Alva can't stop thinking about the cold. It works into his bones, into his lungs. He thinks of Archie, tucked away safe in bed under the neighbour lady's watchful eye, and wishes badly to be at home. But he isn't, and he can't be. Trying a new street, instead, hoping for new clientele. He stiffens up hearing someone coming.

“What’s a fine gentleman like yourself doing out here this late? Don’t you know this part of town ain’t the safest?” If he’s not a colleague, Conan has no reason to indicate he thought the man might be.

"Safe enough for my sort." Our sort? He wonders. If not, let the man think he's some ordinary kind of criminal. A cutpurse, a cutthroat.

Conan raises an eyebrow, “Your sort? And just what sort is that duck? You hardly look dastardly.” He’s actually rather cute.

"Oh, well, never mind it." He flushes inside. "The sort that walks the night."

“You’d best get better at keeping that one quiet, even if we’re less likely to get arrested for it.” Conan sighs and holds out the half-finished cigarette. Feeling oddly protective, he looks the man over. “Well, you’re certainly pretty enough, but I’m sorry to say you absolutely cannot be on this street.”

"Why not? It's a new spot to me. Something wrong with it?" He'd taken a gamble in saying what he was out here for, and he dares to think it paid off.

The proffered smoke gets held out a little closer in offer, and Conan leans in. “You’ll get your pretty nose broken by my boss, duck. And you’re far too lovely to deserve that.” His own nose is crooked and misaligned from the exact same thing. Having tried to find a corner and ended up bleeding before being pressed into service, indebted to the pimp who broke his face.

Alva takes the cigarette, takes a long drag. "I'm on your turf." It's not even a question. "I can fight alright, you know. I'm no hothouse flower."

He shakes his head. “Fight me? Sure, you could hold your own. Probably win. Fight him? And his enforcers? No. You’d be lucky to leave with just your nose broken and not worse.” Conan’s gaze roves over him again. “Especially when you’re so……. innocent looking. Shiny and new.”

Alva snorted a laugh. "Been a minute since I've been called an innocent, I must admit."

“If you’re still fresh enough to not know which streets are owned, you’re innocent.” And Conan finds he wants to protect that, in any small way.

"Sure, maybe I'm new to the job. A sort of new, at least. Hardly my first night."

An eyebrow raises. “Oh? You could have fooled me duckie, you reek of in-confidence.”

"It's not exactly a job that inspires confidence. Though I've done worse." He hears a hint of a stutter in it and curses himself. This man won't find that endearing.

“Have you now? Such an adorable thing like you?” Conan smiles at the slight stutter, suddenly overwhelmingly fond.

"War's a nastier business than whoring. At least I think so."

“Ah… Yes, I- I would imagine so….” Perspectives whirl, and the pretty boy before him is no longer the naive sweet thing, but someone who’s been through hell. “From one front to another then, eh? Man’s the danger on both.”

"One business just as vicious as the other. As you appear to be trying to warn me. Surely one night here won't hurt..."

Oh, to be that naive again. He leans back against the wall, watching the man, eyes a bit sadder now. “One night? Duck this profession is tar. Once you’re in, you’re stuck. Especially if you come up on the wrong side of a pimp.”

"Got to make ends meet sometimes. And I only talk to you so frankly as I pick you as the sort who might understand."

“I do….” Lord do I ever. “You would still likely be better off in a different business altogether, but I get it.”

"I do work a decent job." He sounds, for a second, nearly offended. "Meaning no offence. But it doesn't go far enough."

A snorting laugh bubbles up out of Conan, chasing the real, genuine smile that plays across his face. “I tell you if you stay here someone is going to break your pretty face, and you’re worried about offending me?”

"I'm sure I'll be alright. And no, I don't want to be cruel to someone who has been perfectly decent to me."

“A part of the job, I’m sorry to say. You’ll experience terrible cruelty, rather often.”

"But there's no need to enact it when it isn't called for."

“Oh sweetheart… these streets are going to eat you alive.” Sorrow tinges it, deep and pained.

Alva senses it. Wants to squirm in discomfort under the weight of it. "I'll be alright."

No, duckie, you won't. He thinks, premature grief wiping the hint of a smile from his lips. Conan opens his mouth to say something, a plead, maybe. Another attempt at helping this poor boy stay out of trouble, but he's interrupted by a man walking toward them, slow but sure. Each step heavy on the ground, as if the earth is something to be subjugated under his boot, same as everything else. 

"What's all this? Looks too pretty to be a john, which means you're aching for a beating, aren't you?" The man looms, imposing and large, though it's impossible to tell in the relative dark if its fat or muscle or worse bulking him up. All you can really see is the outline, and the dot of cherry waving around with his cigar.

Alva looks up at him with a gaze too sharp and direct. "Begging your pardon."

“No-!” Conan tries to hiss out. Tries to warn, before he’s shoved half behind his boss.

With Conan sequestered behind his bulk, the pimp brings his hands together, knuckles cracking as they collide. “This isn’t your street, precious.” The pet name is cruel and stiff. He looks around, as if waiting for applause.

Alva's eyes flash. "I didn't know it was yours, either." His voice shakes just a little at the end, and he hates it once again.

“My boy’s on it. Makes it mine.” He crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed, dark and hungry. “No one but my dolls get to work here.”

"It'll just be the night. I won't do any harm."

A step forward makes him loom over Alva, clearly a threat. “You’ll harm my profits. Bugger off before I break you.”

It's not that Alva doesn't perceive the threat. He does. He doesn't like it. "Try."

That makes a cruel crescent grin split across the man’s face. One large hand reaches to clamp down on the top of Alva’s head, holding him in place. He may know how to fight but he's never been much good against a man bigger than him. But he tries. Struggles. Hits at the man's stomach. If he’d been a tad larger, Alva might’ve been able to do some true damage. As it is, he lands a few hits that will leave deep purple bruises in their wake, but nothing bad enough to make the pimp let go. In fact, he laughs as he draws back his arm, anticipating the sick crunch of bone.

Conan wants so desperately to be able to stop this, but he knows. He knows if he tries it’ll be worse for the both of them. So he huddles against the wall and hides his face, unable to watch such a sweet pretty thing get hurt. 

Alva braces himself. He knows he's going to get hit now. Isn't sure how bad it will be. His nose caves under a meaty fist, nauseating crunch and wet flesh giving way. When the fist pulls back both it and Alva’s face are painted red. “Try picking up anyone with a face like that.”

Alva's hands go to his face. Fuck. He's right. And fuck, it hurts. He won't say it hurts like getting shot, but it's not even too far off from picking up some shrapnel.

“Don’t stay round too long or I’ll decide to break something else. I don’t want you scaring off all my boy’s buyers.” The pimp shakes blood off his hand and saunters off into the dark, presumably off to check on his other dolls.

Alva shrinks back into the dark. Clutching his face, fumbling through the blood to try to yank his nose straight again. Whimpering to himself.

Now that he’s gone, Conan finds himself rushing to Alva, hands finding his shoulders and pulling them closer than they properly should be. He pulls a handkerchief out, and starts mopping up blood. “I’ve got you, I’m here. I’m so sorry he did that. It’s his favorite deterrent, likes making it so we can’t charge as much.”

Alva speaks thickly through blood and tears he hadn't realized were spilling. "Fuck. He do it to you, too?"

He nods, gesturing to his own face. “What, can’t you tell? Found me same as he found you here, decided I was pretty enough to contract. Just needed something to remind me of my place, make me cheaper.”

"It's naught but cruelty. Ugh. Hurts."

“I’m so sorry dear, c’mon, let me see.” With the majority of the blood mopped away, the extent of the damage is clearer, making Conan wince in sympathy. Be can’t believe he’s doing this but… “Tell you what, so long as you swear you’ll behave, take my key. I’m only a few blocks down, go hole up in my flat and put something cold on that once we get it back in place.

"Thank you." He sniffles on blood. "Can't go back to mine yet. I'll scare... people."

Conan titters understandingly, wiping tears from his face with a thumb. “You might still. Both your eyes will puff up and get all bruised.”

"Ugh." He says again. "I will, then." He does take the key, and let himself into Conan's little place, and put a bottle wrapped up in a rag against his face.

The rest of his shift, Conan worries. Not about having a stranger in his home, as he expected to be. But for that stranger’s health. He can’t skip out one part of his shift, not after earlier, but he does almost… sleepwalk, through his marks.

Alva tries to get some sleep, in this stranger's house. He has to go to his day job still, after all. He wouldn't dare take the bed, that would be an unthinkable opposition. He props himself up in a chair. 

