#let me throw my muses & sof at you guys !

[lunaetis]

shippy inbox call ! reply with a muse ( or more ) for an ask from the said muse. please bear in mind that this will be shippy in nature. it’d range from crushes, to blind dates, to pre-est, or something soft with underlying romance. multi please also let me know who it’s for !

[heyheydidjaknow]

Okay, so I am just the worst. I'm very sorry for that. I will make an effort to stop being the worst. I'm already starting writing for the next chapter. It will be out next week. If it is not, please pester me until it is. If nothing else, the next chapter should be relatively interesting, so.

Chapter 15

“So then I was like, ‘Screw you, man, you don’t know me.’ Because he was being a dick.”

You nod, taking another sip from your straw. “So he was.”

“Well,” Casey continues, gesturing with his pizza slice, “that’s why he gave me a black eye on the ice. And now Annie won’t talk to me.”

With a sigh, you reach up, wincing slightly as the muscles in your back crack. “Well,” you smile tiredly, “that does sound like a predicament. Want me to try talking to her?”

“Nah.” He leans against his hand, taking a bite of his food. “It’s whatever. Didn’t like her, anyway.”

You smirk. “Bullshit.”

“Smartass.” He rolls his busted eyes. “How’s your boyfriend?”

“Nonexistent.”

“Bullshit,” he mimics. “Isn’t he all over you?”

“Hardly.” You wave your hand dismissively. “‘Sides, he doesn’t want a relationship, I bet.”

“You slept together.” He swallows. “You slept together and he didn’t make a pass at you.”

“What does that prove?” You take another drink. “Just because he or I want it to happen doesn’t mean that it should.”

“Bullshit,” he sings once more. “You’re just scared of commitment, I bet.”

Your face flushes. “That’s not it!”

“Then why not ask him?”

“Look,” you fumble for an excuse that was not ‘He’s a ninja,’ “he’s really busy, what with his sports and science stuff. I’m lucky he has time for me at all; what we have is fine until things calm down a bit with him.”

“So never.”

“Pretty much.”

Another bite. “If he’s so smart, won’t he be going off to Harvard or some shit? Shoot your shot.”

“Who are you to give me relationship advice?” You push him, placing your hand on the pizza box between you on the bench. “You just fucked up with Johanna.”

“Maybe the reason you two are still virgins is that you’re both smartasses.”

“We’re like fifteen!” You laugh. “What, you’re a lady killer now?”

“Hey, I’ve made my rounds.” He grins. “You know the blond chick? Jenny?”

You stick your tongue out at him. “She is completely out of your league, Jones,” you huff. “Know your place.”

“And she’s in yours?”

“Did I say that?” You take another sip. “No, I did not.”

He sighs. “I’m gonna set you up.”

You blink at this sudden change in subject matter. “Huh?”

“There’s this guy on the team who has a thing for you.” He takes another bite of his pizza. “I promised I’d try.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“Surprisingly, yes.” He leans back on the bench, head flopping back. “We’ve been buddies for a while.”

Your eyes trace the cracks in the pavement carelessly, weighing your options. “Where?”

“I’m looking for a yes or no.”

You fiddle with your collar. “Which guy?”

“Carter from bio.”

With bright green eyes, long black hair, you can hardly describe him as ugly. A bit pompous, but not irredeemably so. The idea of going on a date with another man-- another human, no less-- is hardly unappealing, especially given the fact that you are almost completely certain that whatever you have going on between yourself and Donatello is going to go exactly nowhere. It would be nice, you know, to go out to lunch or dinner with a pretty boy.

Your gut tells you it is a bad idea. Your gut also told you to go try and check out Shredder’s lair that one time, and now you could not walk.

“I’m down.” Why not? Life is about taking risks that do not result in your lack of motor functions. “You got his number?”

He nods, pulling his phone out of his pocket and texting you the contact. “He’s a good guy,” he promises. “He’s not gonna try shit, probably.”

