Cain led Gabriel upstairs, the sound of the latch clicking shut behind them. He moved with languid ease, sinking into the couch and draping one arm behind him.

Gabriel lingered by the door a moment longer before pulling a small pouch from his coat and setting it on the table between them. Then he removed his coat, hanging it neatly on the rack, and took the opposite seat, his gaze trailing across the room until it caught on something sitting just above the fireplace.

“He is called by thy name,” Gabriel said at last. His eyes lifted to meet Cain’s, a faint smirk playing at his mouth. “For he calls himself a lamb.”

Cain tilted his head. “Hmm?”

Gabriel nodded toward the fireplace. “Songs of Innocence. Blake. I recognised it.”

Cain’s brow arched, amused. “You read?”

Gabriel’s smile deepened, soft but shadowed. “Not much. When I was younger, scripture was all I knew. I’d read page after page about salvation and damnation. It’s only recently that I’ve… learned there’s more to read about the world. Words that weren’t meant to save me.”

Cain’s expression softened, genuine curiosity flickering behind his eyes. “So, this must feel foreign then. Words that don’t demand repentance, only reflection.”

Gabriel leaned back, studying the flicker of the firelight in Cain’s eyes. “Believe me, all words demand something. Even beauty. It just depends on what you want them to make you feel.”

Cain smiled faintly, the corner of his mouth curving. “And what is it you want to feel?”

Gabriel’s gaze lingered on him, long enough for the silence to thicken. “Anything other than guilt.” His tone was soft, stripped bare. Then, almost teasingly, “Your turn. A courtesan who reads Blake, and by the look of that spine, more than once. That’s not something one often finds in a place built on performance.”

Cain laughed. “You’re starting to sound like someone speaking from experience.” He paused, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “There wasn’t much to do when I first arrived. I was young. Still a couple of years away from being expected to entertain. So, I learned the small things: how to pour tea without spilling, braid hair, and help the girls with their makeup. Beyond that, my days were mostly open. I taught myself how to pass the time.”

Gabriel sensed there was more behind Cain’s words. Something fragile and carefully hidden beneath the polish of his smile. He saw it in the way Cain’s eyes lingered too long on the firelight, how charm had become his armour once again. But Gabriel didn’t press.

“Blake,” Gabriel murmured. “A strange choice for someone raised in a house of illusion.”

Cain gave a low laugh. “It helped the days pass. And when I stopped waiting to be rescued, I realised words could make me feel things no man ever could. They made me remember.”

Gabriel’s smile was small, aching. “And now you live surrounded by men who wouldn’t recognise poetry if it bit them on the ass.”

Cain glanced at him softly. “You’d be surprised, Gabriel. Some of them crave words more than they crave touch. They just don’t know it yet.”

The fire crackled softly, filling the silence between them. Shadows from the flames danced across their faces, blurring the line between warmth and danger.

For a while, neither spoke.

It was enough just to listen.

To the soft hum of burning resin, to the rhythm of breath, to the quiet realisation that the room had become too small for what lingered between them.

Gabriel’s gaze drifted back to the book. “Tell me,” he murmured, his tone softer now, “which do you prefer, innocence or experience?”

Cain’s lips curved, the question drawing a spark of amusement. “Experience,” he said simply. “Innocence never lasts.”

Gabriel’s eyes lingered on him, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “No,” he agreed. “But sometimes, it’s beautiful just before it dies.”

Their gazes held. Cain was the first to look away, though the faint curve of his mouth betrayed him. It was a smile that wasn’t quite a smile, more like a sigh disguised as poise.

“You know,” he said, his voice low, “for a man who grew up on scripture, you have a surprising fondness for forbidden words.”

Gabriel’s mouth twitched. It was a shadow of a smile, edged in smoke. He lit his cigarette with unhurried grace, the small flame flickering between them. He took a slow drag before speaking, voice roughened by memory.