When Conan’s finally allowed to go home (after a berating over both Alva and his lackluster performance) Conan slips into his flat quietly, not wanting to disturb. Finding him sleeping in a chair makes something in Conan’s heart hurt. There's dried blood crusted over Alva's face. Even in his hair. Bruises starting to come up on his face. And he's slumped in his sleep. Despite how it scares him, Conan tugs Alva up and mostly over his shoulder, walking him to the bedroom, careful to not knock into any walls. When he falls asleep it’s with this bloodied, beautiful, stranger next to him.

Alva wakes not with a start, but sluggishly. Reaches out, half-awake, to tug his bed partner to him. Like someone used to falling asleep not beside strangers, but someone special. He goes easily, craving gentle, undemanding touch even in his sleep. Conan doesn’t have to worry about being up at a specific time. He’s not allowed to have another job anyhow. Alva still isn't awake properly when he presses a kiss to the back of Conan's neck. "Good morning..."

That does pull him back to groggy wakefulness, one eye cracking open, bleary and confused. “..Huh….?”

Alva startles. "Oh! I thought you were --" Ernest "--someone else."

“Oh…” It’s always hard to keep disappointment out of one’s tone. But right now, it seems an unfathomably impossible task, and one that Conan is not prepared or able to fully complete. So, he knows he sounds miserably disappointed, unfairly jealous. “S’ok. I don’t mind.”

"It wouldn't be him." Alva says. Not easily. Strangled by bruises and emotions both. "No waking up beside him any longer."

That wakes him up further, turning in Alva’s arms. “Then he’s a damn fool.”

"Aye, that he is. And damn him for it."

“Damn him entirely.” He wants to kiss this perfect stranger so badly, but he can’t. Not like this. Too close to how so many Johns think they’re in love afterwards. he has a quite strict, no kissing policy for his clients. But their faces are so close. 

Alva feels as though he's breathing this other man's air. He could mistake this for intimacy. He really could. Conan finds himself leaning in, despite it all, and has to yank himself backward, squirming out of bed. “I should get the rest of the blood cleaned off you.”

"I haven't dared try to find a glass to look. There's quite an awful lot of it, isn't there?"

“Yes... he really did a number on you. I can’t do a thing about the crookedness of it, I’m sorry to say.”

"Maybe it'll make me look tough. Not pretty, though. I hate to say this might have doomed my budding career."

“Some few like tough. But yes, that was his goal.” Conan comes back with a damp cloth and begins gently dabbing at crusted crimson.

'That was always my hope. That some like it rougher, and older..." He winces.

“Sorry!” The touch of the washcloth lightens. “Rougher? Yes. Older? Often not, no. And even then, only because they charge less. Everyone wants something young and perfect to fuck.”

"Could have sold my body to them when I was a pretty young thing, not to His Majesty."

A surprised noise sounds deep in Conan’s throat. “To the— oh. Military man I take it then?”

"I was. Served five years, if you can believe it. Was fifteen when I started."

“Such a little thing!”

"Just a slip of a boy. But they believed me old enough or pretended to."

He tuts, as if disappointed. “Sneaky little thing.” More of the blood comes off and Conan smiles. “Not so little now though.”

"No. Past my prime, these days."

“Not at all!” It’s accompanied by a pout; sad Alva would think that of himself.

Once again, Alva wants to kiss him. To kiss that sweet pout. "Well, certainly ruined now."

The pout deepens. “I think it’s rather handsome, even if unsuited for this line of work.”

"You think so?" He seems to brighten a little at the praise. "Unsuited, how do you think?"

“Dear, you wouldn’t know what to do if a John came up and stuck his hand down your trousers. You barely knew how to talk to me.” A playful little flick of the cloth taps Alva’s chin, making him smile.

"I'd know what to do." He protests. "Give it up to him, if he's got the money."

“Oh darling, no. You have to work with him a bit, make yourself seem unattainable, then raise your prices when he gets more desperate.” Conan tuts again. “‘Give it up to him’ we’re not children, we’re the oldest profession. And while not exactly a point of pride for most, some self-respect is necessary!”

"Who has the time for self-respect? Or can afford it?"

“You, dear, or they’ll eat you alive and pay a pittance for the pleasure of it.”

"A pittance still buys bread and milk, doesn't it?"

“Bread and milk sure. But a roof? Meat? No. You’d be on the streets with your bread and your milk and nowhere to eat them.”

Alva squirms in distinct discomfort. "You're right. And I'd like it far better if you weren't."

“It’s really no way to live, dearie.”

Top of Form

"Nor is hunger. Pinching every penny, for they never go far enough."

“I…” Conan hesitates, deliberating. “I can send you home with some food. A little extra, to help what you have stretch.”

"I'd appreciate it. How can I repay you?"

“You needn’t. Just.. take care of yourself, will you?”

"I will do my best. I promise." Usually, it galls him to take charity. But this doesn't feel like charity.

Conan cups one hand around Alva’s cheek, holding him soft, tender, warm. “That’s all I ask, dearie. You’re too sweet to have anything but comfort.”

"It's been a long while since there was comfort." His tongue loosens, unknotted by pain and the proximity of sleep. "You're lovely.'

“It’s what you deserve. Comfort and love and everything good.” He doesn’t want to listen to any compliments, doesn’t believe them anyway.

"You're the first to think so in years." Alva admits.

“It’s the truth, dear.” Conan may not even know the man’s name, but he can tell this much.

"What's your name?" Alva asks. Realising at the same time that he doesn't know.

“Ah,” He pauses, realizing this might be the first time in a long while that a man has asked and truly wanted the real answer. “Conan. My name is Conan Usher. Yours?” 

"Alva. Alva Levine. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Conan’s face splits into a smile. “The pleasure is truly all mine.” He would offer his hand to shake but seeing as he’s already holding Alva’s face it feels rather pointless.

Alva looks at him with pleasure dancing in his eyes. "I hadn't expected to meet someone like you."

“And who did you expect to meet?”

"Lecherous men who'd throw a few shillings in the direction of anything with a hole to spare."

He laughs, eyes sparkling. “There are certainly plenty of those. Perhaps more of them than anything else. Every once in a while, you find a brave lady or two though, and they’re often a tad nicer.”

"Really? I... my compatriots went in for such things, in the army. Never me." Didn't have the courage.

“Oh yes. Occasionally, some brave lass finds her way down here looking for a good railing. Never tend to go for the ones like me though, too feminine, apparently.” Conan bats his eyes as he says it, clearly making himself a joke.

"They don't like the pretty ones?"

“The men do, certainly, but the few women? No… They far prefer those of us with a bit more hair on the chest, a bit more muscle.” He taps his chin thinking. “Well, there’s one who goes for the same guy each time she’s been down here, and he’s fairly pretty. A slight little thing, but I’ve no idea what all they get up too.”

"I've never known whether to think such devotion is sweet or not."

“Mmn, it all depends on if they treat their chosen whore well or not. There was a man who tried to have a regular corner appointment with me, wanted to tie me to the lamp post, lash me with progressively more painful switches. Boss only said no because it would’ve ‘damaged his merchandise.’ But one of his girls has a regular John who likes having her cockwarm on his lap and let him read to her.” Conan shrugs. “Luck of the draw, I suppose.”

"The second thing does indeed sound pleasant. Much more kind. I'd do that in an instant."

“Oh, we all would!” He laughs, stretching and settling further under the covers. “Thing is, pretty things like us? Most men like to watch us break.”

Alva pulls a face. "I ought to be more surprised than I am. Would be if I was a decent man."

“Or a naive one.”

"Not naive enough to expect decency, no."

“Ah but you seem a decent man yourself, and have no reason to expect anything other than decency from me.” It’s so lovely, being able to just talk with someone. Someone pretty, even, without expectation.

"And I don't. Expect anything but. You've been far more than decent to me."

“I’m only giving what you deserve. Decency, and dignity.” And enough food to help cover your lack of work last night.

“Not with your nose broken like that,” Conan says, “but possibly. So long as it’s not owned by anyone you should be fine.”

"No. I suppose I have to hope the day job holds us over until it heals."

That gets his attention, brows raising. “Us?”

Alva seems put on the spot, on edge. "I, uh... the child and I."

“Ah, I hadn’t known. A second mouth to feed, one so dependent upon you… I understand the desire to find a more lucrative job.”

"I don't usually tell people so easily. You, though... I feel to trust you with the knowledge."

“I understand! Why give anyone anything to hold against you, yes?” Conan nods, before resting a hand on Alva’s shoulder. “I would never, I swear. Your secret is safe.”

