the moment he is frowning slightly. Frowning at something that is making Jehan smile no less.

Fauntleroy and Claquesous are sitting on the other end of the living room, Fauntleroy digging through a box of old yarn they found at a vide-grenier and Claquesous passively allowing them to hand him the worst of the tangled up bits so he can unravel them. His expression is one of tried patience, but his exasperation is fond and not a single protest has passed his lips, even though Fauntleroy has been at this for more than fifteen minutes.

They both watch as Fauntleroy holds out two pieces of what looks like unfinished knitting that are tied together at two tangled ends.

Claquesous’ hand moves and suddenly there is the glint of a blade slicing through the knot. The knife disappears as fast as it appeared and Montparnasse hears Fauntleroy protest:

“I didn’t mean for you to cut it, I could have done that myself!”

“Then you should have,” Claquesous replies. “Surely you don’t want to finish those…whatever they are, they look awful.”

“I don’t really know what they’re supposed to be,” Fauntleroy agrees doubtfully

“Let me see.” Claquesous catches the end of the threat he just cut and pulls on it, halfway unravelling most of the piece. “Looks like yarn.”

“Sous!”

“Now you can make something better out of it.”

“It’s all curled, I can’t crochet with this,” Fauntleroy contradicts.

“Make something curly.”

Montparnasse scowls slightly and leans his chin against the top of Jehan’s head, as they rest it comfortably against his chest. It feels like he’s looking at something temporarily stable but potentially explosive. It really is beginning to get a bit threatening, this whole thing. Because he knows Sous made up his mind and he seems to be holding it together pretty well, but lately… Lately it almost seems like it’s Fauntleroy that is changing their behaviour. They’re certainly developing a habit of dropping by on very short notice, like they did today, and the way they behave around Claquesous is – and it annoys Montparnasse to no end that he cannot pinpoint exactly what it is – just a little different.

The fact that he isn’t filming any of this nonsense to send to Gueulemer is proof enough of how unnerving it’s becoming. Not that Mer would look at it probably, Montparnasse considers. He and Glorieux are off to god knows where blowing off some steam.

Montparnasse sighs slightly and Jehan nestles a little closer against him in response, but he can tell they are still slyly watching his friends. Well, their friends, he supposes. Montparnasse is watching too, but he also takes the opportunity of slipping a hand under Jehan’s shirt to stroke their lower back. He does have his priorities.

Jehan breathes out a pleased little sound and Montparnasse fights down a smile.

“Well at least hold it so I can wind it up again,” Fauntleroy insists on the other end of the room.

“Next time you run out of damn yarn remind me to just get you some new stuff.”

“You turned it into this mess.”

“It was a mess when you brought it in here.”

Montparnasse grimaces slightly, but Jehan laughs softly against his chest.

“They’re cute together,” they mutter warmly.

By now Claquesous is holding up the tangle of yarn and doing a rather bad job of hiding the enjoyment he gets from Fauntleroy’s huffing as they begin winding it up.

Montparnasse makes a vague, nondescript noise. ‘Cute’ is not the word he would use.

[mysunfreckle]

6, Claqueleroy, you choose which is which

Angst to Fluff prompts: Claquesous was a fool and now because of that Fauntleroy got hurt.

1.1k, content warnings: blood, injury (and kisses, so many kisses

“Sous…”Fauntleroy coaxes, for what must be at least the third or fourth time. “Sous, will you please look at me.”

“Keep your head still,” Claquesous instructs curtly and with a sigh Fauntleroy does as he asks.

“It’s really not that bad,” they say again. “Head wounds always look worse than they are.”

Claquesous makes a nondescript noise and continues cleaning the gash on their temple. He’s resolutely silent again and Fauntleroy really wishes he’d just look at them.Because he’s overreacting, he really is.

“There,”they say when he finally seems satisfied that their wound has been properly tended to. “Feel better now?”

He finally looks at them, but it’s with such an expression of dismay that they immediately drop the slightly exasperated teasing.

“Sous, I’m fine,” they assure him, catching his hands and cradling them in theirs. “Really.”

“I know,”he says stiffly, but his eyes are already darting from their face to the wound again.

“Then what’s the problem?” they sigh, tugging gently on his wrists in an effort to win his attention back.

He looks at them again, a very specific sort of anger buried in his dark eyes. “You got hurt because I fucked up.”

Fauntleroy just manages to repress the sigh that inspires. They knew this was coming.

“I’m hardly hurt,” they point out. “You barely call this injured when it happens to yourself.”