“You sound certain.”

“Shut up.” He scrolls through his phone. “Who knows, though? Maybe you’ll like him more than your guy and you won’t have to keep pining over him.”

“And there’s the ulterior motive.” You cross your arms, setting the cup on the ground. “If I get stood up, it’s your ass.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He leans his head back forward, picking at his nails absentmindedly. “Whatcha gonna do? Fight me?”

You smirk. “It’s as realistic as you getting with Jennifer Barker.”

“And that’s my cue to leave.” He stands up, wiping his hands on his jeans and taking the box. “I’m taking this.”

“Have at it,” you follow suit, checking the time. “Don’t eat it all at once.”

“I will absolutely ignore your advice.”

“Obviously.” You wave. “See ya tomorrow.”

“See ya.”

The walk home is long, as always, but with every passing day, you get better at walking with one good leg. Having lost it in the dumpster with little more than reassurance that knowing whoever took it needed it more than you do, you have learned a thing or two about balance, and yet you still quietly long for your other leg. ‘It would be nice to be able to run places,’ you muse. ‘It would make me feel better about walking around at this time of night.’ With all the walking you have to do— you still do not have a metro card because you are foolish— you are still relatively strong, but getting places without hobbling and having the option to run away would be nice.

You unlock the door to your apartment. ‘Just a couple more days before I can walk properly again.’ You pull it open, kicking your shoe off.

Someone is sitting on your couch.

You take a shaky step back— ‘I can’t run’—, tripping on your feet and falling on your back in the hallway, your drink spilled on the floor. It is as if your body is struck with lightning, every nerve on edge as you crawl away, voice caught in your throat as you try and get as far away from the door as possible. Your body drags with you.

Too slow.

A hand grabs your ankle. It drags you back into the room with barely a grunt, and with a slam, the door shuts, and you are locked with a figure whose face you cannot see.

The door locks.

The figure lets go of your ankle, heart pounding in your heart as you try and reach for the doorknob, tears pricking your eyes. You can barely use your hands again, progress gone in an instant. ‘Don’t kill me.’ You pray to stop shaking. ‘I can’t die here. Not after everything that’s happened.’

The light clicks on.

“What the fuck is your deal?”

Your eyes snap open. A rush of embarrassment slams into you, a wave of shame making you hot all over as you become painfully aware of the fact that you look absolutely pathetic, clawing at the door.

You pull yourself to your feet shakily, turning back to look at Raphael. “You,” you mumble, opening the door and grabbing your keys from off the floor, not even bothering with the cup, “are the fucking worst.”

“You’re the one that’s all jumpy.” He rolls his eyes, sitting back on the couch. “Who did you think it was?”

You scramble for another answer. “I don't know,” you snap. “If you didn’t know, I’d like to introduce you to the concept of texting someone before you sit ominously on their couch.”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely!”

He sighs. “Sit. We have to talk.”

You toss your keys onto the counter, shakily hobbling over to the kitchen, hands clenched still. “You talk.” Your voice starts to stabilize. “I’m going to have a drink and wish it was alcohol.”

“Do you remember the first month you were here?” He crisscrosses his legs. “A week or so in?”

You lean down, grabbing a drink container. “When Mikey almost got kidnapped? Yeah.”

“Do you remember what you said?”

“Do I remember what I said over two months ago? No, I do not.” You set it on the counter, reaching into the cabinet and pulling a plastic cup down. You consider a glass one but did not want to clean glass shards off of your floor again.

“Then let me remind you.” He leans back into your couch. “You said, and I quote, that Shredder doesn’t get close to murdering Master Splinter until season two, whatever that means.”

You nod, setting your hands on the counter until they stop shaking. “What about it?”

“Shredder gets close to killing my father.”

You sigh, dreading the ensuing conversation. “Look,” you reason, “it probably won’t get to that if we’re smart.”

“The first word I think of when I think about our group is not smart.”