"And I do think you mean it. Thank you."

He smiles, warm, feeling happier than ever at bring trusted, plain and simple. “Of course! I wouldn’t dream of anything else.”

"I know you said there's no need, but there must be some way I can repay your kindness."

“I—” Conan’s face slowly falls. He knows the kind of thing most ask. He refuses to do the same. “Tell me, if you two need anything else.”

"I will. And you, do the same. I may not have much, but I'll help, if I can."

He waves Alva away, unbothered. “No, no, you have a child to look after, you keep anything you get your hands on.”

"I'll keep my hands as clean as I can.”

“Nothing wrong with sticky fingers if they come home with food or coin.”

"Ah, you... perhaps you're right about that."

Conan smiles and settles further down into his blankets. “Of course I am. But you mentioned a day job, and I ought be off to sleep.”

"I'll be off, then. Thank you, again."

Another wave of a hand, the only thing visible over blankets now. “It’s no matter. The door will lock behind you, just pull it tight.”

Alva does. Finds a pencil and a scrap of paper to slip his address under the door. Just in case. In case of what, he doesn't know.

When he wakes up, hours later, Conan finds the page, and smiles. It’s rare to see such genuine trust and kindness, especially so soon after meeting. He hopes Alva does alright, hopes he and his kid make it. But as much as he would love to sit and pine, Conan does still have a job to go do.

Alva pretends over the next few days that he doesn't think about Conan, that he doesn't think about that night. Brushes off the concern he gets from Archie and the neighbour lady who watches him about the bruising. The pain makes it hard to forget that night, though.

It all goes normally, relatively easily, even, for a few days. Conan gets more work than usual, which leaves him sore, but fed, and he’s able to eke out enough to send back to his mother and sister. Everything collapses though, when he heads home one morning and hears footsteps behind him. Thinking nothing of it, it’s a busy city, Conan continues home and latches the door behind him as usual. Goes to bed after changing into his regular nightclothes. Something crashes, an hour later, waking him. Frozen under the covers, Conan listens, and hears steps moving through his flat. They get closer and closer until he finally gets the guts to slip sideways out of bed and make a break for the door. Something catches his nightshirt, tears as he wrenches free. Without even realizing, his feet lead him to Alva’s place, bare and cold as they pound on the dirty streets, interloper in pursuit. Conan slams on the door, begging, wailing, terrified, pleading for help, for refuge. He doesn’t know why he’s come here, doesn’t know why he let himself lead someone to Alva, not when he knows there’s a child, but he’s petrified with fear and didn’t know where else to turn.

Alva bolts awake. For a second, he isn't sure why. His ears are straining for the sound of gunfire, of cannons, and that doesn't come. But the sobs do, the wailing does. There's a knife in his hand when he opens the door. "What the devil --?"

“Please! I- in my flat- Followed! I- Help, I’m sorry, please—!” He probably makes quite the sight, sweaty and shaking, nightshirt torn, feet no doubt bloody from the desperate barefoot sprint across town.

Alva lowers the knife. Holds out his hand. "Conan? Come inside, come inside. You can't be running around the streets like that."

He takes it, near sobbing in relief. “Was in my home- Didn’t- didn’t know where to go…”

"You're alright." Alva says gently. "You're alright, you were right to come here. Let's get you a blanket, get you warmed up, and you can tell me all that happened." He pulls a blanket off his bed and wraps it around Conan's shoulders.

Shaking hands clasp tight around it, pulling the blanket closer, wrapped more securely around him. He nods, trembling, and fights the urge to collapse against Alva. Conan doesn’t have the right to do that, he doesn’t want to press that boundary, not like so many have. “Followed me home… followed me- followed me here…”

"Followed you here? Do you think he's still outside?" Alva asks urgently.

Conan’s blood runs ice, and he freezes, head slowly swiveling to look at the door. “Don’t know.. M’sorry, never should’ve- I didn’t mean to—“

Alva holds his hand up. "You did the right thing by coming here. Dangerous to be alone."

“But your kid! I didn’t— I never wanted to-“ Another sob wracks through him, and Conan shrinks further back into the blanket, eyes darting between the door and the windows.

"You didn't come here to cause trouble. I know. I won't let there be trouble."

He feels overwhelming relief and crushing guilt, he feels nauseous, he feels- He feels- He feels faint. Slowly letting himself collapse back against the chair, sinking into the warm softness Alva has swaddled him in. Alva shoots out a hand. "Are you quite well?"

Conan nods, a tad woozy. “Just- just nerves, sorry.. I’ll be okay.”

"Hang on, I'll get you some water. Just hold still there." He finds a cup that is at least clean, albeit with a chip on the rim. A banging on the door interrupts, angry and violent.

"Stay put." Alva orders. He's got the knife in his hand again as he opens the door barely a crack. "What do you want?"

The man standing outside looks to be a dockworker, rough hewn and scruffy. “Something in there isn’t yours.”

"Uh-uh. I'm no thief."

Conan, never one to follow orders well, manages to make it to his feet, staggering toward the door behind Alva. “There he is. That’s not yours.” The man points at Conan, barely visible between Alva and the doorframe.

"That's not yours, either. Not anyone's. He came here of his own free will."

He grows gruffer, brows drawing low. “Paid for him. For the ‘full experience’ ‘e said. The little whore ran out on me.” A finger is jabbed violently in their direction. “Paid for ‘im, he’s mine for the time I paid.” 

He pales, looking even more terrified, shrinking behind Alva.

"You think your money's so good it buys you whatever you want?"

“No different to buying him on a street corner. Money’s money. A whore’s a whore. And this one ran out without servicin’ me.”

"Well, I'm sorry that happened. But this is my flat, not a whorehouse."

That seems to upset the man the most out of everything. “Fucker ran out of where we was supposed to do it, so he’d best get out here and give me what I paid for.”

"Absolutely not. Leave." There's flint in Alva's voice.

He locks his eyes on Conan, the slip of him visible. “You! Get out here you slimy skank! I paid for your ass and I’m damn well getting it!

Conan leans in, speaking low near Alva’s ear. “I— If- I don’t want to cause any more trouble… It might be best if—“

"Absolutely not! I won't leave you with a man who'd clearly love to hurt you."

His voice get’s quieter, meek and small. “If.. if he did pay my boss though…”

"You think you'll get in trouble?"

“Not necessarily, but- I mean- I would be stealing.” The way he looks at Alva though, it betrays how very little he wants to go with the man outside.

"And what of it? Stay here. He looks like he'll be violent to you." And he presses his mouth again to the cracked door. "You can leave, or you and I can talk!"

The man tries to wrench open the door, eyes locked still on Conan. “C’mere you little—“

Alva pushes back on the door, trying to slam it shut. Conan scrabbles backward, losing his footing all caught up in the blanket, crashing down and letting out an undignified whimper. Alva would go to pick him up instantly, if he wasn't holding the door shut.

“Get out here! You know you owe me! Hey! I know I paid more than whatever this fop is!”

Alva laughs at being called a fop. Can't hold it back.

“Don’t laugh at me you fucker! Give me what I paid for!”

"I don't get called a fop often. It's a bit funny, you've got to see it's a bit funny." From his spot on the floor, Conan lets out a peal of still half terrified laughter, trembling though he still is. There's a note of hysteria to Alva's laughter too. "Leave," he tells the man. "Or you can meet me outside."

“I’m meeting you outside then, I want the fuckhole I paid for.”

Alva tugs the knife out of his belt. "Fine."

The man slams on the door again with a snarl, intent on getting his money’s worth. Alva follows him out into the street, blade catching the light.

“What’ee you gonna do with that little thing?” He seems awfully cocky for a man with nothing but his own fists, even if they do smell like rotting fish.

"That all depends on you, doesn't it? I'd like for it to not have to be much."

“Are ya going to give me what I came for?”

"No. Unless you want me. I'll give you plenty else if you don't shove off."

The man scoffs, offended. “I didn’t pay for your pathetic hole, now did I.”

"No. You didn't. So, fuck off."

“Not till I get the lay I paid for. Hefty sum to get time alone in a bed with that skank. He’s not walking out without follow’n through.”

"I don't want any trouble. But you've brought the trouble already." He throws the first punch. It’s a near hit, glancing off an arm as the man stumbles back, raising a first to retaliate. This time, Alva has his blood up and flowing, and his head in the right place. He dodges. He seems confused as to why it didn’t hit, eyes tracking Alva, if a bit sluggishly. Alva hits for his head again. The fist collides, sending the man spinning sideways with a cry, ears no doubt ringing.

"Get out of here." Alva repeats.

