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The evening shadows grew longer as they stretched across the floor of Kant's room, dancing in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. The two men sat cross-legged on the bed, Style's eyes sparkled as he regaled Kant with tales of his latest escapade at the garage, his hands animated as he described the car that had come in that day, a classic Mustang that had definitely seen better days.
"You should've seen the engine, man," Style began, his tone brimming with energy as he gestured animatedly. "The guy who brought it in said he hadn’t touched it in years—years, Kant! The poor thing was practically begging me to save it."
Kant chuckled at his friend's dramatic nature. "I swear you're always rescuing cars like they’re damsels in distress."
"Hey, they kinda are," Style shot back, leaning closer with a grin. "You don’t understand, dude. This Mustang wasn’t just neglected—it was forgotten! It’s like finding a stray puppy and giving it a new leash on life."
Kant snorted, shaking his head. "You’re unbelievable. I swear you make it sound like these cars have feelings."
"They do," Style replied, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. "And this one? This one’s got personality, dude. You’d see it if you came by the garage once in a while instead of always hanging out with your boyfriend."
Kant raised an eyebrow. "That's not true at all, I'm not always with him. Looks like someone here is in the mood to be dramatic today."
"Just stating a fact," Style said in response, shrugging. "By the way, you’re really missing out on some serious magic. When I'm done that car’s gonna roar again, Kant. Like a lion, not a kitten."
"Didn’t you say the exact same thing about the last one?" Kant asked.
"The last one was good, sure," Style said, waving a hand dismissively. "But this one? It’s even more special. You can feel it when you’re working on it, you know? Like it’s thanking you for bringing it back to life."
"Wow, so now cars talk to you too," Kant teased, folding his arms across his chest.
Style leaned in dramatically, eyes wide with enthusiasm "Oh, totally! Cars have feelings, man. You can literally feel it in your bones—when the engine roars, it's like it's begging you to unleash its true potential."
Kant raised an eyebrow. "So, you’re basically the Car Whisperer, huh?"
"Exactly!" Style snapped his fingers, clearly pleased with the title. "I’m like the Dr. Dolittle of vehicles. They talk to me, I talk back. It's a beautiful relationship."
Kant snorted. "Yeah, I’m sure this Mustang’s just waiting for your approval before it fires up."
Style nodded solemnly. "You laugh, but it’s real. That car's seriously got a soul, man. It's like... like it wants to tell me all its secrets."
Kant shook his head, thinking how crazy his friend was. "You're out of your mind."
Style gave an exaggerated gasp. "Out of my mind? Please, man, I’m operating on a whole other level! You’re just jealous 'cause the cars respect me." He leaned back dramatically, putting a hand to his chest as if wounded. "I’m like the savior of all things on wheels."
Kant rolled his eyes, still smiling. "Sure, whatever you say."
"You know it's the truth," Style said, giving him a wink. "But enough about my breathtakingly heroic work with cars," he added, sitting up with a sudden change of tone. "I gotta be real with you, Kant—I’m dying here. Thirsty as hell. Do you have anything to drink, or should I start licking the walls for moisture?"
Kant raised an eyebrow, a playful smile creeping onto his face. "Licking the walls, huh? That’s a bold move, my friend. You sure you don’t want something else to drink instead?"
"A nice cold beer then," Style said. "Or better yet, two—one for me and one for you."
Kant laughed, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "You're always full of brilliant ideas, huh? Too bad I don't have any beer in the house."
"How do you even survive without it? That just feels like a crime against humanity, man," Style replied, giving him an exaggerated look of horror. "It’s a basic human right!"
"Coffee's all I need to survive, thank you very much," Kant shot back with a teasing smile. "Besides, wasn’t Fadel so done with you getting wasted every time you drink?"
Style's expression shifted immediately. His eyes went wide with mock indignation, his voice rising in playful defense. "Hey, dude, don’t you go bringing Fadel into this! He doesn’t know what he's talking about!"
"I'm just saying," Kant added, his voice light with amusement. "He does have a point about your drinking habits though."
Style opened his mouth to protest, but before he could respond, the sharp ring of Kant’s phone interrupted them. The sound cut through the air, pulling them out of the playful atmosphere in an instant. Style watched with interest as Kant pulled his phone from his pocket, his eyes visibly lighting up when he saw the name on the screen.
Style leaned in slightly towards his friend, his curiosity piqued as he caught a glimpse of the caller ID. "Ohhh, it's the love of your life," Style teased with a mischievous smirk on his face. "What could your boyfriend possibly want at this hour?"
Kant rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance as he looked at Style. "It's none of your business, nosy," he said, his voice light and teasing. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, the phone still ringing in his hand. "I'll be right back," he then added, heading for the door as he picked up the call.
"Take your time, man!" Style shouted as Kant closed the door behind him, the sound of it clicking shut leaving a brief silence in the air. After that Style leaned back against the headboard, letting his arms stretch out wide as he sank into the pillows, his gaze wandering lazily across the room. The walls, stark white but adorned with bold tattoo sketches, contrasted sharply with the otherwise minimalist decor.
