Chapter 9: Turbulence
Leona stared at the water swirling down the drain, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The shower had been a tactical mistake. The steam had just baked Vil’s scent into his lungs—that mix of iris, clean sweat, and something uniquely, indefinably sweet—and the hot water on his skin had only amplified the memory of that fleeting, devastating touch.
His hand had been a frantic, shameful necessity. A biological pressure valve. He’d braced one palm against the cool tile, the other working himself with a rough, impatient fury, as if he could exorcise the image from his nerves. It hadn’t worked. It had just branded it deeper: the way Vil’s sleep shorts had ridden up, the soft, tantalizing outline beneath the thin fabric, the shock of intimacy in the predawn gloom. The blush. The wide, wanting eyes. The sharp, clever mouth currently dedicated to insulting him, which had, in his mind, parted on a gasp.
He was so utterly, completely fucked.
One night. One accidental embrace, one unguarded look, and he was jerking off in his parents’ guest shower like a teenager. How was he supposed to survive five days in a glass-walled villa, with Vil in swimwear, with everyone watching? The contract was a joke. A flimsy piece of paper set on fire by a single, exploratory touch.
He shut off the water. The sudden silence was punishing. He could hear faint movements from the bedroom—a drawer closing, the soft shuffle of feet. Vil was out there, probably putting himself back together into that impenetrable, polished masterpiece. Leona dried off with rough, abrupt movements, not looking at the foggy mirror. He dragged on fresh clothes—dark pants, a simple black t-shirt—and ran a hand through his damp hair, leaving it to air dry into its usual wild state. A shield. He needed every shield he could get.
When he emerged, the bedroom was empty. Vil’s suitcase was zipped shut, his side of the bed meticulously made. The only evidence of the night was a single, pale blonde hair on Leona’s pillow. He stared at it for a moment too long before brushing it away.
He found Vil on a shaded veranda, sipping a glass of iced tea and scrolling through his phone. He was restored. His hair was a sleek, perfect fall over one shoulder, his makeup flawlessly natural, his clothes a crisp, off-white linen set. He looked like a magazine spread entitled ‘Serenity.’ He didn’t look up.
“Your brother mentioned a tour of the new solar paddocks before we leave,” Vil said, his tone cool and informational. “I said we’d be delighted.”
“We would, would we?”
“It’s expected. And it kills two hours.” Vil finally glanced at him, his violet eyes giving nothing away. The blush, the hunger, the outrage—all buried under a layer of perfect composure. “Unless you have a more pressing engagement.”
Leona wanted to shake him. He wanted to drag him back to that bed and demand to know which version was real—the one who mapped his abs with trembling fingers, or this ice sculpture. Instead, he grunted, “Solar paddocks are fine.”
The tour was a special kind of hell. Falena was in his element, proudly explaining the technology that powered the northern reaches of the savanna. Leona half-listened, his attention irrevocably tethered to the man walking a few polite steps ahead. Vil asked intelligent questions, his interest seeming genuine. The sun caught the platinum of his hair, turning it to white gold. A light breeze molded the linen of his trousers against the back of his thighs. Leona’s fingers twitched with the memory of clutching that waist.
He was so focused on not staring that he almost missed Falena’s question.
“...so you see the efficiency gain. Leona? You think the western ridge could support a similar array?”
Leona blinked. “The soil’s too unstable. You’d spend more on foundations than you’d save in ten years.”
Falena looked surprised, then pleased. “See? He pretends not to pay attention, but he’s always watching the land.” He clapped Leona on the shoulder, then turned his smile to Vil. “He has a feel for it. Always has.”
Vil’s gaze slid to Leona, something unreadable flickering in its depths. “I’m sure he does.”
The flight back to the city was silent. They sat in the plush seats of the private shuttle, a cavernous space between them. Vil worked on a script, his tablet casting a soft glow on his focused face. Leona pretended to sleep, his mind racing over the same jagged, circular track: the touch, the shower, the impossible week ahead.
It was Vil who broke the silence as the city lights glittered below. He didn’t look up from his tablet. “My father confirmed. He’s meeting us at the airport on the coast. He’s... enthusiastic.”
“Great.”
“He’ll like you,” Vil said, almost to himself. “He appreciates directness. And he’s never been intimidated by a title.”
“Is that a warning?”
