Notes: As a warning, this is a Dorian-heavy chapter, and we know what that means. TW for very unwanted contact.

In the dark, it was impossible to tell, but Simon was certain there was someone standing on his porch. His footfalls became nearly silent as he slowed. No one ever went to his house. After his father’s funeral, that place had been empty and untouched by anyone but him.

No. That wasn’t quite true. He had invited—

Simon’s heart pounded into his throat.

The figure turned, revealing a pale face lit by moonlight and the column.

Dorian had been here plenty of times before. As those cold eyes landed on Simon, it became apparent that running would not be an option. He had been spotted and anywhere he went, Dorian would follow.

If he just moved past him, perhaps he could get inside without issue.

He knew that wasn’t true. But whatever Dorian did, he could tolerate it long enough to get inside. Simon took a breath, the warm night air filling his lungs. It was comforting, but not nearly enough to ease the tight feeling building in his chest.

This was his house. He would not be intimidated on his own property.

He stepped forward, placing his hand in his jacket pocket, fingers wrapped around the key. His gaze stayed down low, not meeting Dorian’s eyes. The moment he looked up and invited the man to speak was the moment everything would go downhill. It always did.

Simon was not surprised when a bony hand wrapped around his forearm, long fingers digging against him so forcefully that he could feel the cold of his skin even through layers of velvet.

”Let go.”

It should not have bothered him so much that Dorian did not. He knew when he opened his mouth that it was futile. Perhaps if he allowed the acid in his stomach to rise and he made a mess of himself, Dorian would loosen his grip.

”I am going to the light.”

”That is not about me.”

If Dorian wanted some sort of parting gift, he had gone to the wrong person. Simon had nothing to offer. Nothing he was willing to offer. Not anymore.

”Simon, look at me.”

Simon did not want to look up.

”Simon.”

He was slow, his eyes dragging against the wooden surface of the porch, then up the wall. He held his head straight, not looking at the man.

The cool leather of a gloved hand grasped Simon’s chin, gripping it and pulling his head to the side. Cool blue eyes stared directly through him, making his stomach sour and hot.

”I want you to go with me,” Dorian said, voice hardly above a whisper.

That wasn’t happening. Simon pressed his lips together.

”Don’t be like this. You and I both know how powerful you could be. I will confess I do not know if I can close this on my own. But together—“

”I would only have power if I married into the family. I won’t.” It was stupid to even open his mouth to argue. It was only going to encourage him to keep going. “I don’t intend to help you.”

Dark brows furrowed and there was a brief moment in which Simon swore there was a darkness in those pale eyes. And then his face softened entirely. “I haven’t taken good care of you recently. I understand if you’re upset.” His grip on Simon’s wrist tightened. “Perhaps it is all the time you’ve spent with Isador. We haven’t been alone often.”

Simon had brought this on himself. He shouldn’t have tried to argue. It had always been easier to manage if he kept his mouth shut. Even when things had been nice, they had always been better when Simon kept quiet.

”Why don’t you let me show you how serious I am?”

If Simon screamed, would a neighbor hear? It was likely. But being found with Dorian on him had more consequences than he was ready to deal with. He took an unsteady breath in hopes that it would ground him, but the feeling of Doian’s hand pushing against his shoulder and his own back creasing against the front door negated any calm it may have brought him.

”I am serious about you, Simon.”

Simon had no doubts about that. “Don’t do this.” He could throw Dorian off of him. If he put his weight into it, he could toss himself forward. He could make him back off. But why did he have to? Dorian had been kind once. He hadn’t just taken what he wanted. He might not have been gentle, but he had been patient. He had been good.

He could be like that again.

”No one will see,” Dorian murmured. His grip loosened on Simon’s wrist. He didn’t need to hold him down and he knew it. His hands moved over Simon’s chest. They were still gloved. There was some space between them except where those hands roamed.

His heart pounded, his head light. Dorian’s fingers ran along the edge of trousers. His face was so serious, as if he were attending to some studying he was bored with but obligated by. He made nothing of the way Simon went rigid beneath him.

”I don’t want you.”

”Yes, you do. You should see yourself.” His thigh wedged itself between Simon’s legs.

Simon’s head was swimming. His blood was hot and his breath trembling.

”Look how you react for me. It’s pretty, you know.” His thigh shifted.

Fuck. The problem had never been that it did not feel good when Dorian was with him.

”Please let go,” Simon murmured, squeezing his eyes shut. He did not want to beg. He should not have to beg.

