
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8347165.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      91_Days_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Vanno_Clemente/Frate_Vanetti, Ronaldo_Galassia/Frate_Vanetti
  Character:
      Frate_Vanetti, Vanno_Clemente, Ronaldo_Galassia_-_mentioned
  Additional Tags:
      Oral_Sex, Hand_&_Finger_Kink, Smut, Frate_is_selfish_and_probably_a
      spoiled_kid_in_bed, Anal_Fingering, there's_something_about_a_crucifix,
      Nero_will_never_know_about_this.
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-22 Words: 3872
****** Worthy ******
by pharadoxly
Summary
     Vanno was always the bravest boy Frate knew.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
 
While the crown hangs heavy on either side
Give me one last kiss while we're far too young to die
Panic! at the Disco
 
 
 
Vanno was the bravest boy Frate knew.
On the inside, bravery was a prickly thing. Bravery, and some seemed to enjoy
the disenchanted cynicism in asserting this, was by no means anything special,
beneficial, much less that advantageous asset heroes always possessed in order
to make the story work. And cynism had nothing to do with those adults. It's
just a flavour, a caressing taste they chose to give words instead of alcohol.
Cynism couldn't take the place of bullets. All of it was true. About bravery.
All of it.
As if nine year olds would care. Children know cynism better than men, and
certainly know their heart better than the pace of their own footsteps.
Mass was on Sunday, no matter how hot the church got, what with the Sun
dripping heavily from the picturesque Catherine window, or Vanno's steady and
bruised hand holding the song book so close to Frate's belly so that he could
read fluidly. Between them, only the vibrant, fermenting air, so thick the boy
could feel it pushing at the bottom of his every breath. That bubbly heat
tended to persist, at times increase, until Frate stopped concentrating on
Vanno's hand under the spirals of the ink. There never were any
misapprehensions, between them.
There were other details that Frate often happened to arrange in his head, just
naturally, to employ those minutes between consciousness and dream.
Vanno was trouble. Dad seemed to like Vanno. Maybe not like like parents do.
Like bosses do, maybe. Maybe he just liked him.
Maybe this, maybe that... And he was fast asleep.
 