Style’s eyes drifted, slowly scanning the room like he was seeing it for the first time. The shelves, neatly stacked with books and odd trinkets, the few potted plants that added a touch of greenery to the otherwise neutral tones, the soft lighting from the bedside lamp casting a cozy glow over everything.
Style's gaze drifted again, this time lingering on the desk in the far corner of the room. It wasn’t the clutter itself that caught his attention—after all, a little mess was a given in any creative space—but rather the unusual presence of a black folder, one that he had never seen before that moment. Something about it clearly stood out, not in the way a familiar object would, but in the way an unfamiliar item does when it doesn't quite belong. His curiosity piqued, he got up from the bed, each step bringing him closer to the desk. He leaned over, picking up the folder with a raised eyebrow, and nonchalantly flipped it open, expecting to find more of Kant’s sketches or tattoo ideas. But instead his eyes met something that was way too far from artistic.
The contents of the folder sent an icy chill down his spine. Style’s eyes flicked over the pages, his breath catching in his throat as he processed what he was seeing. Photographs of Bison and Fadel, unmistakable even in their grainy form, stared back at him. But it wasn’t just the pictures. There were notes too, a collection of facts, observations and much more that felt far too personal. His mind raced, struggling to grasp the magnitude of what was in front of him. Why were those photos there? Why was there so much detailed information about Bison and Fadel?
His fingers trembled as he flipped through the pages, each one showing more unsettling details. Style’s chest tightened, and with each new page, his stomach turned. He felt something growing inside him, something dark and heavy—anger. Why would Kant have this? And why would his friend—someone he deeply trusted—keep that from him? How could Kant have so many details about Fadel, about Bison? His own damn boyfriend. It just felt absurd.
Style’s mind raced, the folder in front of him becoming almost too much to bear. It was as if the room was closing in on him, the walls pressing in with the weight of the situation. Betrayal. That was what it also felt like, even though he wasn’t sure of everything yet. What was really going on? Style’s jaw clenched, the anger making it hard to focus on the next page. But the confusion was still there, swirling in his mind. All of that just didn’t make any sense.
He had no answers, but the unease that twisted his stomach only deepened. He didn’t know why Kant had these photos, or what it all meant, but one thing was clear: something was extremely off. His fingers tightened around the folder, unwilling to let go, even though each new photo and note only raised more questions.
Style stared at the folder for what felt like an eternity. The room was suffocating, and every moment that passed felt heavier than the last. The air grew thick with secrets and accusations, the quiet hum of the city outside seemingly muffled by the walls of Kant's house.
Suddenly the door to the room swung open, and Kant stepped in, a soft smile playing on his lips, probably because of the conversation he just had with his boyfriend. But as he saw Style frozen by the desk, the folder open in his hands, his smile immediately faltered. The air grew thick with tension as the silence stretched out between them.
"Style," he started tentatively, but Style immediately cut him off.
"What is this?" Style's voice was low, almost a whisper, but it held the weight of a shout. He didn't turn around, his eyes still glued to the folder in his hands.
"It's... complicated," Kant began.
"Complicated?" Style's voice was tight, his back still to Kant. "Or is it just convenient for you to keep me in the dark?" He finally turned around, the folder still gripped in his hand. His eyes searched Kant's, looking for something—an answer, an apology, anything that could explain away the betrayal he felt.
Kant, slightly hesitant, stepped closer, his hands outstretched as if trying to bridge the gap that had suddenly formed between them. "Style, please, you've got to understand-"
"Why do you have all this shit on Fadel and Bison, Kant?" Style cut it off immediately, his voice growing louder.
Kant took a deep breath, his hands moving to his hips, his eyes dropping to the floor for a brief moment before meeting Style's again. "I was going to tell you sooner or later," he said in response, his voice tight.
Style's anger boiled over. "Sooner or later? Kant, what the hell is that supposed to mean? What kind of game are you playing?" He slammed the folder down on the desk, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot.
Kant's eyes followed the movement, and when he looked back up, his expression was one of resignation. "It's not a game, Style. It's... a job. Captain Chris came to me some months ago, said he could wipe my record clean if I helped him get information about Bison and Fadel." His voice was steady, but there was a hint of desperation in his eyes, a silent plea for understanding.
Style felt the ground shift beneath him as Kant's words sank in. "What do you mean?" The question came out as a strangled whisper, his voice straining with the weight of his emotions. "Why would he need you to spy on Fadel and Bison?"
"They're hitmen, Style," Kant admitted. "And Captain Chris needs intel on them. I couldn't refuse, I really had no choice but to accept, if I didn't he would have put me in jail and I couldn't just leave Babe alone."