His hand moved lower, gripping Simon tight through his trousers. “You don’t want that.”

Simon squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to keep calm. Fighting him was only going to make this more difficult than it needed to be. His breath came too quickly, catching in his throat.

”So sensitive,” Dorian murmured.

Simon opened his eyes just as the man fell to his knees. It had been quite the sight once, the prince kneeling before him, looking up with wide eyes. There had been a time when this had given him a rush like nothing else.

He reached for his pocket as Dorian’s hands moved over his thighs. The cold of the little brass key kept him grounded. Simon reached back, grasping for purchase against the solid surface of the door. As Dorian’s hands found his buttons, Simon’s hands found the knob.

Dorian was too focused.

The key slid inside and the knob turned without resistance and Simon allowed himself to fall back with the door. He stumbled, scrambling to his feet. Dorian collapsed forward onto his hands, blinking as the door slammed shut before him. Simon turned the lock and his back crashed against solid wood as he gasped for air.

Fuck.

The pounding of his head against the wood was nothing compared to the sound of Dorian’s fist on the door.

He had never given Dorian a key. He wasn’t willing enough to get hurt that he would try to break a window. Simon had locked them. He always did. He had to.

He locked them.

Right?

”Simon, open up. You need to come with me. I need your strength, Simon.”

His voice was as clear as the sound of the doorknob rattling.

Simon slid slowly down, chest heaving as he closed the buttons on his trousers. Dorian had barely touched him. He couldn’t allow himself to get upset about this.

”Simon. Open the door now.”

The shaking of the doorknob stopped. Simon buried his head in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut. Crying wasn’t going to help this. Throwing up was only going to give him another chore.

The window by the door had a dark curtain over it, but it was easy to tell that Dorian was there by the sound of the pane rattling in the frame. He took a breath, trembling. He had locked the window.

He had.

”Simon! I will be your king. Open the door.”

Simon shuddered, hand pressed against his mouth.

”I need you, Simon.” His voice shifted, the anger suddenly sapped out of it.

He was desperate.

No, he was afraid. It wasn’t about the power Simon might wield if he could be forced into a marriage. Even if Dorian wanted him, he wasn’t stupid. He knew better than to think that Simon would ever allow it to happen. He knew it. Dorian had never been able to tolerate being alone. He had never wanted to keep Simon company when his father passed.

He had just been looking for someone who was foolish enough to let him in so he could cling to them.

Simon’s hands stopped trembling.

He rose, but did not take a step. The sound of footsteps would only set Dorian off.

The harsh bang! against the door, against Simon’s head, was not unexpected, but he went rigid regardless. Dorian didn’t shout again. The creak of Simon’s porch was as familiar as his own heartbeat.

Dorian was gone.

Simon did not move.

His breath came in shallow gulps, but it came. His eyes were damp, but no tears fell. Even if his throat was tight, he did not eject bile. Simon just stood there as his chest rose and fell and his heart beat. There was no way to tell if he stood here in the dark for minutes or an hour, but he stood still and the tension in his body eased. He was safe. Dorian was gone.

He did not look out the window before moving to the kitchen and turning the switch to light the lamp. The window above the sink faced forest, but Simon did not take in the view. He pulled shut the curtain and moved forward.

His father had been the one to teach him to cook. His father had been the one to teach him that it was always better to have a hot cup of tea while cooking and enjoy the entire experience. He lit the stove and placed the kettle upon it. Ground the spices, placed a strainer in his cup. They had used a pot before, but there was no need now. There was no one to share it with.

Food would not settle well in such an uneasy stomach.

He reached for the small pile of herbs on the counter.

Ginger. A steady hand was needed to cut something like this. He held a small knife, examining it in the light. He’d made this same tea to settle his father’s stomach plenty of times near the end. The herbs could help sustain even when food wasn’t palatable. Ginger helped to ease the way food went down.

His hands did not shake as he peeled the skin of the root, nor when he curled his fingers carefully like his father had taught him to before slicing it. It was automatic, a routine he had been through so many times that he may as well not have been attached to his own body.

The kettle let out a shriek, familiar and grating.

The way the hot water poured over the strainer was always soothing. The steam rose, gentle against Simon’s cheeks. The sharp, sweet scent hit his nostrils and the herbs heated. He was comfortable.

The stove turned off. The kettle set aside. Simon dropped the ginger into the tea and raised the cup to his lips.

At least this house was not empty.

At least he was not alone.