“It’s an observation.” Vil finally powered down his tablet and turned his head, looking at Leona directly. The cabin lights were dim. In the half-darkness, his facade seemed thinner. “He will see through a bad performance. But he’ll believe a real one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means stop thinking of it as a performance.” Vil’s voice was low, stripped of its usual polished edge. It was just tired, and surprisingly earnest. “My father isn’t the board of directors. He’s not the press. He’s a man who loved my mother so completely it nearly destroyed him when she died. He recognizes real feeling. So if you can’t manage that, just... don’t try too hard. Be you. The cranky, ‘solid,’ overly-warm you. That, he might buy. Bad acting, he won’t.”
Leona was stunned into silence. It was the most honest thing Vil had said to him since this began, and it felt like being tossed a lifeline while simultaneously being shoved further out to sea. Be you. Which ‘him’ was that? The one who wanted to bite the junction of his shoulder and taste his skin? Or the one who wanted to run a thousand miles from this entire complicated mess?
“And what about you?” Leona heard himself ask, his voice rough. “What’s your plan? Strategic, graceful retreats every time I get within three feet?”
A ghost of a smile touched Vil’s lips. “I’m still workshopping my approach. But jumping is off the table. It’s unflattering.”
The shuttle touched down with a gentle bump. The spell broke. Vil gathered his things, the polished actor sliding back into place. But the words hung in the air between them, a new, terrifying clause in their agreement: Be real.
The next few days were a blur of obligations performed in a state of agitated suspension. Leona attended council meetings where the words sounded like static. Vil flew to a coastal city for a pre-scheduled fragrance launch, the photos of him looking breathtaking and remote flooding every entertainment feed. They exchanged only the barest of logistical texts.
Flight details sent.
Villa layout received. Only one bedroom. Shocking.
Shocking.
The coastal air hit Leona first, a thick, salt-heavy blanket after the sterile plane cabin. It smelled of blooming jasmine and distant grills, a vacation perfume. Vil descended the steps behind him, a large sunhat already in place, his expression neutral behind dark sunglasses. A black luxury sedan idled on the tarmac, and leaning against it was a man whose smile was a broader, warmer version of Vil’s own.
Eric Venue looked nothing like a former stage director who had captivated continents. In his worn linen shirt and khakis, he looked like a kindly professor on sabbatical. His eyes, the same striking violet as his son’s, crinkled at the corners as they approached. He didn’t wait. He pushed off the car and enveloped Vil in a crushing hug that seemed to momentarily defy the younger man’s posture, squeezing a genuine, soft laugh from him.
“You’re late,” Eric rumbled, his voice a rich baritone.
“The winds were against us,” Vil said, extracting himself with practiced ease, smoothing his shirt. “Father, you remember Leona.”
Eric turned. His gaze was assessing but utterly without malice. He took Leona in—the tired eyes, the guarded stance, the hand already halfway into a pocket—and chuckled. “The man who endured the Savanna Kingscholar inquisition. I’ve heard tales.” He extended a hand. His grip was firm, calloused. “Thank you for coming. She would have loved this chaos.”
The ‘she’ hung in the air, a quiet, shared weight. Leona nodded, unexpectedly touched by the simple inclusion. “Thanks for having us.”
The villa was all white stone and blue shutters, perched on a cliffside with the sea roaring below. It was, as promised, open-plan and airy. And it contained, as Vil’s text had warned, one singular, devastatingly large bedroom dominated by a canopy bed.
Leona dropped his bag just inside the doorway. “I’ll take the couch.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Vil said, placing his own luggage neatly on a luggage rack. He removed his hat and glasses, blinking in the softened light. “The couch is a aesthetic prop, it’s about as comfortable as stone. We’re adults. We shared a bed at your brother’s. We can manage.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?” Vil turned, his gaze level. “The rules are the same. Performance in public. Truce in private. We just have less square footage here.” He walked to the wall of glass doors leading to the terrace, his back to Leona. “Speaking of performance. A reminder. My father is the only family I have left. So when we’re with him, and obviously with your family, we continue. The hand-holding, the proximity, the... affection. It matters. He needs to see I’m cared for.”
Leona heard the unspoken words: I need him to see it. There was a vulnerability in the set of Vil’s shoulders that hadn’t been there in the savanna. This was the real performance, the one that cost him something.
“He already likes you, you know,” Vil added, glancing back. “After your meeting in the city? He called you ‘substantial.’ That’s high praise.”
“Substantial,” Leona repeated, the word feeling strange.
“It means you don’t float away on your own ego. You have weight. He appreciates that.” Vil opened the terrace door, letting the roar of the sea fill the room. “So just be that. It will be enough.”