“I’m supposed to keep you out of close combat,” Claquesous grunts. “No one should get close enough to you to even touch you.”

He’s genuinely upset, Fauntleroy can see that, but honestly, they can’t have them acting like this every time they get a scratch.

“I think I managed well enough,” they say lightly, scooting a bit closer towards him on the couch.

“That’s not the point,” Claquesous insists. “I let you get injured.”

There are several ways they could argue with him about this, but frankly, they really don’t feel like arguing. This shouldn’t even bean argument and Sous should know that. So instead, Fauntleroy pulls their face into the most serious expression they can possibly muster.

“I know. Terribly so. I may not survive.”

Claquesous glares at them, but Fauntleroy keeps a completely straight face.

“I’m serious,” they insist. “This is terrible. I need curing.” They tap their finger against the edge of their cheekbone, just under their injured temple. “Kiss here, please.”

Claquesous’ expression changes just a little. A different sort of glare.

“Well?” Fauntleroy demands with pretend impatience and they tilt their face towards him.

He moves slowly, in that slightly sullen way he sometimes does when he feels the need to wordlessly voice his disapproval. But the touch of his fingers to their chin is so gentle, and the kiss he pressed on their skin so soft, that Fauntleroy feels fully justified in continuing:

“And here, please.” They point at a spot at the very edge of their hairline, above where they’re hurt.

Sous sits up a little to be able to reach them and even as they enjoy the feeling of his hand lightly smoothing down their hair, Fauntleroy takes the opportunity to observe:

“I don’t think you can quite reach me. Here—”

They move into his lap, facing him, and smiling rather smugly when he instinctually pulls them closer as soon as their weight settles over him.

“Where were we?” they grin. “Oh yeah.” They tilt their head so he can kiss the very edge of their forehead, and he does, very gently.

Fauntleroy makes a point of letting a pleased sound purr at the back of their throat. When they tilt their head away from Claquesous’ again he gives them a half-resigned look.

“I didn’t mean—” he begins, but Fauntleroy shakes their head.

“We’re not done yet,” they warn. “I need more kisses.”

Claquesous’ expression is definitely leaning towards amused now. “Do you now.”

“Afraid so,”Fauntleroy nods. “Here.”

They point atthe exposed edge of their collar bone, just above the hem of their collar.

Claquesous hums and ducks his head down. This kiss is not so featherlight and Fauntleroy makes another happy sound.

“And here,”they go on, brushing their fingers against the curve of their neck on the other side.

Silently Claquesous’ pulls them a little closer still, hands pressing their waist, and his face buries into their neck.

“I feel better already,” they breathe, slanting their head to the side.

“Are you sure?” His voice comes out low and darkly pleasant, none of that unwelcome guilt or distress hidden in the tones anymore. Good.

“Positive,”Fauntleroy answers. “But you better keep going for a while longer. Just to make sure.”

He loos up at them and Fauntleroy pities every single person in the world that only ever gets to see his eyes from behind his tinted glasses.

“Where do you need kisses then?”

“Mmm, here,”they say, softly touching their cheek. “And…here.” They drag their finger down to their neck again as soon as Claquesous’ lips press to their cheek. “And there,” they smile, as soon as he tilts his head back enough for them to look at him, and they gleefully press their mouth against his.

They’ve quite forgotten about the gash on their head. To be honest they never really minded it. The guy who did it really shouldn’t have turned his back on them when they doubled over, he really shouldn’t have. Fauntleroy smiles into the kiss, winding their arms around Claquesous’ neck and kissing him deeper. Sous follows their movements exactly, sliding a hand into their hair and holding them close enough for Fauntleroy to forget that they were playing a rather good game.

They remember when he breaks away long enough to mutter something against their lips that ends in the word “bed”.

“Thatsounds pretty good,” they breathe, leaning away just far enough to look at him,but not so much that they have to let go. “But I don’t think I should try to walk on my own,” they add solemnly. “Far too dangerous.”

For a moment Claquesous does that odd, delightful thing where the features of his face scowl but his eyes light up with even more affection, and then abruptly pulls them closer against him, hitching their legs up round his waist as he rises to his feet.

Fauntleroy squeaks, wrapping both their arms and legs around him tighter to steady themself.They go to hide their face against his neck but Sous makes a warning sound.

“You bite me like last time and I might drop you.” Even if he had managed to sound genuinely threatening right now, the affection in his voice would have negated it. In fact, al this does is make Fauntleroy grin, and nuzzle against his neck just a bit more deliberately.

“Then walk faster.”