Even like this, he shakes his head, spitting at Alva. “I will, with what I paid for.”

So, Alva pulls the knife back out. "Stubborn fucker, aren't you?"

“Nasty bitch, aren’t you?” It had been a rather large price.

"I've been called worse."

He swings again, face pulled back in a snarl, trying to push forward to the door. This one hits, and Alva staggers sideways, but he doesn't fall. The man barrels forward, intent on slamming through the door and taking what he thinks he’s owed, trying to push past Alva. Alva hits back. With the knife in his hand. There’s blood, a sharp pain he hadn’t expected, staggering back. His hand goes to the gash, mouth agape, as if he thought the knife was just for show.

It's not a killing hit, and thank god for that. "Go!" Alva says, one last time.

The man stumbles away, spitting curses and abuse, vague threats spilling from his lips as he gets lost in the early morning crowds.

Alva pushes his way back into the flat. "It's me. It's me."

The split second of terror at the door opening melts away when Conan sees him. Still on the floor, tangled in fabric, he had figured it was easier to just stay there. “It seems every time we see each other you get more bruises…”

"He got well worse. Need a hand up?"

“Please.” It’s strange, being asked, being treated so gently, when Conan had expected his assailant to barge in and drag him off by the hair.

Alva bends over to pull him up. "There you are, there you are, I have you."

Those hands are gentle, callous covered, but careful, and there’s no underlying fear of pain. “Thank you. I- I didn’t know where to go, I’m sorry.”

"You were right to come here. It was a good choice." He pauses. "You don't have anyone else to take care of you, do you?"

“No. S’just me. I send money to care for them, but I’m on my own here.”

"Then it's only right you came here. He was a bruiser. I doubt you wanted to fight."

He shakes his head. “I can’t. Don’t know how. He would’ve ended up getting what he wanted.”

"And he had no right. Paying for it doesn't give him the right."

“He was right though, wasn’t he. No different than paying for me on the street…” Conan shudders to think what other sales his boss has made without his knowledge.

"It's plenty different! It was far more dangerous."

Tears are already leaking out again, making Conan feel even smaller, more pathetic. “I.. I have to find a new place. Shit, he knows where I live. He could come back- He—“

"Shh." Alva says gently. "Shh, it'll be alright. We'll work it out."

“What if he waits for me there?”

"You won't go home today, then."

He blinks up at Alva through tears, “I don’t—I don’t want to impose.”

"You won't. I'll go to work in the day, I'll take Archie to the neighbour. You can have the bed."

“I- really?” It seems wrong, somehow, to accept this. “What do... What do you want in return?”

"It's my chance to finally pay you back for helping me. We'd be even."

"Oh. Yes… we would, wouldn't we?"

"We would. Unless you've liked having me in your debt."

Part of him does like having Alva 'in his debt' so to speak. Moreso likes knowing he has some form of help, of safety net, if he needs. Not that he likes the idea of ever actually asking for it. Of course... that's exactly what he's done just now, isn't it? Conan shakes his head. "No, no I don't want to lay claim to you, not like that. Debts are chains, are they not?"

"They are. Not the proper formation for a friendship at all."

"You'd like to be friends, then?" Hope creeps into his voice.

"I'd like that very much, I think."

"Then we're even." A decisive nod, and a tightening of his hand around Alva's.

Alva doesn't let go of his hand, even though he could. Squeezes it tighter.

A small smile slips onto Conan's face, a tad shy now. "A long friendship, I do hope."

"I'd wish for nothing less. Now, are you hurt at all?"

"I-" finally forced to take stock of his own well-being, Conan becomes uncomfortably aware of pain in his feet. "My feet, I- Our streets aren't kind to the barefoot."

"You ran here barefoot. Here, let me see."

He sits, wincing as skin stretches. Holds a foot up, showing one dirt and blood crusted sole.

Alva tuts softly. Goes to fetch a rag and some water.

"Wasn't on purpose... I would've put on shoes if I had known I'd be running..."

"I know." Alva soothes. "This might sting." He presses the wet rag to Conan's foot.

He hisses, foot curling in a flinch, but not pulling back from Alva's grip. Conan breathes, forces his foot to relax, muscles letting go, going soft.

"Got to clean it." Alva insists. "Be worse if I don't."

"I know. I thank you for it as well." He sinks deeper into the chair, slowing his breaths and watching Alva work. Alva lowers his head in concentration. Careful, almost dutiful. Thorough. Conan looks down at himself, at his ripped nightshirt, at the feet torn up by the streets. “Lack of weapon hasn’t exactly stopped any of them from hurting us before.”

"You should carry one yourself. For safety."

“Oh? Wouldn’t it just give them something else to use against me? I’m afraid I’m quite bad at fighting.”

"It might. I could teach you."

“Really?” He can’t imagine himself with a weapon. But then, he couldn’t imagine himself being a whore either…

"These streets are dangerous. Better for you to be able to defend yourself, at least with your hands."

Somehow it doesn’t quite compute, even thought Conan knows he’s right. “Alright then, if you insist.”

"I do insist. Not now, you need rest. But later."

“Later… I don’t think I’d be able to on my feet like this soon anyway.”

"No. You wouldn't ought to be. Might take sick."

“I can’t have that. I really can’t.” He’s already going to be missing out on a day or two of work, and Lord knows what his boss will do as retribution for that.

"Hopefully it doesn't fester."

Conan shudders, he’d not thought of rot. “I.. I pray not.”

"I'll do my best to see it won't happen."

“..thank you..” All he can see are faces half gone, festering and grotesque, still offering a fuck, begging for a pittance as payment. And all Alva can think of is feverish bodies with freezing hands. Begging for it to be over.

Conan is quiet for a long while after that, apart from the occasional hiss or wince as more gets picked out of his feet. It’s warm here, the blanket is soft, and he feels safe, truly welcome. The way his home felt back with Effie. There's the sound of little feet. A small face peering around the door, a crop of blond curls falling in big hazel eyes. Alva looks up, and smiles. Oh, the child looks just like him. "I'll put your breakfast out in just a minute, love."

“Oh! He’s beautiful. You and his mom must have been so proud.” At least that answers the question of whether Alva had taken him in or not.

Alva smiles, stiff. "Just me. And I am very proud."

Shit. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to— I’m sorry.” It must have been a horrid death, then. Or worse.

"His father walked out before he was born. His loss."

His father...? Conan’s brow furrows, head cocking to the side. “It must have bene difficult then, as an orphan, even with a family member so willing to take him in.” Alva must be his uncle, then, or something similar.

Alva just smiles. It's premature to try to explain, perhaps. Unnecessary. "Some men are simply useless."

“Truer words never spoken, dear.” He looks back over at the child, cherubic, golden, and smiles at him. The way he used to with Effie, the one to let her know everything was alright.

The little boy smiles back. Bold. "I'm Archie." He declares. "What's your name?"

“I’m Conan. I would shake your hand like a proper gentleman if I weren’t otherwise occupied at the moment.” He’s instantly charmed, adoring the boy to bits.

"You're Dad's friend." Archie says, quite declaratively.

Conan smiles, soft and trying to pretend he’s not close to tearing up again. “I am. Your dad helped me out, and I care about him quite a bit.

"Good." Archie proclaims. "It's good to have friends."

“It is! Do you have many?” He hopes so.

"Some." He starts counting off on his fingers. "There's James, and Elijah, and there's Ruth..."

Oh good! Conan smiles wider. “They sound lovely Archie! I’m happy you have them.”

His eyes sharpen. "Do you have any children?" Gregarious, angling for another friend.

“Kind of. I have a little sister, who I took care of like she was my daughter.” And she would have oh so loved Archie…

Archie nods. "Where is she?"

“She’s back in the country, buddy, with our mom. I couldn’t bring her here with me, or I’d set up time for the both of you to play.” It hurts, knowing he’ll have disappointed such a sweet soul.

"Oh. Some day I'll go to the country."

Conan smiles, a bit sad now. “Someday I’ll go back too.”

Archie seems to sense the sadness. Flops down at his side. "I've never been."

“You’d love it, I think.” On instinct, Conan’s hand finds his head, fingers running through Archie’s hair. If it were longer, he’d be braiding it. “All sorts of space to run and play, all the bugs in the world to find. It’s so green, it doesn’t seem real.”

"There's not really any green here. In the fancy places, maybe."

“It’s mostly green there, Archie, all sorts of greens too. Trees and grass and more. Neighbors had livestock, so you could nap next to cows, and wake up to find a chicken in your room.” He laughs, lightly.

Archie laughs back. "I'd like to meet a cow."