Style felt like he had been punched in the gut. "Hitmen?" He repeated the word, almost seeming not to have heard the rest that had been said, as if by saying it out loud he could somehow make it not true. His mind reeled, trying to process everything Kant had just told him. The world tilted around him, and he had to grab the edge of the desk to stay upright.
"How could you do this?" Style's voice was shaky with anger, his eyes never leaving Kant's. "How could you lie to me?"
Kant took a step closer, his hands reaching out, but Style flinched away. The hurt in his eyes was raw, and Kant's stomach twisted at the sight of it. "Style, I didn't mean to—"
"You just used me, didn't you?" Style's eyes glittered with a mix of hurt and anger. "You got me involved with Fadel just to get closer to Bison and to get more information about them. How could you, Kant?" Style raised his voice again, the accusation hanging in the air.
"I told you I had no other choice!" Kant said, his voice strained with desperation. "I didn’t want to drag you into this, but I couldn't get close to Bison without finding a way to get rid of Fadel."
Style's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. "So you just thought the best choice was to use me? As a pawn in your little spy game?" The anger in his voice grew, the hurt still fresh and stinging.
Kant took another step closer seeming frustrated. "It wasn't like that, Style. You know I care about you. I never wanted to put you in harm's way."
"It wasn't like that? God Kant, it fucking was! You could have at least told me the truth from the beginning, instead you just chose to hide it from me and you even put me at risk! What did you know about Fadel back then? You knew nothing, anything could have happened to me!" Style's voice rose with each word, the hurt turning to fury again.
Kant's face was a mask of anguish. "You're right, I didn't know everything, I probably should have been more cautious, but I swear to you, Style, I never meant to put you in danger." His voice was earnest, but it did little to dull the edge of Style's rage.
"That's not good enough!" Style yelled, pushing himself away from the desk, his fists clenched at his sides. "You still did it! You played with my life, my heart, like it was all just part of the job! God I ended up falling for him, Kant! I fucking love him and now that I know all this what do you think I'm supposed to do?!" Style's voice broke.
Kant's hand reached out again, but Style immediately slapped it away. "Don't you dare touching me," he hissed. "I can't believe you really did this to me."
"Style, please," Kant's voice was strained, his eyes pleading. "You have to understand, I'm in a bind. Captain Chris has me over a barrel."
"Understand?" Style's voice grew louder with each word. "You expect me to understand that you've been playing even me all this time? God, do you even love Bison? Has there ever been any truth to anything you've done or said?"
Kant's eyes searched Style's, anger starting to creep inside him. "Yes, I love him! I shouldn't have but l fell in love with Bison!" he shouted back, his voice echoing off the walls of the small room. "And everything's even more complicated because of this!"
"More complicated?!" Style's voice was laced with disbelief and rage. "How can you say that, after everything you've done? After all the lies and the manipulation! Everything was already damn complicated from the start, Kant!"
"I fucking had to!" Kant's voice rose to match Style's, his eyes flashing with a fierce intensity. "You don't know at all what it's like to be trapped, to have to do whatever it takes to survive!"
"I could have fucking died, Kant! How many times in the beginning I risked my life without even knowing it?!" Style's voice was hoarse with anger, his chest heaving with the force of his words.
Kant's eyes searched Style's, and for a moment, the fight seemed to have suddenly drained out of him. "Style, I'm sorry," he then said, his hand reaching out again. "I really am. I never wanted that. I never wanted any of this."
But Style was beyond apologies. He took a step back, shaking his head. "I don't even know what to say anymore , Kant. I... I thought we were friends," he said, his voice suddenly cracking. "I thought I knew you." Style felt like he was looking at a stranger—someone who had been wearing a mask all along.
Kant's hand fell to his side. "Style, please," he begged.
"Just fuck off, Kant," Style then said, having had enough of the conversation, as he pushed past Kant and stormed out of the room, leaving the latter standing there. Soon after the door to the apartment slammed shut with a finality that echoed through the hallway.
The cool evening air outside felt like a slap in the face, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the conversation he had just left behind. Style’s legs trembled as he hurried to his car, his thoughts racing. He slammed the door shut, the sound echoing through the empty streat. For a moment, he just sat there, but then, the dam broke, and tears streamed down his cheeks. He leaned heavily against the steering wheel, his sobs muffled by the leather as the reality of Kant’s betrayal sank in. He had been played, used as bait in some sick game of espionage.
Style's breaths grew ragged as he gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. The leather was cool against his forehead, grounding him in the moment. He felt like he was drowning, the weight of Kant’s lies heavy on his chest. His mind also raced with thoughts of Fadel—his boyfriend who apparently was a hitman.
How many times had Fadel had partly strange attitudes that he just chose to brush off? Now, in the cold light of the truth, they looked like warning signs that he shouldn't had ignored. Part of him felt like a fool. A total fool in love with a man who was a killer and a pawn in his best friend's secret mission.