“It’s one guy.” You lean against your hand. “So long as he doesn’t pull a Leo and martyrs himself—“

He cuts you off. “What does martyr mean?”

“If he doesn’t throw himself in harm's way for the sake of the greater good—“

“So my Leo throws himself in harm’s way?”

“Have you met your brother?” You try and grab your cup. “Of course he does.”

His eyes widen. “So you’re telling me my brother dies too?”

“I did not say that.”

“But you—“

“The point,” you snap, “is that so long as your father values his own safety, he will be fine. There are preventative measures that we can take to make sure he doesn’t kick the bucket, so for now, worry about how you’re going to survive.”

He gets up. “How does he go the first time?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Why?” He stands in front of you, staring you down. “Why won’t you?”

“Because you’ll kill yourself over it.” You pick up your cup, taking a sip. “If I told you what happened in the future, you’d pull something to try and defy that, right? Then we wouldn’t even know what it was anymore, and our one tactical advantage would be shot."

“But—“

“I only tell you,” you cut him off, “about certain things so you can prepare to face them, not to try and avoid them. There are very few exceptions to that rule.” You set the cup back down, staring back. “There are things we can do to prevent things from happening, but not right now. Right now, our top priority is to make sure the Kraang don’t kill us all.”

“How come you get to know stuff we don’t?”

“Because.”

He throws his hands up. “Oh, well if that’s the reason—“

“Do you have anything else you wanna say or are you planning on just being up my ass?”

He closes his eyes, hands together as he takes a slow, deep breath. “Yes, actually.”

“What?”

“Karai approached us today when we went to check our Donnie’s stupid signal thing.” He opens them again. “She wants to team up.”

“Cool.” Your voice softens. “That’s good.”

He leans against the counter. “Can we trust her?”

You take another drink. “Trust is a strong word right now,” you sigh. “Aligning with her is a good idea, though. Just trust her as far as you can throw her.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well,” you shrug, “you can trust her to get you things and give you access to stuff. Just keep your guard up is all. Be diplomatic about it and you’ll be fine.”

He nods. “Cool.” He smiles. “Donnie’s been very anti-Karai so far.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “No idea why?”

You shake your head. “Thought he’d like having a kunoichi on his side.”

“You’d think.”

“Well, he’s gotta get over it some time.” You take another drink. “Preferably sooner than later, though. Fucking with Karai…” you shudder. “She’s incredibly powerful. If we can stay on her good side, it would make our lives easier.”

“Ours, you mean.”

“I have a stake in this too, you know.”

He scoffs. “How?”

“We’re on the same planet.” You reach down, fixing your pants over your cast. “Plus, I’m a target of the foot by association.”

“You aren’t fighting with us.”

“Would you rather I did?” You look back up at him. “Because when I do it seems it’s in the wrong way.”

“It would be helpful if you weren’t useless.”

“But I am, so it isn’t.”

“I guess.”

You stand back up straight. “Is that all?”

“Nope.” He walks back to the couch, sitting down. “I’m staying here a bit. Leo’s being an ass.”

“How so?”

“Same way as per usual.” He leans back into the couch. “Thinks he’s better than everyone.”

“And you don't have a better place to hang?”

He shrugs. “My brother likes you well enough. Besides, I want to know the person who’s making all of these big decisions in my life.”

“So it’s because you don’t like me?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

You take another sip from your drink. “That sounds paradoxical.”

“So?”

“So,” you lean your head against your hand, “why would you want to talk to me if you don’t like me?”

“Because your brother likes you,” he repeated. “If you’re going to be hanging around a ton I might as well try to like you.”

You smile. “That is incredibly mature of you, Hamato.”

A scoff. “You can’t call us all Hamato.”

“Watch me.” You hum, taking another sip from your drink. “Can I get you anything, by the way?”

“I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.” You reach into your bag— luckily, nothing has fallen out— and pull out your phone. “I just need you out by eleven-thirty. It’s a school night.”