“They’re the sweetest things, Archie, they really are. Soft too. One morning, Effie, that’s my girl, she woke up to a chicken on her pillow next to her, screeched louder than the hen did! We got a couple eggs for free that day, the bird’s owner felt so bad.”

Archie grins cheek to cheek as he laughs. "Warm eggs? Like in books?"

“Warm eggs? How are your eggs usually cooked Archie?”

"They're not warm when you get 'em."

Ah. “Yes, then. Warm eggs, like in your books.” Not that he would know. He’d had to abandon any real schooling for this, and it kills him that he knows Effie isn’t getting any right now either. It's almost surprising the boy knows how to read. That Alva does. But it seems they do. “You like reading then?”

Archie nods severely. "I do!"

“Good. S’good for a young man to enjoy. Means you’ll go far in life.”

"That's what Da says. That I need to know how to read, and it's for the best I like it."

Conan nods, smiling. “That’s right! It’ll help you get wherever you want.”

"Be a clerk, one day." It sounds as if he's repeating someone else's words. "A lawyer. Or a rabbi."

“That’s what you want to do? One of those?” Conan goes back to gently scratching Archie’s scalp, the way Effie loves. “All good options.”

"I'd be military, like Da. But he says no."

He looks back over to Alva, almost sad, before pressing the slightest of kisses to Archie’s head. “He’s right. It’s a horrible business.”

"Bloody." Alva agrees. Carrying, with difficulty, a plate of bread and two cups of milk.

“Dangerous. And not at all the glory filled tales people tell.” Not that Conan knows. But he can see it, in the eyes of the soldiers come home, the ones on the street. The ones who come to see him on his corner.

There's the same shadow in Alva's eyes, when he thinks nobody is looking, when he doesn't force it away. "The stories are pretty." Alva agrees. "Have some milk, it's still good."

Conan isn’t sure which of them is being told to drink, but he lets go of Archie, freeing the boy to run off or collect his snack if he wishes.

Archie does. Grabs his breakfast, runs off into a corner to sit on a rickety chair and eat it. "You too." Alva insists. "Unless you'd rather tea."

“You’ve already gone to the trouble of fetching me this.” Takes the second glass with a smile.

"That's the spirit." Alva encourages. "You get something in your stomach, and you can go to sleep."

He takes a sip, and sighs, happy. “Thank you.”

Alva waves a hand. "It's nothing, between friends."

“Friends…” Conan takes another sip, and holds the glass up in a facsimile of cheers. “To friends, then.”

"To friends." Alva toasts him with what's left over in Archie's cup.

And maybe someday more, he thinks, before tossing back half the glass. The way Alva looks at him doesn't bely that. There's something sweet-hot in his gaze. It makes heat pool low, that look. Conan thinks he would be good. Thinks Alva would treat him the right amount of tender. Even more he can’t stop thinking about how much he wants to ride that beautiful man. Has to take another drink of milk to distract himself, which only makes him think about licking Alva’s cream off his lips, and then Conan has to shift, trying to hide the beginnings of an issue in his lap.

Alva kisses Archie on the cheeks, ushers him out the door, and then it's just the two of them.

Finishing the glass, licking his lips, Conan looks up at him, trying to stop himself from slipping into the face he gives his johns. “Bed, you said? Once I finished?”

It sounds lewd. Makes Alva flush across the tops of his cheekbones. "C'mon."

Oh he’s even cuter when he blushes!! Conan smiles, and gets to his feet, wincing as he stands.

Alva holds out a hand. "Lean on me."

He does so gladly, maybe a little more than strictly needed. But Conan can’t get enough of feeling them pressed together, especially after Alva saved him earlier. “Thank you~” Even if he knows he should be behaving himself better, for Alva’s sake alone.

"It's no hardship." Alva says, smiling still so tenderly.

“Maybe not, but still, thank you.”

"Not that I mind to hear you say it. You've a sweet way about you."

“A sweet way about me….” Conan’s not sure what to think of that. Whether covert insult or genuine.

"No, I don't mean it badly. Not to demean you." He senses the uncertain reaction.

“That’s alright, I’m well accustomed to demeaning, it’s not. problem.” Conan thinks he might not even mind it, from Alva.

"But I didn't mean it like that. Meant to be sweet."

“I believe you dear, don’t worry.” If he were braver- no, stupider, Conan might kiss him here and now. He knows better though, and contents himself to run a hand up Alva’s arm, pulling himself a little closer. Alva leans into the touch, though. As if he too wishes to be closer. His cheek presses against Alva’s arm, warm and firm, finding some muscle hidden beneath his shirt. Conan should have suspected, but he is quite pleased by the discovery, even as he peels himself away to crawl onto the bed. Alva pulls the blankets up over him carefully.

“So sweet to me~ A real gentleman.”

"I do try my hardest. Is that how you like it? A gentleman?"

A dangerous game now, but one Conan can’t bring himself to abandon. “I like it however my match does. I like you as yourself.”

"Do you? Really? Or is it debt you feel?"

“Liking you as you are, isn’t a debt, Alva. I hope you know that.”

"I hope it isn't. Because I like you very much. I have thought about you."

“I promise. You’re not a debt. You’re just you.” And he’s been the good part of every dream Conan has had since they met.

"That's a lovely thing to be. Just myself."

“And yourself happens to be-“ he yawns, “exactly how I like you..”

"I'll sit by you while you fall asleep. If you'd like."

It makes him laugh, to himself. A quiet chuckle. Feeling like a child. A child who does very much want his knight to stay by him, keeping him safe. “If… if it’s not too much trouble.”

"None at all. Will you be alright while I'm at work?"

Not if he wakes up alone, but Conan refuses to let him know that. He nods, smiling sleepily. “Yes, thank you.”

"I'll be back before you know it." Alva promises. He leaves quietly, not wanting to shake Conan out of sleep. All Alva gets in response is an unconscious grumble. Conan’s already fast asleep and wrapped warm.

Alva is thinking about him all day. Distracted from his work dreaming about him. In his flat. In his bed.

Conan does end up waking, jolted by a creak, eyes shooting open in fear. His heart pounds as he lies stone still, until the smell of the sheets sooths him. The smell of Alva. It takes more willpower than he thought he had to not pull out his prick, surrounded by that smell, surrounded by warmth and Alva’s sheets. There's another creak. The sound of the door lock. Conan freezes again. He knows it must just be Alva, or Archie, but he can’t help the fear, eyes locked on the door, ready to bolt if he must.

Alva nudges the door open with his foot. Sighs heavily. "You awake?"

He nods, eyes still wide, terror not yet subsided. Conan’s breath finally un-catches though, a shaky inhale the first sound he’s made.

Alva comes in, sits down on the end of the bed. "Did you sleep well?"

“Yeah, uh yes. I did.” And I dreamt of you.

"Long day at work." He says it so casually. As if they were a married couple, as if he's used to coming home to Conan. "Archie not home yet?"

“Not that I know, but I woke up just now…” He sits up, heart finally calming, though now worried for Archie.

"It happens." Alva doesn't seem worried, yet. "Might've gone off with a friend."

“He’ll be alright, yes? I hope?”

"I expect as much." Alva says. Easy. Casual. It’s far less anxious than Conan had even been when it came to Effie. Of course, clearly Alva is more experienced here than Conan ever was.

Alva hides the anxiety he does feel under a tough exterior. "Do you feel up to walking?"

“I might be a little slow, but yes, I think so.” He wriggles out of the covers, getting caught and only tearing his nightshirt more.

Alva sighs. "Would you like to borrow some clothes? I was thinking we might walk down and get some pies for dinner. Since we have a guest."

Conan turns a rather bright shade of pink. Despite how they met, this seems far more embarrassing. He’s rather meek when he speaks. “Please, thank you.”

Alva gives him a short, a pair of trousers, a drab waistcoat, and a short jacket to cut the wind. All seem rather threadbare, in colours designed to weather heavy wear.

“Thank you.” He pulls them on gratefully, looking a tad swamped in the larger size. “I feel like a kid again, wearing my father’s clothes…. Not that any of them fit near as close as these do.”

"We're not so different in size as all that." Alva isn't by any means a large man, though he isn't tiny either. They used to call him sturdy, back when they looked at him and saw a girl. They'd say he had birthing hips, though never to his face.

“No, not that much…” Still though, seeing the sleeves cover part of his hands, Conan feels safe, warm and held in a similar way. “I won’t be tripping over these, that’s for sure.” Finally, he feels free enough to properly smile. A wide bright thing, making his eyes sparkle looking at Alva.