He suddenly sat up straight, wiping the tears from his cheeks with the back of his hand, leaving a damp trail behind as he tried to compose himself. After that he turned the key in the ignition and the engine of his beloved car roared to life. He had to see Fadel. He didn't know exactly what he wanted to do, but he just felt he needed to see him, to better understand everything, to confront him maybe. His thoughts raced as he drove through the night, the city lights blurring into streaks as he sped through the streets.
When Style finally arrived at Fadel and Bison’s house, he killed the engine and sat in his car for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He didn't have a clear plan, only a burning need to see Fadel. The house was dimly lit, the shadows playing across the windows hinting at the secrets it held. Style took a deep breath, his hand lingering on the car door handle, before finally stepping out into the chilly night.
He approached the house door and knocked firmly, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood. His heart pounded in his chest as he waited for a response. After not long the door swung open, revealing Fadel's stoic face, which twitched slightly in surprise at the sight of him.
"Style?" Fadel's voice was a low rumble, a hint of confusion in his eyes.
"Can I enter?" Style asked, his voice tight.
"Yeah, come in," Fadel said, stepping aside to let Style enter.
After Style stepped inside, Fadel closed the door behind him. The living room was bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp, casting long, dramatic shadows across the floor.
"Is Bison around?" Style suddenly asked, breaking the silence.
"No, he left a little while ago," Fadel replied, as he leaned against the wall, his arms folded over his broad chest, his eyes fixed on Style's face.
Style nodded, his gaze darting around the room. He knew that place well, had spent countless nights there with Fadel. Yet now, it felt like a fortress of secrets.
Fadel noticed the tension in Style's shoulders and the slight tremble in his hands. "Is everything okay? Weren't you with Kant? Did something happen between you two?"
Style paused for a long moment, his gaze dropping to the floor as he processed what he wanted to say. Then, his eyes slowly lifted to meet Fadel's. "How long were you planning to keep me in the dark?" he finally asked, his voice a low whisper that seemed to hang in the air.
Fadel's gaze narrowed, and he pushed himself away from the wall, crossing the room to stand in front of Style. "What do you mean?"
Style took a deep breath, his heart hammering in his chest. "I know about you and Bison," he said, his voice still barely above a whisper. "I know what you guys do."
Fadel's expression didn't change, but Style could see the tension coil within him like a spring ready to snap. "What are you talking about?" Fadel asked, his tone measured.
Style's chin slightly trembled, but his voice remained steady. "I know you two are hitmen."
Fadel's eyes searched Style's, his gaze unwavering. He studied the other man for a moment before speaking. "How did you find out?" His voice seemed calm, but the air around him crackled with tension.
Style swallowed hard, his hand tightening around the edge of his crop top. "Kant," he started to say, "he had a folder filled with so many photos and notes about you and Bison. He's been working with the police."
Fadel's eyes grew dark, his body stiffening. "Kant is a rat," he murmured, his voice as cold as ice. "I knew I couldn't trust him."
Style ran a hand over his face, trying to steady the storm of emotions surging within him. "God, I can't believe all of this is real," he said, his voice hoarse. "I shared every part of myself with you, Fadel. I gave you everything... and all the while, you and Bison—" He paused, his throat tight, making it hard to continue. "You were out there... killing people."
Fadel's gaze remained locked on Style's, his expression unreadable. "It's not something I'm proud of," he admitted. "But this is our life and it's not easy to get out of it."
Style suddenly felt his anger spike. "So, you were just going to let me live a lie forever? Let me fall in love with a hitman and not ever say a word?" His voice grew a bit louder with each question, the walls of the house seeming to close in on him.
Fadel's expression remained stoic, but Style could see the muscles in his jaw clench. "I tried so hard to push you away at first, but you just kept coming back," Fadel said, his voice now tight with frustration. "You made it impossible."
Style's eyes widened. "What? Are you saying it's my fault then? Is it my fault that you and your brother are fucking hitmen? That both of you are living a double life?"
Fadel's features grew darker. "You think it's that simple? That I could just tell you and everything would be fine?" His voice was low, each word feeling like a carefully measured threat.
Style’s voice suddenly cracked with pain. "God," he breathed out, "I feel like such a fool." He grabbed his face in his hands, looking desperate. "Kant just used me. He asked me to get close to you, telling me it was because he was interested in Bison, but you would never have let him near your brother unless he found someone for you. But in the end it turned out I was just a tool to get to you and Bison to accomplish his damn mission," Style said, his eyes now brimming with unshed tears.
Fadel’s expression tightened hearing that, his eyes narrowing. "What are you saying?"
"You heard me," Style snapped, his voice raw. "Kant used me to get to you and Bison. I was never more than a pawn for him."
Fadel’s voice turned cold, sharper than before. "So you just got close to me because Kant told you to?" His words cut through the tension in the room.
"Yes," Style admitted, his voice filled with some guilt. "I just wanted to help him. I never saw him like that before. He seemed genuinely interested in Bison. But despite all that everything that happened between us was real!"