“Even without being involved in our fights,” he shakes his head, “you are a total pussy.”

“Suck me.” You grab it off the counter, carefully carrying your cup to your bed. “And keep the noise down. “My neighbors have been pleasant and I want it to stay that way.”

“Buzzkill. You clearly don’t spend enough time with Mikey.”

“You know,” you grin, pulling out your notes as you sit down, “your brother says the opposite. Donnie, I mean.”

“I figured.”

You glance over at the window as he fiddles with the remote. “How did you get in?”

“The window.”

“No shit.” You look back over at him. “Red button, but I lock the window."

“No, you didn’t.” He clicks the button. “It was unlocked when I got here.”

“Huh.” Another stream of electricity flows through your veins. ‘They know where I live.’ You swallow.

“Must’ve forgotten.”

You did not. You would not forget. There was no way you could have, or would have, forgotten to do something like that.

“Must’ve.”

Table of Contents

Chapter 14

Chapter 16

[shannonwrote]

Summary: Another glimpse into Tony Russo’s life.

Characters: Tony Russo, Sofia Russo, Paolo Russo, Robin Flores & Rebekah Hayward (mentioned, OC)

Fandom(s): The Nanny Affair

Notes: Tony was supposed to be a one time thing, but Tony had other ideas, so here's a kind of part two to Foreswear (and if Tony has his way, there may even be a part three).

A big ole thanks to my aunt who read this without any idea who any of these characters were, and offered her advice and opinions on how to make it better.

And of course, and as always, thanks to @txemrn​ for kick starting my Muse and helping me put words to paper.

PS: If you haven’t already, you may want to read Foreswear, but it’s not necessary. Mountebank can be read as a standalone. 

PSS: I also didn’t tag anyone  because I come and go like dust in the wind, and didn’t want to be THAT guy. If you still wish to be tagged, let me know! 

**Some characters and plot lines belong to Pixelberry.**

Tony groaned, as the blanket he was cuddled under was ripped from the couch. He blinked, his sisters silhouette slowly coming into blurred focus. “What the fuck, Sof?!”

Sofia wrinkled her nose, holding the blanket out in front of her, before throwing it onto a chair. “It’s 4 o’clock in the afternoon, Anthony, don’t ‘what the fuck,’ me.” Dusting her hands off, she tossed her phone onto Tony’s chest. “You’re lucky I saw this before Father, or god forbid, the Hayward’s, and was able to pay the right people.” Taking a seat opposite the couch, her gaze roved over him. “You really need to be more subtle.”

Tony tried to swallow, his heart pounding wildly in his chest, already knowing and fearing what she was referring to. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he sat up and stared down at the phone laying in his lap, the headline of an online gossip blog glaring back up at him.

‘Billionaire Sons — Friends or Lovers?’

A picture of Tony wrapped around Robin as they disappeared into Tony’s apartment building, accompanied the headline.

He stilled his trembling hands and plastered a smug grin on his face, before looking up at his sister. “I was expecting better.” He commented, forced disappointment coloring his words.

Sofia clicked her tongue, rolling her eyes. “So was I.”

His eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Robin, Anthony, really?” She gracefully stood from the chair and glided into the kitchen. “You’re a Russo, you could have anyone, and you pick Robin?”

Tony finally swallowed the lump that had been forming in his throat since his sister had woken him up. Forcing his voice into a tone of nonchalance, he responded. “If you must know, I picked Tinsley. The paparazzi picked Flores.”

Sofia emerged from the kitchen with a glass of amber liquid and her eyebrow raised. “Tinsley?” She huffed a disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. “We both know you just use her to get off, brother mine. That’s why your relationship has never left the bathroom.” Turning his palm, she set the glass in his hand. “Stop hiding,” she patted his cheek, “or hide better. If you keep this up, a version of the truth will come out, whether you want it to or not.”