 
                                      000
 
 
What a perfect fairytale ending.
The bedroom is flooded with delicious, late afternoon honeyed light. So that it
all looks unrealistic. There's flowers arranged theatrically in a china vase on
the table, white like the teeth of a child and purer than water. There's the
half-shut window by the large garden, hand-embroidered curtains, crumpled used
sheets.
Footsteps as feather-light as dust twirling around the elegant ornaments. The
owner takes great pride in them. And the owner's owner gets easily satisfied.
The last of Ronaldo's breaths still tickles the back of his neck, but when
Frate reaches behind and grazes the skin, he finds he's unable to keep a
contented sigh to himself.
Frate smiles as he turns left, then around, to look at himself in the mirror.
Strangely enough, he feels like he's the one who's going to get married
tomorrow, not his sister. It's safe to say he feels happier than her; no matter
how dismal and disgraceful, and utterly selfish it sounds.
Was Jesus at fault when he let men nullify him for their sins? Is Frate at
fault when he lets himself be real, in bed with another's spouse?
This was not the first time, nor the second. If Frate has any saying in the
matter, and he does, far from the last.
Ronaldo is gone now, but his manly scent stays. The walls are impregnated with
it, and the melliflous smell of sex and subjection, which he has down to an
art.
He doesn't need a mirror to know that his body is the canvas.
"What does this mean?"
Frate looks over his shoulder. His eyes go up immediately to the scornful set
of eyebrows that complement the deliciously deep wrinkle at the corner of
Vanno's mouth. What really is interesting is how Vanno isn't looking at him.
Frate see tension in the broad line of his shoulders. He wonders if that is
because he's feeling the calmest he has been in years and years.
Frate doesn't feel the slightest urge to hide despite being naked from head to
toe.
"Hey, come on." Vanno's steel gaze is trained on the bed, obvious evidence of
an act so obscene he can't begin to explain it. "You're kiddin' me."
There's nothing Frate can do that would help it sink in. So he lets Vanno talk.
"Did you think about it for a second? ...Shit, did you think about what your
father would say? Since when has this been going on? Fio better not suspect
anything."
Frate thoroughly relishes hearing his sister's name, now, as the pressure of
Ronaldo's complacent fingers feels still wrapped around his tighs,
proprietorial, like those street children nowadays are with the rocks they find
around. This is exactly what someone like Vanno cannot grasp. He and his
clouded heart, his honour.
The Vanetti smiles ruefully, then walks back to the bed with a hand tangled in
his golden hair, his back forming a noble curve. Vanno finally takes the hint
and hastily locks the door behind his back. He looks up just in time to find
Frate leaning remissly against the headboard. A bored look on his face and
utter laziness in his limbs.
"Want to know what the problem is? You think I'm just going with the flow. Like
always."
"You don't wish Fio any harm, do you?"
"It doesn't matter." Frate sees Vanno's confusion change into something
angrier. "Use your head. Even if she knew, she would still get married to
him... It's not up to her."
"And it's not up to me to tell her," Vanno clarifies. "Or to tell anyone."
"See. We're good."
"No. You don't deserve him."
And the damage is done. Frate's head snaps to the left, his body straightening
as he comes to a sitting position; the shape of his body suddenly appearing
angular, taut like a needle. His image, still, a striking vision. The creased
corolla of sheets pooled at his sides, the soft globe of his knee screening
what the bedsheets do not, only emancipate the melted honey that the window
pours on his gentle shoulders.
"Oh, I get it now." Frate's voice is alarmingly similar to curdled milk, and
still he looks like a saint. "What I want doesn't matter. Will never matter."
"Wanting something doesn't mean it's good for you, Frate."
"Since when do you know what is and what isn't good for me? You must be a fool
if you think you can-- just like this! Barge in, and take this one thing away
from me--" Frate ignores his own trembling lips and stops Vanno's attempt to
cross the room, Don't you even take another step, by menacingly pointing a
finger at him. He doesn't care how pathetic the effect really is, but he leans
forward, and if he was born with fangs, now he would be showing them without
even realising. "What I've earned with my own damn efforts, you stay away from
it."
Vanno looks anything but defeated. His jaw clenches, and that would be
upsetting if this wasn't a man Frate has realied on ever since he can remember
staring at his reflection and wondering what it lacks. The way Vanno walks up
to him doesn't even make him shrink away, rather hold still, much like a deer
in the headlights.
The sudden proximity of Vanno's body to the edge of the mattress registers a
second too late.
"Look at me."
"You don't get to do that to me..."
"Kid, look at me."
Frate's breath hitches. It doesn't dawn on him until he's obeyed, how deep-
rooted it is, in him, the habit to wait for commands. His mind belatedly
supplies an old thing Deltoro said: how bad habits tend to die hard.
The blue in Vanno's irises is too honest, too frantic for this room.
It's almost morbid, how he can stand the lucidity in Frate's eyes while Frate
burns himself out, burns rotten.
 