Alva feels warmth pool in his stomach at the sight of that smile. "It'll keep you warm, at least."

He walks over, a bit unsteady, and presses against Alva’s side. “It will.” Quieter, almost too quiet, “and it smells like you.”

The heat is almost a flame now. "Do you like that?"

He’s said too much, far too much. Conan can’t seem to stop. “Smells safe.”

Alva smiles, and there's warmth in that smile. "What a lovely thing to say."

“S’ the truth.” Conan’s trying to hide his face in Alva’s armpit, blushing quite a bit. He can shamelessly advertise sex but this is what turns him back into a blushing virgin?

Alva looks long at him. He feels like he's standing on the edge of a precipice, about to jump. Feels ten years younger, and suddenly rather daring. "Might I kiss you?"

“Please?” He feels pathetic, almost begging. Especially when Conan knows he should be avoiding entanglements, it’s bad for business, but— But.

Alva bends to him, the very little distance that he has to, and wraps his hand around the back of Conan's head. As much tender as commanding. He pulls him into the kiss.

The first thing Conan thinks is oh! It’s so different for free. And the rest all melts away into Alva. His lips parting, eyes slipping shut. A soft happy sound slides into Alva’s mouth, onto his tongue. Alva opens his mouth for it and slides his tongue into Conan's mouth. Its so different, like this, than the harsh shove he’s accustomed too. Not that many wanted to kiss him anyway, most preferring his mouth be otherwise occupied. Alva’s tongue doesn’t feel like an invading force, doesn’t bully, and oh he tastes beautiful. Alva kisses him like he's a treat to be devoured. His hands wander up and down his back.

Actually, Conan doesn’t really know what to do, save pressing himself close against Alva’s front and settling his hands around him, clasped right over Alva’s cute butt. It’s nice being kissed like this, for once. He doesn’t think he wants it to ever end.

But Alva pulls away, giving him one more feather-light kiss. "Good?"

He nods, utterly breathless and leant entirely on Alva. “Perfect…” Conan licks his lips, chasing the taste of him, and pouts when it’s gone. “Come back? I need more of you.”

Alva can't resist such a sweet request. He leans in for another kiss. This time it’s Conan who slips his tongue forward, hoping to tangle with Alva’s, to feel that warm slick muscle against his own. Alva complies easily. It's been a long time since he kissed anyone. Almost forgot how lovely it is. He rocks forward on his toes, pressing even closer, and lets out a happy little mewl, licking into Alva’s mouth. Conan knows he’ll never get over this taste. And there's no indication Alva is loving this any less.

When he eventually runs out of air, Conan pulls back with a whine and a gasp, eyes dark, blown wide. “You make kissing worthwhile.”

"Your clients don't much go in for kissing, do they? Mine never do."

“No. Not unless they think it’ll disgust me.” He shakes his head. “You’re…. perfect though.“

"You've been kissed before, haven't you? For free?"

Conan blushes again, feeling inexperienced, childish. “No, not for free.”

"You make me feel like I'm robbing a cradle." He smirks. "I don't mind it."

“I—! I’m not that much younger!” He exclaims, turning pinker, before realizing he doesn’t actually know how old Alva is. Old enough to have had a kid Archies age, which… “I’m not…. am I?”

"I don't rightly know. How old are you?"

“Twenty…. three? I think? My parents weren’t good at keeping track.”

"Ah." He doesn't laugh. It would be wrong of him to laugh, all wrong. "A bit younger."

Conan pouts, taking hold of one of Alva’s fingers and playing with it. “How much is a ‘bit’?”

"Fourteen years, or thereabouts." Alva admits.

His heart skips a beat, and speeds up. Conan leans in, catching him in another, quicker kiss. “I… think I like that.”

"I certainly think I don't mind it either." Alva admits.

Conan smiles, leaning his head against Alva’s shoulder. “I’m happy a nice man like you was my first kiss. Real one, I mean. One I wanted.”

"Your first." Alva says tenderly. "Your proper first."

“I really like that.” Conan’s smile only grows, all of it focused on Alva.

"Oh, do you? You like to feel smaller?"

“I… I like the thought of someone wanting me enough to want to show me all this, to have my first with me.” He ducks his head a little. “Sometimes wish I’d had that instead of what my firsts actually were. I think you would have been a lovely teacher for it, for me.”

"I would have loved to be a teacher for you." Heat coils in his stomach. "Would still."

“Even like this?” Already used, broken in. Conan can’t do much to stop his growing excitement, can’t hide it either, pressed this close to Alva. He smiles, hanging off every word.

"Like this, even. You've still got to learn about having it gentle, haven't you?" He's undeniably getting wet.

He nods, pressing flatter against Alva’s front. “I most certainly do.” But- There’s no answering hardness, nothing pressing back against him, no tent of any size. It stings, Conan has to admit, that the burning need isn’t reciprocated, but he can’t exactly blame the man. He knows he’s been nothing but pathetic, a mess. No amount of whoring eyes, plump lips, or waif body will fix that.

But Alva kisses him like he's starving. "Oh, you're... is that for me?"

Conan flushes deeper, highly embarrassed now. “Who else would it be for?” Not that it matters. Clearly Alva doesn’t feel the same, no matter how well he kisses.

"Do you want me to suck you?" Alva offers, plain and brazen.

“I- What—?” He splutters, expecting entirely the opposite. God does he want it though. It’s something he’s given plenty, but never received. Conan thinks he might weep if he ever does.

"We mustn't keep propriety between us now, must we?"

“No… I suppose not, but… Really?” If possible, Conan grows even harder, straining in his borrowed clothes.

"I would like it, too. It isn't just a gift."

“Be that as it may….” He feels horrible even thinking it, let alone giving it voice but he has to make it clear. “I can’t- I can’t pay you for it. I wouldn’t want to- to turn this, our friendship, into a business transaction either.”

"You don't have to pay. I'm not asking you for that. You've... never, have you? Not without money involved."

It’s a long, quiet moment before Conan shakes his head no. He didn’t exactly have time, what with his plans for seminary and then all his work since.

"I'd love to take your first willing time. Have you ever... you've been with women, haven't you?"

“Not really, no. They don’t tend to go for the pretty ones.” He thinks hard, and the most he can remember is, “one grabbed my prick through me trousers once, said she wanted to make sure I had one. She didn’t even want to do anything with it afterward.”

Alva smiles, a knowing sort of half-smile. "Then I have something to teach you still."

He doesn’t want to admit there’s more to be taught. Doesn’t want to admit he’s never done the fucking, only even been the one fucked. Conan half smiles though, a little confused. “What, like how to prep? I know that I had to have or I would’ve torn to bits long ago.”

"I'm no woman. I'll say that right now and make no mistake about it. But I'll still teach you your way around a cunt."

That only confuses Conan more. “Al..right? I hadn’t thought you were Alva. There’s no worry of that.”

"You might, once you see me without my trousers. Or without my vest."

“That’s absurd. You’re still you without those, aren’t you? Why would I ever think you anything else?”

"They all did, when I was born, when I was growing."

“Well I think you’re one of the handsomest men I’ve ever seen, let alone met. It sounds like they were a brigade of fools.”

"I've often thought they might be. Now, are you going to let me on my knees for you?"

Conan blushes again at that, still not accustomed to such boldness in such an acutely intimate space. “If you’re that interested in it….”

"I am. It'll be easiest if you sit in the chair."

He nods but still whines a bit when letting go. “It feels silly to divest myself of clothing so soon after putting it on.”

"You'll put it back on soon. We'll go out after."

“Pies, you said, yes?” Conan settles, bare from the waist down, in the chair, prick standing at hopeful attention.

"Pies I promised and shall deliver." Alva drops to his knees.

He’s so pretty there, looking up at Conan. One hand curls into Alva’s hair, tender. “While we’re out, you’ll have to tell me what Archie likes, I want to get him a treat, for imposing so early.”

"He will like it." Alva promises. Presses a kiss on Conan's thigh.

Conan should probably stop talking about the man’s kid. “You look gorgeous there, you know.”

"Oh, do you think so?" His expression is preening.

“Mhm, all handsome and easy to hold.” Feet slide around Alva, curling to keep him between Conan’s knees, keep him in place.

Alva's tongue flickers out, just licking the very tip of Conan's prick.

That alone makes him gasp, hand tightening in Alva’s hair. “Never felt that from this side!”

"You're in for a treat." Alva promises.

“Trust you.” And maybe he shouldn’t but Conan isn’t scared at all as he relaxes back into the chair, hips canting forward, toward Alva.