Tony finished the liquid in one gulp, shuddering slightly as it burned its way down his throat, and brushed Sofia’s hand from his cheek. “It’s a gossip blog, Sofia. They exist to spread lies and cause drama.” He stood up from the couch. “If there was any truth to what they posted, their front page would picture Flores and your fiancée’s nanny.”

“Robin? And Sam’s nanny?” She echoed, her voice rising a few octaves.

Tony smirked at Sofia’s clear distaste for Dalton’s nanny. “Did you not see the way he looked at her?” He disappeared down the hallway and into his room, leaving his door ajar. “He’s clearly fucking her.” His stomach soured at the thought. “Or he wants to.”

Sofia hummed. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“That’s because you were too busy shooting eye daggers at her from across the table.” He replied with a laugh, pulling a clean shirt from his closet.

“Maybe,” she replied appearing in his doorway and resting herself against it. Raising a pointed eyebrow in his direction, she continued. “But if it was as obvious as you claim, I’m surprised no one else bothered to mention it.”

Refusing to meet her questioning gaze, he turned his back to her. His hands trembled, his fingers slipping, as he slowly buttoned his shirt. “Probably because they were too busy reminiscing about the excellent tongue lashing she delivered to Pops.” Sliding his arms into his hunter green suit jacket, he turned back to Sofia. “Because it was excellent.” He paused at the button of his slacks. “Do you mind?”

Sofia rolled her eyes, turning from the doorway. “I don’t understand everyone’s fascination with her. She’s just the nanny.” Her said, her voice full of strained indifference.

Tony grinned, pulling on a pair of dark wash jeans, not bothering to tuck in his dove gray button-up. “Is that jealousy I hear, Sof?”

Sofia laughed, the sound similar to the ringing of church bells, just a few notes too high and long. “She’s the nanny, Anthony, please.”

“Right,” he agreed with a smirk, stepping around her and into the bathroom, “just the nanny.” He didn’t bother glancing in the mirror, knowing he wouldn’t like the face he found staring back at him. Running a hand down his face, he grabbed the bottle of mouthwash, swallowing down a handful of sips. He quickly dashed himself with enough cologne to hopefully hide the smell of stale cigarettes, alcohol, sweat and sex, and reappeared back in the hall.

“You smell like a cheap whore.” Sofia commented, adjusting his suit jacket.

“Fuck. I was aiming for an expensive escort.” He shrugged exaggeratedly. “Nothing to be done about it now.” He pulled her perfectly manicured fingers from his jacket. “Speaking of whores,” he said leading them back into the living room, “Pops is still fucking Clara.”

Sofia made a sound of disgust, her face scrunching in distaste.

He turned to face her, his hands lifting. “I don’t get it either, and I didn’t ask her to explain.” He fumbled through his cushions, cursing to himself when he located his dead cell phone. Sticking it into his back pocket, they entered the elevator, Sofia pressing the button for the lobby.

"Mr. Russo," the security guard called as they stepped off the elevator. "Mr. Flores left your keys, sir."

Stepping up to the desk, Tony tried to steady his racing heart. Grabbing the keys from the guard, he nodded his head in thanks. Turning back to Sofia, he dangled his keys in her direction. “How’d you get here?” His voice catching slightly in his throat.

“Stefan drove me.” She raised her eyebrows knowingly. “It’d be best if you didn’t try and make an early exit today, brother, you know what’s expected of you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waved his hand dismissively, his stomach twisting in knots at the reminder. “I’ll be there.” He glanced at his sister, offering her a smile full of forced nonchalance and arrogance, and disappeared in the direction of his buildings parking structure.

Speeding his way through the clustered streets of Manhattan, he steadily made his way through his pack of Black & Milds. His stomach fluttered with a mixture of dread and nervousness, as the weight of family and society obligations threatened to tear his heart from his chest.