Dinner was on the terrace under strings of lanterns. Falena, Cheka, and Leona’s mother had arrived earlier, and Cheka was already a whirlwind of energy, chasing fireflies. The table was a comfortable clash of worlds: Falena discussing sustainable tidal energy with Eric, while Leona’s mother asked Vil detailed questions about stage lighting techniques.
Leona watched Vil. He was magnificent. He listened to Leona’s mother with profound attention, his responses making her laugh. He gently corralled Cheka without stifling him, earning a pair of grass-stained hugs. And throughout it all, he performed.
His hand found Leona’s wrist on the table, his thumb brushing idle circles on the skin. He leaned into Leona’s space to share a comment, his iris scent cutting through the garlic and sea air. He offered a bite of his dessert from his own fork, his eyes holding Leona’s in the lantern light.
It was all a lie. A beautiful, convincing lie.
But Leona felt Eric’s quiet, observant gaze on them. He needs to see I’m cared for. So Leona played his part. He dragged his chair closer. He let his hand rest on the back of Vil’s neck, a casual, possessive weight that made Vil’s sentence hitch for a fraction of a second. He ate the offered dessert, his lips closing over the tines of Vil’s fork, and watched a faint, real pink touch the omega’s cheeks.
It felt less like acting and more like surrender.
Later, the families retired to their own guest villas down the path, and the silence they left was profound, broken only by the waves. They cleaned up side-by-side in the sprawling kitchen, a wordless system falling into place. Leona washed. Vil dried.
The domesticity was a louder intimacy than the shared bed had ever been.
“You were good today,” Vil said quietly, placing a gleaming glass in the cabinet.
“You’re the professional,” Leona replied, handing him a wet plate.
“I am. But that wasn’t professional.” Vil took the plate, their fingers brushing. He didn’t look up. “What you did with Cheka. The way you listened to my father. That was just you being... substantial.”
Leona turned off the water. The sudden quiet was a vacuum. He looked at Vil, who was staring down at the towel in his hands, his perfect composure fissured by exhaustion and something else.
“Vil.”
“We should sleep,” Vil said, his voice a little too brisk. “The sun rises early here. It’s spectacular. We shouldn’t miss it.”
The bedroom was again a battlefield. They prepared for bed with averted eyes and rigid politeness, the earlier ease evaporating. Leona changed in the bathroom. Vil changed behind a dressing screen. When they met again in the middle of the vast room, both were in sleep clothes, the space between them charged with everything unsaid.
Vil climbed into the right side of the bed. Leona took the left. The lamps went out, plunging the room into the deep blue of moonlight on white walls. The sea was a relentless heartbeat.
“Leona?”
“What.”
“Thank you. For today. For being... you.” The words were whispered to the ceiling.
Leona lay on his back, every nerve aware of the heat radiating from the body a careful foot away. The memory of the shower, of Vil’s outline in the dawn, crashed over him. His hand ached to reach out. To confirm the reality of the shoulder he could almost feel the warmth of.
“Go to sleep, Schoenheit.”
A soft, almost inaudible laugh. “Goodnight.”
Hours later, Leona woke to a change in the rhythm. The sea was still there, but the warmth was closer. The careful distance had dissolved in sleep. Vil’s back was pressed against his side, his head nestled near Leona’s shoulder, one hand curled loosely on the pillow between them. His breathing was deep and even.
Leona didn’t move. He stared at the patterns of moonlight on the canopy above, feeling the steady rise and fall of Vil’s body against his arm. The performance was over. The truce was holding. And this, this accidental convergence in the dark, felt more real than anything that had happened on the lantern-lit terrace.
He stayed awake until the deep blue began to soften into grey, guarding the fragile border where their bodies met.
He stayed awake until the deep blue began to soften into grey, guarding the fragile border where their bodies met.
Consciousness returned to Vil as a slow, warm tide. It brought with it the solid weight of an arm draped over his waist, and a deep, steady heat along the entire line of his back. He was pressed close. Very close. The hard plane of Leona’s stomach was against his spine, and lower, unmistakable and insistent, the thick bulge in Leona’s sleep pants pressed firmly into the curve of his ass.
Vil froze, his breath catching. The memory of the shower, the taut silence in this same bed hours ago, collided with this visceral, sleeping reality. He tried to edge forward, a minute shift to reclaim sanity.
In response, Leona’s arm tightened, a sleep-heavy clutch that pulled him back flush against that heat. A low, rough sound vibrated against Vil’s shoulder blade. Leona, dead asleep, nuzzled into the nape of his neck, his breath hot on Vil’s skin. “Mmm… need you,” came the slurred, dream-thick whisper.