Fadel's expression flickered with something darker, a flash of hurt quickly masked by his usual coldness. "So everything that happened between us," he began, "was because Kant told you to? That’s how it all started?"
"That’s not what I mean," he protested slightly frustrated. "I started it because of Kant, yes, but as for the rest, what we had it was real, it's real. But honestly, that's nothing compared to the truth about you and Bison, and what Kant is doing!"
"What do you want to do then?" Fadel's voice grew colder, his posture rigid. "You know the truth now. Are you going to tell the police? Do you want to help Kant perhaps?"
"Are you fucking serious now?" Style's voice rose with disbelief, echoing off the walls of the house. "Do you really think I would be here if I was going to do that?" He stepped closer to Fadel, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
Fadel's gaze didn't waver. "What do you want, then?" His voice was low, a clear warning.
"God, I don't fucking know what I want!" Style yelled, his hands flying through the air in frustration. "But I know I can't just ignore this! You're a damn hitman, Fadel!"
Fadel's expression was unreadable as he took a step back, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you can't handle it, then maybe you should leave," he said. "But don't ever think about coming back," he concluded, his words sounding like a threat.
"Well, maybe I should just leave then!" Style's voice was louder now, his eyes filled with unshed tears. "Maybe I should leave and never look back!"
"Then do it." Fadel spat out. "Get out of my life and never come back."
Style's heart was a tumult of emotions—love, anger, hurt, and confusion all fighting for dominance. But despite his previous words, his body felt like paralyzed, his legs refusing to take him away from Fadel.
He stared at him, the man who had completely stolen his heart, the man he thought he knew so much about. The man who apparently had hidden a life of danger and deception from him. The room grew smaller, the walls closing in, and the air grew thick with the familiar scent of Fadel’s cologne.
Fadel’s voice was cold, cutting through the silence like a shard of ice. “What are you waiting for?”
But Style really couldn’t move, his eyes locked with Fadel’s, searching for something—anything—that would explain why he felt so torn. In Fadel’s gaze, he also saw a tempest of emotions: anger, frustration, and something else—fear. Fear of losing him, perhaps. Or maybe fear of what would happen if he stayed.
Suddenly, before Fadel could had the chance to speak again, Style made his decision. He lunged forward, his hands cupping Fadel's face, and kissed him with a fierce desperation that stole the breath from both of them. Fadel's initial shock was quickly replaced by a passionate response, his arms wrapping around Style's waist, pulling him closer as their kiss deepened.
Their bodies pressed against each other, the warmth of their embrace a stark contrast to the coldness of the room. Style's hands slid down to Fadel's neck, his fingers tangling in the dark hair, as he poured all his anger, hurt, and love into the kiss. Fadel's hands roamed over Style's back, gripping his crop top as if trying to hold on to something real, something solid in the chaos of their lives.
Style suddenly pulled away, breathless, their faces a mere inch apart. Tears glistened in his eyes, a silent confession of his true feelings. "I can't just leave you," he murmured, his voice cracking with emotion. The words hung between them, raw and exposed.
Fadel searched his eyes, his own emotions a tumultuous storm threatening to spill over. He knew he should push Style away, keep him safe from the dangerous life he and Bison led. But the truth was, he didn't really want to. It was too late for that.
With a sudden, almost violent movement, Fadel crushed his lips to Style's again in a kiss that spoke volumes. Style responded with equal fervor, as if the very act of kissing could somehow fix the tangled web of secrets that surrounded them.
Their kiss grew more intense, more demanding, as if they were trying to consume each other. Fadel's hands moved to Style's shoulders, pushing him back until the smaller man stumbled into the nearest wall. The impact was jarring, but it only served to fuel the fire between them.
Style’s hands slid down Fadel’s chest, his fingers tracing the hard lines of muscle beneath the fabric of his t-shirt. The larger man’s breath was hot and heavy against his neck as their kiss grew more urgent, more desperate. They were two magnets pulled together by an unseen force, their bodies fitting together with a perfect symmetry that seemed almost predatory in its intensity. Fadel’s hands were like steel bands around Style’s waist, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just above his hipbones, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
Style’s breath hitched as Fadel’s teeth grazed his lower lip, his tongue delving deep into the warm cavern of his mouth. Style felt like he was drowning, but it was a feeling he never wanted to escape. Fadel’s hands slid up to cup his face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had unknowingly escaped his eyes. The intensity of the moment was suffocating, yet it was the only thing keeping Style tethered to reality.
With a sudden surge of strength, Fadel hoisted Style up, his arms tight around the smaller man’s waist. Style’s legs wrapped around Fadel’s body instinctively, holding on as if he was afraid of falling into an abyss. Fadel’s mouth never left Style’s as he carried him down the hallway, the walls of the house blurring together in a haze of desire.
Reaching his room, Fadel kicked the door open, the sound echoing through the quiet space. He didn’t break their kiss as he stumbled in, the door slamming shut behind them. The room was shrouded in darkness, save for the faint glow that filtered through the window, casting soft, pale light across the floor.