Releasing his breath in a puff of smoke, Tony slid his Maserati to a stop in front of an upscale French bistro. His door was opened a moment later by the valet, who offered him a deep bow and a mumbled “Monsieur Russo.”

Handing his keys off, Tony sailed his way toward the restaurant, his posture dripping with layers of practiced pomp and circumstance, trying his best to ignore the blackhole solidifying in his stomach.

“You’re late.” Paolo growled, as soon as Tony stepped inside.

Tony turned to face his father with an overzealous grin, his teeth glinting in the soft lights of the bistro. “Or am I arriving exactly when I planned to, Pops?”

Paolo’s jaw clenched, his forehead creasing in annoyance and disdain. “Anthony,” another growl, deeper, more pronounced, “if you disappointment me - “

“Don’t worry, Pops, I got this.” Tony clapped him on the shoulder, his grin still spread wide across his face, and the blackhole in his stomach growing.

Paolo swatted Tony’s hand from his shoulder as if it were as disgusting and inconvenient as a fly. “See that you do.” He slid a small velvet box into Tony’s hand. “Come,” he rumbled, “we’re expected.”

The impatient grumble erupting from the back of his fathers throat pulled Tony into step beside him, leaving him no time to consider the small box resting heavily in his hand.

— - — - — - —

The lights of the city floated in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting their twinkling glow around the disarray of Tony’s studio. The melodic sound of dueling pianos turning the sound of car horns into their own sort of song, while the smell of paint and plaster and car exhaust mixed pleasantly with the cool night air filtering in through the skylights overhead. Discarded canvases, clumps of clay, half-formed sculptures, and paint smears covered the concrete floor; their finished counterparts stacked elegantly against the red brick of the walls.

Tony stood in the center of his studio, dark gray joggers hanging snug and low on his hips, splashes of paint covering his arms, hands and bare chest, distorting and brightening the tattoos normally hidden by his clothes. A paintbrush was pressed between his teeth, as another danced across the canvas, a dark tango of black and white and scarlet. The slash of deepest black cut through the middle of the canvas, a testament to the mass of poisonous thoughts swirling around in his head.

He had done what he was supposed to do, what was expected. He said all the right things, made the right gestures, promised just enough to seem coy and unsure, but also arrogant and entitled. He had slid to one knee without grimacing, watched the yellow of the diamond glint in the fading light, casting a beautiful shadow against the shadow of cheekbones and watery eyes. And she had said yes, as he knew she would, because she loved him and he loved her.

Fractures of scarlet flew on the canvas, a tale of truth and lies, of real and false love — the tale of Two Tony’s.

Tony’s breath rasped from his lungs, his thoughts spinning, slithering their way onto the canvas. More black. More scarlet. More darkness. More pain.

He lost himself in the feel of brush on canvas. Letting the feelings he kept hidden, his wants and desires and fears and hopes, spill out in paint and color. He was so consumed by the sensations, he didn’t notice his studio had fallen silent until a voice broke his concentration. The voice smooth and crisp, sending a shiver down his spine.

“I hear congratulations are in order.”

The paintbrush fell from his mouth, clattering to the floor and splashing paint across his toes. The brush in his hand fell limp, dragging a sliver of white through the inky reddened blackness of the canvas.

Tony turned slowly, his heart beating hard enough against his chest to break. “Flores.”

“Congratulations.” Robin offered again, moving through the chaos of Tony’s studio as if by memory, as if he got lost here as often as Tony did.

Tony remained silent, watching Robin pick his way across the floor, his heart slamming even harder against his ribs.

Robin stopped in front of a pile of half finished canvases, his eyes roaming the topmost piece. “Is this supposed to be me?”

Tony’s whole body stilled, his heart stuttering to a stop, as he forced out a laughed doused in cockiness. “You wish, Flores.”

Robin clenched his jaw, a slight tick in his cheek. “And if I did?” He mumbled.

“Then maybe you should ask your brothers nanny.” Tony grinned, his veins on fire beneath his skin.

