Blaise Duigou

The room was darkened by the tightly drawn curtains. The asset stood by the window, his back to Blaise. His shoulders were tense, and in the silence, a broken sound could be heard—he was crying.

Blaise couldn't resist. He stood up and walked over silently, simply hugging him from behind.

"Leave it," the activist said hoarsely. "Don't feel sorry for me."

"I don't regret it," Blaise answered quietly. "I'm just here."

He didn't let go. The Active turned around, and Blaise saw such pain in his red eyes that it took his breath away. The Active dropped his head onto his shoulder, and sobs burst forth. Blaise stroked his hair silently.

When the tears dried up, a fragile silence reigned. The active stepped back. His gaze was tired, but no longer frantic.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“You’re welcome,” Blaise replied.

He slowly raised his hand and touched the active's cheek, brushing away the last of his tears. There was only infinite tenderness in his touch. The active froze, closed his eyes, and pressed his cheek to his palm.

And then the leader leaned in. His lips touched Blaise's. It wasn't a passionate kiss, but a confessional kiss. Slow, deep, infinitely tender. The kiss of a man who has found his refuge.

When they parted, their foreheads were still touching.

"Blaise," his name sounded like an oath.

And Blaise knew that he had just held in his palm the most fragile and important thing.