Vil’s eyes flew wide. Shock immobilized him, followed by a sudden, liquid throb between his own legs. His pussy clenched, a pulse of pure, unwilled want that stole his breath. A soft, pathetic whimper escaped him before he could stifle it.
Was Leona having a wet dream? About him? The evidence was a demanding pressure against him, and the desperate, hungry truth of those mumbled words. The performance, the truce, the careful distance—all of it burned away in the frank hunger of Leona’s sleeping embrace. This was the 'substantial' man, unguarded and yearning, and Vil was terrifyingly, exquisitely awake to it.
He lay perfectly still, heart hammering against his ribs, as the room lightened. He catalogued the sensation: the coarse hair of Leona’s forearm against his stomach, the slow roll of Leona’s hips in sleep, the damp heat of Leona’s mouth grazing his shoulder. His own body was a traitor, melting back into the contact, a slick, aching heat building that demanded friction. He bit his lip until he tasted copper.
A sudden, sharp crack of a gull outside the window made Leona jolt.
The arm around Vil stiffened. The easy, dreaming rhythm ceased. Vil could feel the exact moment Leona woke up and realized—the instant of frozen confusion, then the swift, horrified understanding. The warmth at Vil’s back vanished as Leona recoiled as if electrocuted, rolling away to the far edge of the bed with a force that shook the mattress.
Silence, thick and suffocating, filled the space he left behind.
Vil didn’t turn. He stared at the sun-washed wall, regulating his breathing, forcing his performer’s control over every muscle. He heard the rustle of sheets, the faint, strained sound of Leona swallowing.
“Don’t,” Leona’s voice was gravel, scraped raw from sleep and shame. “Just don’t say anything.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Vil said, his own voice miraculously even. He finally turned his head. Leona was sitting on the side of the bed, back to him, shoulders hunched. The taut lines of his back were a map of tension. “It’s a biological response. It’s meaningless.”
Leona barked a laugh, harsh and humorless. “Right.”
“It is.” Vil sat up, keeping the sheet pooled at his waist. His body still hummed. “Unless your subconscious is a better actor than you are.”
That got Leona to look over his shoulder. His green eyes were stormy, his hair a wilder mess than usual. He looked caught, and furious about it. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you talk in your sleep.” Vil swung his legs out of bed, presenting his back as he stood. He willed his knees not to shake. “Forget it. I already have.”
He walked to the bathroom, each step a study in nonchalance he didn’t feel. He closed the door and leaned against it, pressing his cool palms to his burning face. The reflection in the mirror was a mess—hair tangled, lips bruised from biting, eyes wide and dark. He looked thoroughly, utterly undone.
He could still feel the imprint.
When he emerged, showered and armoured in a cream-colored robe, Leona was gone. The terrace doors stood open. Vil found him outside, barefoot and leaning on the railing, watching the sun climb over the water. A pot of coffee steamed on the table beside him.
“I made coffee,” Leona said, not turning. It sounded like an apology and an accusation rolled into one.
“So I see.” Vil poured a cup. The familiar ritual was a anchor. “Your brother mentioned a boat. For this afternoon.”
“Yeah.”
“We should probably be seen on it. Together.”
“Probably.” Leona finally glanced at him. The morning light etched the tired lines around his eyes. “Look. About before—”
“Already forgotten,” Vil cut in, taking a deliberate sip. The lie was smooth as porcelain. “But if you’re going to have evocative dreams, maybe face the other way.”
A flicker of something—annoyance, maybe respect—passed over Leona’s face. He snorted. “Noted. You kick, by the way.”
“I do not.”
“Like a disgruntled rabbit. It’s charming.”
The normalcy of the insult was a relief. It was their territory, shaky ground but familiar. They lapsed into a silence that was less hostile, just fragile. The sea crashed below.
Eric found them like that an hour later, Vil reading a script in the sun, Leona scowling at something on his phone. “You two look cozy,” Eric said, setting a bag of fresh pastries on the table. “Sleep well?”
Vil’s smile was automatic and perfect. “Like a dream, father.”
Over Eric’s shoulder, Vil saw Leona’s jaw tighten. His eyes flicked up, meeting Vil’s for a searing second. A current passed between them, charged with the memory of the whispered confession in the dark. It was the most honest communication they’d had all morning.
“Good,” Eric said, clapping his hands. “Then you won’t mind an early start. The boat’s here. Let’s go make some memories that aren’t just you two hiding in the shade.”