Alva opens his mouth, relaxes his lips, lets Conan slide in.

It’s warm, so warm. Wet and welcoming and if he’s not careful, Conan thinks he could get addicted to this feeling alone. “God-! You- It’s-“ He breaks off into a whine and barely manages to keep himself still.

It's all Alva needs to hear, all the same. He takes him right into his throat.

”Fuck, Alva!” He’s felt that before, felt flesh bump the back of his throat. He never realized just how divine it felt for the men in his mouth though.

Alva swallows around him, seeming contented. No whore to just take it but seeming to simply love it. It’s heaven, heaven on earth, here in Alva’s mouth. He doesn’t think he’d ever want to leave, save the fact they can’t kiss or converse like this. A small moan slides out, Conan forcing his hands to relax, to not yank at Alva’s hair.

Alva, truthfully, wouldn't mind to have his hair pulled. A little sharpness to contrast the pleasure he's feeling. He draws back a little to say so. "Pull it."

“R..really?” So many of the men who liked to pull had done so violently hard, almost ripping it out at the root. It hadn’t occurred to Conan there was a more pleasurable way.

"Just a bit. Just gently."

His hands curl tighter, getting a solid grip. “If you’re sure…”

Alva nods briskly. Arches his head, pushing back into the touch, urging it. Conan hesitantly tugs, pulling both at hair and bringing Alva a tad closer. It feels nice to do, tactile. And Alva moans, as if he loves it. It's not a fake moan, not put on. Genuine, spontaneous.

“You’re gorgeous…” He’s heavenly. Conan has no clue how such a lovely man decided he was what he wanted, not like this anyway.

Alva looks up at him with wide brown eyes, full of delight and desire, and he swallows him down into his throat again. Conan gasps, hands tugging at hair, hips twitching, managing to stay in the chair. Alva is good at this, far better, Conan thinks, than he himself is. He’ll have to see if Alva will let him return the favor. Conan wants to find out how he tastes anyway. Alva squirms as he sucks, rubbing himself against the seam of his trousers, heat pooling in his soaked center.

“M’close, Alva- Alva-!” He’s gritting his teeth, trying to hold it back. He always hates when his clients don’t give any warning. As it is, it’a embarrassing how quickly the heat and built, coiled and pulled tight in his gut. Alva only sucks him deeper. Come for me, he seems to say, without any words. And Conan does. Shooting with a keen, fingers catching tighter in those beautiful waves. Tugging as he twitches in Alva’s throat, a gush overtaking any further words. Conan’s feet twinge as the curl. Alva swallows. Swallows most of it, some dripping out over his lips. He fumbles for a handkerchief to wipe his face up.

Trembling a tad, Conan gently tugs the kerchief from between his fingers, cleaning Alva up himself. One hand cupping his parietal, keeping the both of them steady. “You’re lovely, that was lovely, I-“ He takes a breath to center himself. “Are you alright?”

Alva smiles up at him, licking his lips. "I'm perfect. Did you like it?"

“Like it? Alva I understand why men spend their money on us now. That was possibly the best physical sensation I’ve ever experienced.” He’s practically glowing, Conan is so enamored.

Alva takes advantage of the position they're still in to press a kiss to Conan's bare knee. "I'm glad to hear it."

He blushes again, flushing deeper. “I don’t suppose you’d let me blow you as well?”

"You can learn to lick me, if you'd like."

“I- I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Alva’s been making it sound like he doesn’t have a prick. “If you have some malformation, some disease, some war wound haunting you I won’t judge. I really won’t.”

"Oh, it's far simpler than all that. I was born this way. Born as if a woman."

And now he’s even more confused. “You’re clearly not one.”

"I've got a cunt, and a pretty pair of tits. But I'm a man where it matters, in my head and my heart."

“Oh.” Conan takes a minute to process that. Peeks at Alva through his lashes. “So, you mean your lack of erection wasn’t indicative of a lack of reciprocal interest?”

"I was drenched wet, darling, that's what I was. Am."

His spent prick twitches at that, heartbeat speeding up. “I thought… I thought you simply weren’t properly interested back.”

"I suppose I can see how you'd think that, if you expected to feel it."

“And would-“ Conan wets his lips, nervous, despite his daily work. “Would you like to teach me to make you feel good?”

"I'd like that very much. It'll be easier if we go to the bed."

He nods, rattling the chair with how fast he stands, only careful enough to not smack into Alva’s face.

Alva gets to his feet slower, a little stiff. Seems to favour a leg.

“Oh! Dear you shouldn’t have- Not if it hurts! Are you alright? Is it, will you be able to get to the market later? I didn’t mean to-“

"Oh, perfectly well. Just a touch stiff. There's a war wound for you."

“Alright…” Still, Conan hovers, even after Alva is settled on the bed. He looks remarkably worried for a man about to have sex.

"Come now." Alva soothes. "It's alright. Come and join me."

Trousers abandoned entirely, Conan does as entreated, crawling onto the mattress. It might be the first time he’s had sex on an actual bed since…. Well ever, actually. And Alva welcomes him to the bed like a lover, pulls him close. Fumbling his trousers open all the time.

Nervous fingers reach to assist, overly careful when Conan pulls them down, worried now about Alva's leg. "You're just... so handsome."

"You're very sweet, lovely boy."

"I'm telling the truth, not sweeting my words." Those same hands run up Alva's legs, trembling in awe, rather than nerves now. "You're a masterpiece."

Alva lifts his hips to wriggle out of his trousers. The hair between his legs is as fair as that on his head.

Conan’s mouth waters, eyes growing dark with want as they focus in on Alva’s arousal. “S’not what I thought those looked like.” Not that he has any frame of reference, nor experience.

"I don't know what you expected. Teeth? You can touch it, it isn't scary."

“No I didn’t expect teeth I just….” Two of his fingers brush featherlight over Alva. “I guess I didn’t know how I thought they looked.”

"You wouldn't, would you, if you've never had a chance to play with one? Do that again, a little harder."

Conan shakes his head. “No… Never even seen one before today.” He does just that, pressing against warm skin, though still light, fearing he’ll hurt. Looks up at Alva the way a puppy does, waiting to be trained.

"Good boy. You see the nub up the top? That's where you want to focus."

“This?” He pushes against it, fingertip moving in slow circles.

Alva's hips jerk, and he moans breathily. "Right there, yes."

Conan smiles, giddy at how pretty he looks like that. He nuzzles against Alva’s fuzzy thigh, enjoying the warmth. “I could get used to hearing you sound like that, dear.”

"Then keep putting your fingers right there. Or try your tongue."

That makes him even more excited, pressing a little harder before replacing his finger with his mouth, latching around it, tonguing Alva’s clit the way he does a cock’s head. A little whine slips out. Alva tastes amazing. Alva's hips thrust forward. It feels good, feels lovely. Untaught, certainly, but the enthusiasm is there. "That's the stuff."

Conan hums, extremely pleased, sucking gently. Really, he thinks, it’s not all that different from sucking dick, is it. And he’s got plenty of experience there. Alva's hand finds a home snug in his hair, but he doesn't pull. "Put a finger in me."

He does as he’s told, excitedly trembling finger sliding between warm folds, finding slick flesh. It slips in easier than Conan expects, being used to prepping himself before work. Alva, on the other hand, is slick and wanting and giving. He clenches tight around the finger. "Yes, like that."

He may not have any experience with cunts, but Conan knows there’s a spot that makes him feel incredible. He figures there must be one in there as well, and begins searching, finger brushing along wet walls as he keeps tonguing and sucking at Alva’s nub. When he finds it, he knows. Feels Alva squirm desperately, feels even more wetness around his finger and under his tongue. Another finger slides in, joining the first, focusing on the spot that makes Alva react oh so beautifully. Finger and tongue move in tandem, pressing circular attentions against both, Conan’s eyes locked on every twitch of Alva’s expression. Alva's face tenses up when he comes, tension through every bit of his body.

God he’s gorgeous Conan thinks, as he keeps up his ministrations, no real concept of what Alva’s orgasm looks like.

Alva finally pushes his head aside. "That's enough. That was lovely."

He whines again, just a tad, licking his lips as they detach from Alva’s gorgeous clit. “You’re magnificent…”

"You're far sweeter about this than I had expected."

“You thought I’d not want to taste? Or that a lack of experience would make me balk?” Conan’s fingers slip out, and he sucks them clean, savoring it.

"I thought you'd not like the taste. Many men don't."

“Certainly better than most men’s spunk. Much better texture too.” Oh, how Conan wants to lean down and scoop out any left between those folds. “I rather enjoy you on my tongue, I think.”