                                      000
 

When Frate said something that had to do with guns, Nero frowned and
sidestepped the conversation. But Vanno would never pass on a chance to turn it
into something golden, crudely conceptual, something worth listening to. Vanno
was the bravest.
"What happened to your hand?"
"A bastard's revolving knife. No big deal, kid."
"And that bruise, then?"
"The Don, Frate."
"Will my dad get sick of this Don stuff one day?"
"He already is, he'll probably die from illness."
"Will you, then?"
"Now, now, do I look like one who gets sick, Frate?"
They'd been sitting on the front porch for God knows how long, but Frate only
now noticed that the blue sky was almost blinding, mysteriously deep, and the
Vanetti mansion stood as silent as a rock, down here, the humanly pathetic
house of cards that it was. It was a wild feeling, to know that you stand under
the same sky that will watch you die. And each and every shot that Vanno had
fired was and always would be vain thunder, dissipating into nothingness.
It's hard to tell if that was the clearest moment of his life or if he was
allucinating the sky as well as the faintest speckles of gold in Vanno's
irises. The intoxicating cold blue, it touched something, prickling underneath
Frate's skin like atomic-sized sparks. From his lower lip, to his neck, to his
cheeks.
And, he actually found breathing just a tad easier, because this heat was
something he could recognize. His cheekbones felt like they hadn't moved at all
lately, when the corners of Frate's mouth curled into a shameless smile that
boys his age shouldn't keep inside.
Vanno's aqueous eyes shouldn't make his feet feel lighter. Frate brightened up
when he held out his small hand, more graceful and constantly paler than a
boy's should be, waiting for anything to happen, except Vanno's mouth to form a
half, not-quite-there-smile. Frate answered the unasked question leaning into
the other boy a little more stubbornly, excited to test these new secret
boundaries, then tangled his own fingers with Vanno's more masculine ones.
Forefinger first, then the middle; and here comes the most complicated part,
and the sweetest unclosure, with the thumb.
Encouraged by the quaint autumnal atmosphere, he brought Vanno's wrist in his
lap and began tracing the veins that ran underneath. Vanno was warm in every
sense of the word. The quick pulse drummed a beat into Frate's fingertips,
gently translating that rythm into a sweet nectar as physically painful to lose
as a drug. Frate suddenly couldn't bear the thought.
Those were happy days. There was Nero, and there was Fio, who of course didn't
make his position relevant or important to anyone's eyes, but there were
bicycles, and church, his nice church clothes, and a friend who would spend
time with him and let him hold his hand.
Perhaps something went wrong as Frate studied it, but too much was going on.
"This is the heart line. Let's see..."
"What, you believe in palm reading?"
"Well, I mean-- Oh look, your life line is so similar to mine."
"I guess."

What Frate really should have said is:
I guess I'll stand just one step behind you.
Until you look back.
 
                                      000
 
 
 