Fadel’s arms tightened around Style as he carried him to the bed, their passionate kiss never faltering. He laid Style down roughly, the impact making the bed springs protest loudly in the quiet room.
Standing at the edge of the bed, Fadel tugged off his t-shirt in one swift motion, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest. The fabric fluttered to the floor like a defeated flag, leaving him bare from the waist up. Style watched, his eyes glued to the play of shadows and muscles, his chest heaving with the rapid rise and fall of his breath.
Style then stood up a little and pulled Fadel down towards him. Their mouths collided again with a fierce hunger that seemed insatiable. The kiss was violent and passionate—their teeth clashed, their tongues danced a desperate tango as they tried to devour each other.
As they kept kissing, Style's hands moved to Fadel’s waist, deftly unbuckling his belt. Fadel groaned against his mouth, his own hands moving to the hem of Style’s crop top. He tugged it over his head, revealing the smooth skin of Style’s torso.
Style’s hands moved to the buttons of Fadel’s jeans, his eyes never leaving Fadel’s. Each button released with a soft pop, and Fadel’s breath hitched as the zipper was pulled down. They broke their kiss briefly to allow Fadel to kick off his shoes and push his pants to the floor. His boxers followed suit, and Style’s eyes raked over the expanse of skin, enjoying the sight in front of him.
Fadel fingers then proceed to glid up the smooth fabric of Style's skin-tight pants, tracing the lines of his thighs before reaching the waistband. With a swift motion, he yanked the pants down, exposing Style's lacy underwear. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and tugged, swiftly discarding both garments, all of their clothes now scattered across the floor like discarded armor from a battle of passion.
Then their bodies collided once again as Fadel pushed Style down onto the bed, claiming his lips once more. Fadel’s hands roamed over Style’s bare chest, his calloused thumbs grazing the sensitive nipples, causing Style to arch his back in pleasure.
Style’s nails dug into Fadel’s back, his legs wrapping around Fadel’s waist, urging him closer, deeper. Their kiss grew more intense, more fervent. Fadel’s hands were everywhere—his chest, his hips, his thighs—as if he was trying to memorize every inch of Style.
Then Fadel’s teeth grazed Style’s neck, his hot breath sending shivers down the smaller man’s spine. He sucked, leaving a dark mark, a brand of possession that seemed to burn into Style’s flesh. Style’s nails dug even deeper into the other man's back, leaving crescents of white against the tanned skin.
Their bodies moved in a frenzied dance, a symphony of passion and anger that seemed to fuel their every touch. Fadel’s hands suddenly gripped Style’s wrists, pinning them above his head as he kissed along the line of his collarbone. Style’s hips bucked upward, desperate for more contact, for the heat that Fadel’s body brought with it.
"Fadel," Style moaned, his voice a plea that was almost lost in the frenzy of their movements.
Fadel didn't reply, his teeth still raking over the sensitive skin of Style's neck, leaving more marks that Style knew would linger for days, but he really couldn't have cared less about that.
With a growl, Fadel then released Style's wrists, his hands moving to grip the headboard instead. His eyes burned into Style's, the intensity in them leaving no doubt about what was about to happen.
"Are you really sure about this?" Fadel asked, his voice rough, almost breaking at the edges. He hovered over Style, his body tense, his gaze locked onto the man beneath him. For a fleeting moment, a crack A crack seemed to have appeared in his usual stoicism—a flicker of hesitation, vulnerability buried under layers of control.
The question wasn’t simple. It wasn’t just about what they were about to do. It carried the weight of everything that had come before—the truths that couldn’t be unsaid anymore, the danger that came with staying by Fadel's side. That was Fadel’s last chance to offer Style an escape, a path away from the chaos he carried like a curse.
Style's gaze softened, his lips curving ever so slightly into a smile, a clear contrast to the passion of just a moment before. His fingers trailed along Fadel’s jaw, firm and unyielding, pulling him closer. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” he replied, his voice low, deliberate.
And with that, Fadel’s control snapped like a tightly wound rubber band. His hands left the headboard and found their way to Style’s hips, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin, urging him to spread his legs wider. Style obeyed, his body pliant under Fadel’s touch, his eyes never leaving Fadel’s intense gaze.
Fadel’s fingers trailed downward, teasing the sensitive skin of Style’s inner thighs before finally reaching the juncture between his legs. He circled the spot gently, feeling Style’s body tense and shiver beneath his touch. With a featherlight caress, Fadel’s finger brushed over his opening, finding it slick with arousal. Style’s breath hitched, his hips bucking upwards in silent plea.
Fadel’s eyes never left Style’s face as he inserted one finger, then two, the stretch causing Style’s eyes to roll back in his head. His nails bit into the bedspread, his moans a mix of pleasure and pain. Each thrust was precise, a silent promise of what was to come. The room was filled with the sound of their ragged breaths and the wet, rhythmic sounds of Fadel’s fingers claiming him, preparing him for what was about to happen.