"You're a gift, you are. Now let's get our clothes back on and find something to eat."

He pouts a tad, but nods in agreement, wiping off slick fingers and wriggling back into borrowed trousers. “I do still want to get Archie a treat as well. If they have anything you know he likes.”

"We'll be sure to. Give him some joy that you stayed."

“He seems a darling boy. You’ve done lovely in raising him.”

"I thank you for it. And I'd like to tell that to his no-good father."

It dawns on Conan then, properly, that Alva must have been the one to carry and birth the boy. “Shame on him for not helping you both. Honestly!”

Alva smiles. "We'll get some barley sugar for you too, sweet boy. It's deserved."

He practically melts at that, smiling at Alva like he hung the moon. “Really? I don’t ever get myself much, don’t really need it….”

"We'll get some for us all. For you and him, for being sweet. For me, just for the hell of it."

“Alva I don’t think I’ve ever met a man as good as you.”

"I do make an effort." He allows. "World needs more good."

“And you deserve far better than this sort of work.” Than me goes unspoken, even if Conan knows it’s correct.

"There's more terrible work out there, bloody work and backbreaking labour."

Conan looks him dead in the eye. “If I were offered such work, and could buy my way out from my contract, I would take it in a heartbeat.”

"Ah yes. Your contract. What exactly does it stipulate?"

“That I work for him, and that he gets a cut of what I make, I’d imagine.” Conan’s not actually sure what it says, he’d not been able to read the words on the page when it was set in front of him to sign.

"You didn't get the chance to look at it?" He shrugs on his jacket.

“No, it was there, I signed the thing. He told me what was in it, but it’s been, oh a few years now, so I don’t remember the figures.”

"And there's almost no chance he'd let me have a look. Save if he thought to taunt me."

Conan almost laughs. “No, likely not. I suppose if he were to employ you it might be the same agreement, but I’ve honestly no idea if it’s stayed the same since then.”

"And I've no desire to work for him. I can sell it just fine on my own."

“We all can, but he owns the streets and corners. I’m just happy you haven’t encountered him but once.”

"Once was bad enough. How did he get such a power?"

“Lord knows. Presumably paid or killed the right people. Before I got to the city, that’s all I know.” Conan really likes being all wrapped up in his borrowed clothes, it feels safe, in a way his own sometimes don’t.

Alva laces their arms as they step outside. "Fucker."

He smiles even wider at the contact. “My thoughts exactly.”

Alva tugs him close as they walk. Could be like two friends sharing a walk. Or it could be like sweethearts. It’s lovely, being so domestic. Going shopping with Alva. Conan can almost imagine a world where they go home to Archie and Effie, happy and all together. He leans in, both for stability on his feet and for the sheer joy of it. Alva sweeps them to his favourite pie stand. An indulgence he's shared with Archie time and again, and it feels good to share it with Alva too.

“Ohhhh these smell wonderful!”

"Steak and kidney alright for you? Allegedly what it is."

Conan beams. “Questionable steak and kidney sounds perfect.”

Alva purchases three pies. It's a stretch of money, but it will do. "Barley sugar next."

His eyes narrow at the money, and when curling into Alva’s side, feels where it’s kept. Makes a mental note to give half of the costs back. Alva slips some more money into his hand as they approach the sweets-seller. Cautious. A man who's had his purse snatched before.

Conan smiles at him again. “I think you might be the sweetest man I’ve met, truly.”

"Sweets for the sweet." Alva says as he hands over a twist of barley sugar, low enough that nobody else will hear over the background chatter.

Just as quietly, Conan whispers back, “considering you’re the sweet one, this ought to be yours.”

Alva turns them into a back alley, some ways towards home. As soon as they're alone, he grins filthy. "Give me a lick, then."

He pulls Alva into a kiss, tongue exploring, leaving them both spit slick when Conan leans back and sinks to his knees. “With such a lovely treat, how could I ever resist?”

"Here?" Alva asks, half-cautious.

“We don’t have to, could wait till we get back.” Conan looks around, and shifts them around, fully out of eyesight. “Up to you either way.”

"If you think we'll be safe... I don't want to wait."

His hands hold Alva’s hips, almost framing what he wants to taste again. “I’ve not had troubles before.” Conan shrugs. “And even if we were caught, you’d not get in any trouble. I’d make sure you got all tucked away safe in your trousers before anyone could see you.”

"Is that so? They wouldn't trouble the... procurer?"

Conan shakes his head. “They never have in the past.”

"Then let's do it, and pray we aren't caught."

He smiles, hungry, lewd. “Honey the workhouse would be worth it to make you feel good.” Conan undoes Alva’s pants, as if unwrapping a precious gift. Chill fingers slipping between fuzzy thighs. The cold feels strangely lovely. Alva shivers deliciously.

As Conan licks a warm stripe up him, he lets his eyes flutter shut. Focusing in and circling around that lovely little clit. Fingers brushing over arousal warmed folds. Alva's hand falls to stroke his hair. So much gentler than the usual clients. He supposes that’s the difference between buyer and partner. Regardless, Conan hums, greedily lapping at Alva. He rubs the rest, gentle, before dipping inside, happy to soak his fingers.

Alva groans. His head falls back against the wall, eyes looking up at the milky sky. Conan half smiles around him, before latching onto Alva’s clit and sucking, tongue flicking back and forth as he does. His fingers curl, petting Alva’s insides, before taking a risk, and sliding in deeper, to the last knuckle.

It earns him a delicious, punched-out moan. "Oh, yes...."

His eyes flutter back open, looking up at Alva with stars in his eyes. If this is how he reacts to that…. Conan wriggles a third finger in, cautious, almost nervous. Giving more attention to Alva’s clit as he does. Alva moans again and presses his hips down further to get more of that lovely feeling of depth. Conan presses up, trying to stretch his fingers, imagining, for a moment, how Alva might look with something properly long in him. It makes Conan moan, with his mouth full of bush and Alva, and start licking with renewed fervor.

Alva's eyes flutter closed, overwhelmed by the delicious pleasure. One finger crooks toward that perfect spot, the others pressing up, aiming higher as Conan’s hand pumps. In as deep as he can, out the slightest bit, again and again. It takes a little while longer than it might take a more typical man, but not much longer for Alva to fall apart.

Recognizing it this time, Conan unlatches, instead pressing his face as close as he can to Alva’s cunt. Licking the slick that’s left behind when he withdraws his fingers. He doesn’t want to waste any. Alva slumps against the wall, his legs shaking. When he’s thoroughly cleaned Alva up, Conan sits back on his heels, clearly hard in the borrowed trousers. “I was right, sugar sweet.” Conan smiles as he sucks his fingers clean.

"You want my hand?" Alva offers.

He shakes his head, slowly standing. “M’alright. Are you though? You’re positively trembling.”

"Happens to me sometimes, after I... finish. It means good things."

“I think I like it. You’re all cute like that, makes me feel like I’ve actually helped you feel good.” Conan loops himself around Alva’s waist, as if he were helping a close drunk friend home. Alva leans into him. Half playing up the act, half genuinely enjoying the touch.

“Do you think Archie will like our spoils?” He hopes so. Hopes both of them enjoy something after he disrupted it all earlier.

"I'm sure he will." Archie is sitting at the table when they get back to the flat. His face lights up at the sight of the bag, and he rushes to snatch it from Alva's hand.

Conan laughs, bright and open. It’s a joy to see Archie so safe, so confident. “Were you waiting for us long?”

"Too long." He declares. "C'n I have some pie now?"

“That’s up to your da, don’t you think?”

Alva smiles, lazy and sated and happy. "Ah, certainly. Let's all eat."

“Lets!” He smiles back, sitting down and waiting for Alva before digging in himself.

Alva shrugs, his smile still wide. "Have at 'em." He bites into a pie himself.

Conan’s eyes grow wide, flavor filling his mouth. “Ths’s the b’st p—“ He has to forcw himself to swallow before he spews flakes of crust all over the table.

"Isn't it? I swear, she's a master of her craft."

“Truly!” He takes another massive bite, making happy sounds as he eats.

Alva could soak up the sound of his happiness. "Will you stay another night – another day?"

“Really?” The food slowly lowers from Conan’s face. “I wouldn’t want to intrude…”

"I don't want you going back to somewhere unsafe."

“I’ll have to go back eventually, but.. If you’re sure I wouldn’t be a bother….”

"Not at all. It's lovely to have you."

Conan smiles at him, looking for all the world like he’s seeing salvation. “Then yes, it would be my honor to stay another day.”

Alva claps him on the shoulder. "Good man."

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