Heat rolls down Frate's cheeks. He adjusts his legs so as to sit sideways.
Fumbles quickly with Vanno's belt before letting both ends hang open. Vanno is
breathing heavily through his nose.
"Why the hell did you come here," Frate mumbles, mouth just cruelly beginning
to water. It makes it harder than usual for him to be assertive. As if that
wasn't enough, Vanno is older, wider, and aspires to someone better, which is a
reality that makes the bones in Frate's chest constrict and a deep hunger in
him bare its teeth.
"Is it important," There's a resignation in Vanno's voice, "right now?" that
isn't quite resignation. So Frate tries to vivisect it. He pulls the smooth
fabric of Vanno's underwear down right after unzipping his pants with his
teeth, proving himself a good learner, and his nails graze the man's muscled
belly, and just that innocent contact is enough to scatter his senses.
Frate tilts his head up in lust-driven, mechanical anticipation.
The moment he frees Vanno's lenght he can only feel a shiver run down each of
his vertebrae, twisting them unnaturally. Not even the blink of an eye, Frate
opens up wide to receive as much of his cock as he believes he can take.
Vanno's thickness causes his lips to quiver around a subtle gasp for air.
Instead, his windpipe squeezes around a thin, searing breath, further enhancing
his intoxication. The concreteness of it feels so warm and magnificently
wholesome, so surreal. Frate has difficulties in finding his own sanity. At
this point he realizes he feels too good to care.
He knows how good he feels way too well. He's been told how pleasurable being
in his mouth is, and there might be some pride there, clumsy and immature like
grapes before their season. He's beautiful, and he knows. He's childish, and he
knows.
Hunger takes over him and Frate bobs his head to and fro, sucking and sucking
until a weak whimper escapes his burning lungs. A fire lights up somewhere
deep, ravaging his chest and bringing to the surface feelings long buried;
restless summer nights, changing into harsh Monday mornings. Back then, being
eclipsed was as mundane as spitting that awful bitter toothpaste in the basin.
Frate's tongue slides on the underside of Vanno's cock, so smoothly it's
exasperating. It strokes the thickest veins there, stilling in order to feel
them, pulsing from stimolation against sweet velvet.
With a suave flick, Frate elicits a low grunt from the man. He does it more
roughly, receives the same reaction.
He then swallows, the roof of his soft mouth pressing down on the erection.
Vanno has grown rock hard from the ministrations, and Frate pushes himself
against the fat cock beginning to thrust in his throath, eyes rolling back at
the unbridled sensation.
Not paying his own needs much thought, Frate's fists close tightly around the
fabric of Vanno's pants. He lets his own lenght lie on the sheets, in favor of
the task at hand.
Neglecting himself this way results in the starved need in his gut swelling,
strong and hot and vulnerable all the same. He doesn't want to touch himself
before he's told so. It's the rule.
"Fuck," Vanno cusses, sounding out of breath just as much as Frate feels eager
to steal every kind of restraint away. "Fuck, kid, this is..."
Frate hasn't had enough yet.
He brings his hand up to palm at Vanno's balls, and strokes the stretched skin
there, where his cock connects with the pelvis, his gestures fleshy and
arousing, and then unashamedly blows on the slit. Frate circles the head with
his tongue, once and then again, drawing out the motion so leisurely it clashes
with the ravenous look drowned in deep blue.
Vanno's erection finally gets past the tight rim of muscles of Frate's throat,
when he takes it in his mouth at once, again. There's not even a second to
catch their breath before Frate is gagging on Vanno's cock, treasuring this
feeling of being good and wanted and filled, needed. His muscles are well-
trained there, and maybe with the hand petting his nape Vanno can feel himself
sink in Frate's eager throat.
Frate gives another uncoordinated few licks, almost reaching the base of
Vanno's lenght, somehow taken aback by his own desire to keep Vanno there as
long as possible. Until his own body pratically begs him for oxygen. Then,
he'll release the erection, pull some inches back, and admire how perfect that
cock looks, considerably slickened with his spit, oozing precum like the holy
wine spills from the priest's goblet sometimes.
Frate healfheartedly closes his moist eyes and his mouth goes empty, cold. He
steals Vanno one last peck, and realises he maybe finds too much pleasure in
the salty wetness that spreads on the left corner of his mouth.
He passes his tongue over his rich lips. One taste overlaps another; chaos on
his mouth, in his mind, in every aspects of his life but not in Vanno's hands,
when they seize his hips and lay him down on the bed. His eyes look like a
prayer. They're brave, even now, in their own way.
Frate is not. "Your hands. I want them inside."
"Where?"
"Inside me. Inside me. Anywhere."
Oh, he likes the way a struggle is still playing out in Vanno's eyes. As a
child, he used to like how Vanno presented himself as an unmovable rock that he
and his siblings could always turn to, if needed; but he likes more how the
rock hardly stays afloat, right now. Frate likes the hard lines of his face,
likes the tacit truce between them like an electrostatic wire that feels too
good, really too good, if teased. He likes the sprawl of Vanno's fingers on his
warm stomach, dragging up, and up.
"A-Ah-- Yes, yes, please. Oh God. Yes."
Vanno isn't Ronaldo, so he doesn't torture his nipples, twirling and scraping
so as to paint the swollen skin an angry red. They're still like that from
thirty minutes ago, and he doesn't fool himself into thinking that Vanno can't
notice. That he still has some semblance of secret left.
"Touch me more--"
Vanno isn't Ronaldo, they're nothing alike, so the way he urges Frate's legs to
part is neither brutally skilled nor disturbingly careful, but there's a lump
in Frate's throat anyway. Frate's breath quickens, his insides melting like