“Fuck, Fadel!” Style’s voice was a hoarse whisper, his hips moving in time with Fadel’s hand, his body begging for more.
Fadel’s eyes narrowed, watching the play of pleasure on Style’s face, his own jaw clenched tightly. He added a third finger, his movements slow and deliberate, watching the smaller man squirm beneath him.
Style’s moans grew louder, his body arching off the bed. “More, please, more,” he begged, his voice strained with desire.
Fadel grabbed Style's face roughly with his free hand. "Always so eager to be fucked, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice a dark caress that sent a shiver down Style's spine.
Style's only response was a gasp as Fadel's fingers curled inside him, hitting that sweet spot that had his eyes rolling back in his head. He bit his lip hard, trying to keep his cries of pleasure in check, but it was a futile effort. "Yes," he moaned, his voice thick with desire, "always for you."
With an almost imperceptible smirk on his face, Fadel withdrew his fingers, the wetness from Style's body glistening in the dim light. He then brought his hand to his erection, using the slick precum to coat his length. His eyes never left Style's, the hunger in them growing more intense with each stroke. Style's pupils dilated, his breaths coming in shallow pants as he watched Fadel touch himself.
Fadel’s hand moved with purpose, his strokes long and firm, the muscles in his arm flexing with each movement. The sight of him, so powerful and in control, sent a fresh wave of desire crashing through Style, making him squirm with need.
"Fadel, please" Style begged, his eyes half-lidded with lust. Every line of Style's body was a sculpture of pure temptation, his flushed skin glowing like molten gold in the sparse light. His hair was splayed out around his head like a dark halo, framing his face perfectly. His full lips were swollen from their earlier kisses, and his cheeks were stained with the blush of arousal.
Fadel’s expression grew darker as he lined himself up with Style's slick, open heat. With one powerful thrust, he finally claimed him, filling Style completely. Style’s eyes went shut as he let out a loud moan, his back arching from too much pleasure.
Style’s legs wrapped around Fadel’s waist, his nails digging into the strong muscles as Fadel began to move. The bed creaked beneath them at each trust, the only sound in the room other than their harsh breaths and the slap of skin on skin.
Fadel's thrusts grew erratic, desperate, each one more forceful than the last. His hands gripped Style's hips with an unyielding force, pulling him closer with every movement, pushing him to the edge of his control. Style's body responded in kind, his nails digging even deeper into Fadel's skin, urging him on, demanding more. The heat between them was suffocating, almost unbearable, but neither of them cared.
"Fadel," Style gasped, voice cracking, "don't stop. I need you—need this."
Fadel's thrusts became more demanding, as if he sought to claim not just Style's body but his very soul with each plunge. His fingers found their way into Style's hair, gripping it tightly as he pulled back to watch the smaller man's face contort with pleasure.
With a rough groan, Fadel buried himself even deeper, harder, forcing a guttural cry from Style's lips. Their bodies collided in perfect, violent harmony—each thrust a declaration of something neither of them could put into words. Style's eyes fluttered shut as he felt the familiar tightness coiling in his stomach, an overwhelming wave of pleasure beginning to build inside him.
"Fadel, I'm so close," Style's voice was a breathless whisper, his eyes squeezed shut as Fadel's relentless rhythm continued to push him towards the precipice.
"Not yet," Fadel growled, his voice low and commanding. His hand tightened in Style's hair, pulling back to better expose his neck. "You come when I tell you to."
Style bit back a whine, his hips stuttering, trying to match the tempo that had brought him so close to the edge.
"Fadel, please," he panted, his eyes snapping open to meet the dark, intense gaze above him. The air was thick with lust and desperation, a silent battle raging between them.
Fadel’s eyes gleamed with a fierce hunger, his breathing harsh and ragged as he felt his own release approaching. The veins in his neck bulged, and his muscles tightened with each powerful thrust into Style. Their bodies were drenched in sweat, the scent of sex permeating the air, as their passionate dance grew more intense.
“Fuck, Style,” Fadel grunted, “you always feel so goddamn good.” His hand then found its way to Style’s erection, stroking in time with his own rhythm, the friction making Style’s eyes roll back in his head. The sensation was overwhelming, and he knew he couldn’t last much longer.
Style’s eyes locked onto Fadel’s, his breath hitching as Fadel’s hand tightened around his dick. “I’m going to come, Fadel. Please, let me come!” he begged, his voice a desperate whine.
In response Fadel’s hips slammed into Style with a ferocity that left no room for doubt. He could also feel himself reaching the edge, his muscles tense and quivering. Then, with one final, powerful thrust, Fadel’s orgasm crashed over him, a low growl escaping his throat as he emptied himself inside Style.
