And on those nights Dias leaves his door unlocked, and he sits in the dark with his sword near to hand, and he waits.

At some hour when the hotel is silent the door opens and closes. The scent of cigarettes and whiskey reaches him just a moment before its bearer does, and the sound of rustling fabric is soft in the air, and then a pair of warm hands touches him, but no more than is absolutely necessary...

Ernest's mouth is like a furnace, hot enough to burn. But it doesn't quite hurt, and even then, Dias enjoys certain sorts of pain. And he sits in the dark, barely able to see the golden head nestled in his lap, and he thinks I could kill you. His gloved fingers flex on the grip of his sword.

And then he comes, silent except for a hiss of breath between his teeth.

I don't trust you, Dias told him, just before the first time. 

And Ernest replied, that's probably wise. I don't trust me either.

That earned him a sour little snort of laughter and a scattering of bruises, brownish-yellow across his pale skin.