chocolate cake under the midday sun. He doesn't know what's making him the most
lightheaded.
He keeps thinking: Ronaldo's hands are bolder.
Vanno passes one finger over the rim, and it's like God flashes before his
eyelids just for the split-second it takes to feel completely unmaterial and
come back down. The fleeting pressure turns into a heavy, aggressive warmth
when Vanno inserts two digits at once.
Frate's voice breaks on a scream.
In his purely instinctual high, he makes a clutch at Vanno's shoulders. One of
Vanno's knees is anchored to the mattress, keeping Frate's milky, almost
premature thighs spread apart. The boy, fair however much unfaithful, looks
like a painting left unfinished. From the round line of his calf, up to the
roused cock spilling on the cream-colored bedsheets, and up. To his disheveled
hair. Artists of every age must have worn themselves down to come up with the
exact same shade of sand that crowns Frate's head.
There's something poetically disturbing that lies in his desire, to offer all
of himself, to make somebody make him come undone.
Half-lidded eyes gaze up at him, but cannot glimpse at Vanno's partly
wondering, partly enticed thoughts. No more words are spoken.
Frate leans into Vanno's neck and for a moment, they both have to get a hold of
their breathing. Frate unbuttons Vanno's shirt, baring an inch of skin in order
to find the object of importunate thoughts; as soon as he finds it hanging
there, golden and immaculate, he wraps his tongue around the small crucifix
pendant.
Frate's entrance isn't tight at all. A few drops of Ronaldo's seed are sticking
to the pink languid flesh that Vanno's feeling for the very first time. Inside,
the strongest sensation is the wet heat that seems to want to swallow him more
and more. Vanno ventures further. What he finds is flexible, tender skin.
The boy bites down on the necklace. He can feel his own voluptous heart on his
tongue against cold, refined metal, which he would only dare to steal peeks at
when he found himself beside Vanno at mass. It was enough for him, and now it's
too much.
It's too much, and he thinks he's going insane.
"Ngh... There..." He mumbles, muffled by the crucifix, immediately starting to
suck on it when Vanno complies.
"Wait. I'm gonna-- Wait a sec-- Yeah, here we go."
"Vanno--?"
The man's broad chest is suddenly heavy, pressed against his shoulderblades.
Frate's thin waist gets lifted from the mattress, his position turned over so
that the entirety of his slender body fits under Vanno's much larger one. The
feeling of being controlled completely is so great it overwhelms him,
shattering the last piece of decorum that hadn't left when he took Vanno into
his mouth, not much different from a slut you could find down the street if you
know where to look.
Vanno takes up thrusting his fingers inside his hole. He's warmed up to it and
the smooth motions have a whole new rough tonality.
Frate's moans are gushing out tragically vulnerable, enough to make him feel
even more naked. More naked than this. He hates the part of him that likes to
let them out, to feel powerless and wrong and filthy, to have a man treat him
like a work of holiness.
The thrusts reach deep, then deeper, leaving Frate breathlessly grasping at the
sheets, pale-knuckled, barely here anymore. The responses of the lower half of
his body go unregistered to him, whose biggest regret is the loss of Vanno's
cold crucifix between his teeth, but he can guess that they're good if Vanno's
grunts are anything to go by.
He feels Vanno's fingers draw circles, feels it at the bottom of his stomach,
and pleads for this to never go away, he wants their imprint on his insides,
everywhere.
Frate casts what must be a longing look over his shoulder, paying close
attention to his own sweat-slickened back. As if spellbound, his sight lingers
on the way his hips rise to meet Vanno's strong hand. Vanno is squeezing one of
Frate's asscheek in his free palm. Lust overflows from his expression, and this
is when Frate thinks with bitter self-satisfaction that he's taken both men
supposed to make him a second choice, and made them his.
You wouldn't be able to stop moving like a whore even if your father walked in
on us.
"Look at you, kid." Vanno speaks in a low, coarse voice that Frate has never
heard before. It pushes the heart in his chest in a dark place, feeding it
pleasure like one feeds a rabid dog. "You feelin' good? Shit, if someone saw us
now. I'd be a dead man."
That voice is what pushes him over the edge. Or maybe the unyelding force
hitting his sweetest spot over and over. Frate rides the high out, his limbs
weakening one after another, and he sinks into the soft bedding like a
porcelaine doll.
It's a matter of seconds until Vanno releases his load between Frate's limp
thighs, after stroking himself at the sight of disarray splayed before him.
Come slowly drips down Frate's legs, his hole now a small messy thing. He looks
the most insensitive in the post-orgasmic haze.
Vanno makes himself comfortable on the pillows beside him, searching his pants
for a lighter.
Frate doesn't smoke, and Vanno does offer when he forgets this. He forgets
often.
"I still think you don't deserve him."
Frate closes his eyes, lacking the energy to come up with a frustrated answer.
As the cigarette expires, he lines up their palms and their hands lock
together, because there's no other way this could go, no other way they can
truly touch each other. Perhaps they'll never grow on each other's skin, but
Vanno's hands make him feel a little real.
Such a perfect fairytale ending.
 
 
End Notes
     end me this is so embarassing ahhhh
     take this as my attempt to explore Frate's character, whom I love
     immensely and will always protect. the underage tag is for safety
     since they're hiding the canon ages from us.
     still now that i wrote this i realize i could have put sooo many
     other kinks in here but i couldn't wait to finish this and be finally
     free....... @ HellChat I hope you enjoyed this tho, I put my heart
     into it ok
     thanks for reading!
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