“When you grow up in a place like that, it’s all you know,” he said. “You’re told to believe your elders, that every word they utter is law. Some people carry those words to their graves. Others… learn to question them.” He exhaled, the smoke coiling towards the ceiling. “Learn to see reality through the illusion.”

Cain hummed quietly, neither agreement nor dissent.

Just understanding.

Gabriel went on, more softly now. “It’s not easy to deny everything you’ve ever known. It’s a kind of death. But it’s the only way to live honestly.” He paused, his eyes flicking up to Cain’s. “I imagine you understand that.”

Cain tilted his head. “And what makes you so certain?”

Gabriel’s gaze lingered on him. “You’re a perceptive creature, little lamb. I’ve told you this before. You wear your defiance like perfume. I’d wager you’ve questioned your own scripture; the rules they’ve written for you. You play the games, but you’re rewriting it every day.”

Cain’s tone was sharp, but the edge trembled with something quieter. “You make it sound as if you’ve come to save me. Don’t tell me you pity me. I’d rather you didn’t insult me like that.”

Gabriel’s lips curved. “Pity you?” he murmured. “No. I think you’re stronger than most men I’ve met. I wouldn’t dare pity someone who survives this world with that much fire still in his eyes.” He leaned back, watching the cigarette burn down between his fingers. “I’m only saying this, I grew up on scripture. It was all I knew. But it doesn’t have to remain that way forever.”

He looked up again, and the faintest smile ghosted his face. “Do with that what you will.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not uncomfortable. The firelight carved both men in gold and shadow. Cain looked away first, though his lips betrayed him with the faintest flicker of a smile.

Two hours slipped by like smoke.

The fire had burned down to a slow, amber pulse; its light trembled across the walls, softening the edges of everything it touched. Their voices had dwindled to near-whispers, half-thoughts shared between pauses. Whatever distance had existed between them before—suspicion, duty or perhaps danger—had shifted into something quieter.

Cain rose slowly, smoothing his palms over his thighs as though to gather himself. “Times up,” he said at last, his voice gentler than it should have been.

Gabriel looked up at him, the firelight catching in his eyes. “So soon?”

Cain’s lip curved faintly. “My earnings have to match the hour,” he said. Then, after a breath, softer still, “Thank you. This… was nice.”

Gabriel’s gaze didn’t move from him. The quiet between them stretched until it felt like a touch. “That performance downstairs,” he murmured. “You really are a remarkable actor, Solaris.”

Cain turned toward him, the glow of the hearth outlining the curve of his jaw. For once, there was no mask, no coy tilt of the head, only exhaustion softened by something like tenderness. His eyes met Gabriel’s, steady and unreadable.

“I wasn’t entirely acting.”

For a long moment, neither man moved. The flames crackled softly, their light flickering across Cain’s skin like confession. Gabriel watched him—the delicate curve of his mouth, the faint tremor in his fingers, the silence that followed his honesty. Something inside his chest ached with recognition.

Cain turned away first, walking toward the door. His shadow stretched long across the floorboards.

“Goodnight, Gabriel,” he murmured, not looking back.

The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, Gabriel simply sat there, listening to the echo of his footsteps fading down the hall. Gabriel leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, his pulse still uneven. The memory of Cain’s low, silken voice hung in the space between thought and breath. He could still see the soft fall of dark hair, the slight curve of a smile that hid more than it revealed. In that moment, his voice came low, meant for no one but the empty room: “Goodnight, Solaris.” 

༻𐫱༺

Of Flesh and Word: The collision between the sacred (Gabriel's upbringing) and the sensual (Cain's life). "And the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us" - John 1:14

Songs of Innocence and of Experience: A collection of illustrated poems by William Blake. Originally, they were bound separately, but in 1794, Blake combined the two sets of poems into a volume titled Songs of Innocence and of Experience: Shewing the Two Contrary States of the Human Soul. Even after beginning to print the poems together, Blake continued to produce individual poems for each of the two sets of poetry.