Robbin tightened his hold on the canvas, his gaze slowly rising to meet Tony’s across his sea of finished and unfinished projects. “Why do you only call me when you’re drunk, Tony?”

Because I can hide behind the alcohol, he wanted to say. Because, even if I admit the truth, I can say I was drunk. Instead he said, “because I’m drunk. Safety first.”

He raised an accusatory eyebrow, the tick in his jaw more pronounced. “The real reason, Russo.”

Tony remained silent. His heart constricted in his chest, squeezing so tightly, he was sure it would burst, while the truth chapped his lips.

Robin continued his path to Tony, stepping through broken mugs and sticky paint and dusty plaster. “No?” His path ended less than an arms length away from Tony. “Fair.” He nodded. “Ask me a question then. Ask me why I always answer. Ask me why I always come when you call.”

Tony blinked, Robin’s words catching him off guard. He had never thought, had never considered, the reasons why Robin always answered. Why, no matter the time or day, Robin was there to drive Tony home, to drag him up to his apartment and deposit him on the couch. But he was. Every time. Every single time.

Robin took another step forward, shrinking the distance between them. “Ask me.” He said again, his voice a silky rasp.

Hope rose like a wave inside of him, cashing against his heart, before dropping like a rock in his stomach. Tony had seen the way Flores had watched Sam's nanny during brunch. Recognized the hunger that burned in his gaze, and the gruff tone his voice took whenever he spoke to her — it was the same behavior he had to be wary of every time he was in Robin's presence.

He sucked in a breath, the scent of whiskey and bergamot flooding his senses. “Why? We both know it’s so you don’t get caught with the nanny.”

Frustration burned in Robin’s eyes, his teeth baring in aggravation. “And do you live your fiancée, Russo? Do you love Rebekah Hayward?”

“Yes.” He answered quickly, too quickly.

And he did love her, just not the way he was supposed to. The Hayward’s were like family. Tony had known Rebekah since they were both in diapers, and when her farce of a relationship with Sam Dalton failed, Tony had been there to pick up the pieces, in more ways than one, and definitely not in the way he had wanted.

“And I love Anna.” Robin replied, moving closer.

He swallowed, his mouth dry. “That’s great. Glad we got this all sorted out.” He turned back toward his painting, the colors blurring together, as he blinked away the wetness from his eyes. “I assume you know the way out.”

“Not until you ask me, Tony.”

Robin’s velvety voice whispered against Tony’s neck, they were separated by less than a breath.

Tony closed his eyes, desperation clinging to his eyelashes, alongside his unshed tears. “Why, Flores? Why do you always come when I call?”

Robin rested his forehead against the back for Tony’s. “For the same reason you always notice who I’m flirting with. For the same reason you only call me when you’re drunk.”

Tony’s heart was slamming against his ribs, trying desperately to escape, trying hopelessly not to break. “And why is that, Robin?”

“Because,” he murmured, gently turning Tony around to face him. “Because I love Anna, but I’m in love with you.”

Tony’s breath caught in his throat, his knees shaking beneath him, his heart shattering and reforming again, as his gaze bore into the truthful vulnerability of Robin’s own. “Yo - you’re in love with me?”

Robin nodded, once, his hand coming to rest against the side of Tony’s throat, his thumb running the length of Tony’s pulse point. “I am. I have been for a long time, and I think - I hope you’re in love with me too.”

“Is this real?” Tony managed to choke out.

Robin nodded again. “It is for me.”

Tony studied the man in front of him, he was a masterpiece Tony could never hope to create.

Tony smiled, bashful, hopeful. “It is for me too.” He slid his arms around Robin, the paintbrush forgotten and joining the others on the floor. “I’m in love with you.”

A grin lifted the side of Robin’s face, his other hand working its way to the back of Tony’s neck, his fingers tangling in his hair, before he pulled Tony’s mouth to his, wanting and desperate and full of love.