Fadel’s eyes bore into Style’s, the intensity of the moment reaching its peak. “You can come now,” he said, his hoarse voice sending a shiver through Style’s body. The permission was all Style needed, so with a final, desperate buck of his hips, he finally came too, painting Fadel’s hand with his release.
Fadel's hand remained around him for a moment longer, feeling Style's release before slowly pulling it away. Then, with a smooth, deliberate motion, Fadel also pulled his dick out of him, leaving Style to shudder as the intensity of their connection ebbed away. Style's legs fell weakly to the side, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to catch his breath. Fadel’s own breathing was heavy, his body slick with sweat, but he took a moment to appreciate the sight of Style, sprawled out before him, a picture of satisfaction and vulnerability.
After they had composed themselves a little and their breaths steadied, they both sat down, their backs leaning against the coolness of the bed’s headboard, the crumpled mess of sheets and blankets left at their feet.
Wordlessly, Fadel reached down and grabbed the bottom of the sheet, pulling it up and over their laps, covering their lower halves. The fabric was warm from their bodies and smelled faintly of the sex they’d just shared.
He then casually draped his arm around Style’s shoulders, the weight of it comforting and solid. Style leaned into him, his head coming to rest on Fadel’s broad shoulder, and for a brief moment, the world outside the confines of the room felt like it didn’t exist anymore. All that truly mattered was the heavy beat of Fadel’s heart under his cheek and the warmth of his touch.
After some moments of silence, Style then looked up at Fadel, the comfort of their shared warmth a stark contrast to the chaos of their earlier confrontation and their passionate sex. "So, what now?" he asked. "Now that you also know about Kant's plan, what's going to happen?"
Fadel's eyes didn't instantly meet Style's when he spoke. Instead, they remained focused on the wall in front of them. "We deal with it," he finally said, something slightly darker suddenly emerging in his voice. "But first, I need to talk to Bison."
Style nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "What are you going to say to him? He's probably gonna be extremely hurt, knowing Kant was lying to him this whole time," he said, his voice filled with genuine concern for Bison.
Fadel's jaw tightened as he thought about his brother's possible reaction. "I'll just tell him the truth," he said firmly. "But I'll need to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid out of impulsivity."
Style nodded slowly, and then, after some moments of silence he spoke up again. "Fadel, are you..." he immediately stopped, seeming unsure of what he wanted to ask.
Fadel briefly looked down at him, "Am I what?"
"Are you planning to kill Kant?" Style's sudden question hung in the air.
Fadel's arm slightly tightened around Style's shoulders. "Me and Bison work for our adoptive mother, we only kill bad people, those who deserve it. Kant isn't exactly one of them but he's a big problem for us so we must found a way to deal with him,"
"There's a chance you will have to kill him, isn't it?" Style's voice was almost a whisper, like a part of him couldn't really believe that possibility. The thought of his friend, or at least the one he considered his friend, facing death sent a cold shiver down his spine despite the warmth of Fadel's embrace.
Fadel's gaze remained on the wall. "I don't know that for sure," he said, "but if it comes down to it, we may have to deal with him in a way that ensures our safety." His words were firm, leaving no room for further questions about that.
Style swallowed hard, his stomach churning. "What about us?" he then asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What does all of this mean for us?"
Fadel took a moment to gather his thoughts before he finally met Style's gaze. His eyes, which had been hard and distant, softened slightly. "I'm not going to lie to you, Style," he began, his voice even. "This changes some things." He paused, stroking a thumb over the back of Style's hand, which was clenched into a tight fist in his lap. "But I'm not going to let this ruin what we have."
And looking in Fadel's eyes, Style could see the truth of his words. They had crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed, and their bond had been tested by the revelations of the night. But amidst the chaos, there was something solid between them, something that had been there from the first moment they met.
They looked into each other's eyes, the silence stretching out between them. Then, as if driven by a need that transcended words, Style reached up and cupped Fadel’s face in his hands, his touch gentle. He pulled Fadel down, and their lips met in a kiss that was starkly different from the frenzied and passionate ones they had shared moments ago. This one instead was soft, tender, filled with vulnerability.
When they finally pulled apart, their eyes stayed locked. Style’s chest rose and fell, his gaze never wavering, and Fadel’s hand lingered on Style’s cheek, his touch grounding them both in a moment that defied the chaos surrounding their lives.
No words were spoken, and yet the message was clear, written in the way Style’s lips twitched into a faint, knowing smile, and the way Fadel’s grip softened—not yielding, but steady. The night had stripped them bare, not just in body but in the sharp clarity of who they were together.
And even though they hadn’t uttered the word, it hung heavy between them, undeniable in every glance, every brush of skin. After all, love didn’t always need to be loudly declared. It simply existed, solid and unyielding, as real as the scars they carried and the choices that would await them beyond the shadows of the room.
As Style leaned his head against Fadel’s shoulder again, the weight of the moment settled. They didn’t need forever. They didn’t need promises. For now, that was enough. And sometimes, enough could change everything.