Work Text:
It’s a beautiful night. The band is playing one of Mrs. Payne’s favorites, something heavy on the strings. It’s a shame none of her children were able to pick it up, Mr. Paine rarely indulges her desires for music in the household outside of the betterment of the children. This is one of the few moments of her music she will get for the next few months and she is making the most of it.
Which means watching the children falls to her husband.
They are hardly children, Edwin will begin his final year of school at the end of the summer. Dorthea, a babe of only fourteen, had been relegated to her room for the remainder of the night after the scene she caused. She had grinned at her brother over Mr. Paine’s shoulder and ran off up the stairs to ‘weep’ into her pillow. He can’t blame her for it, were Edwin a few years younger he would do just the same.
Edwin despises these family events. He hates being passed around between his father's friends, auditioning for the role of future son-in-law. He would, at best, be reluctant and disinterested in his bride. Their daughters deserve better. He couldn't possibly love them. True, love is an ideal far below their station, but they can dream, can they not?
It’s the same song and dance every time. What can he provide? What does Mr. Paine want in return? How well has he done in his schooling? How close is he to the church? He watches his mother dance, carefree and glowing in the electric light, and waits for someone to ask to see his teeth.
When he was a boy, when he believed his parents more than tolerated each other, he thought there would be some sort of magic in an arrangement. Father would work tirelessly to find the perfect girl for him, he would take her to the altar, and the Lord would fix whatever was broken inside of him so that Edwin could be a worthy husband.
But matchmaking is about measuring estate sizes and comparing birth orders, and Edwin still has that page he tore from one of the servant’s Harrod’s catalogue tucked into a slit in his mattress. Despite the shame, he knows he will be pulling it out tonight and imagining some of the finer men in attendance this evening stripped down to their union suits.
The Duke, the Deacon, one of his schoolmates’ fathers — Edwin shakes himself out of his uranian musings. At least Simon’s family wasn’t able to attend this evening. He quietly thanks God for His small mercies as Mr. Paine takes him by the arm and leads him to the next interrogator.
“Mister King!” Paine cries out, wearing a bright grin on his face reserved only for guests of highest esteem. “I’d like you to meet my boy, Edwin.”
Edwin watches Mister King’s perfectly shaped mouth move, but he hears nothing. Christ alive, he is damned .
One should have to own a permit to wear a suit so tightly fitted. The tailoring accentuates the broad lines of his shoulders, the narrowness of his waist. Light catches on the satin of his lapels, drawing the eye down to his boutonniere. Pinned to his left breast, a single green carnation. Edwin feels his face heat at the implication. Surely, Mister King does not know what he wears.
He nods once, an acknowledgement that usually absolves him from any further interaction. Mr. Paine will try to sell him, the chaperone will make noncommittal noises at them, they will move onto the next. It’s always the same.
Edwin feels the grip on his arm loosen, but when he looks up Mr. Paine is gone. He tries to find him in the sea of nobility to no avail. Without a single word, Edwin has been abandoned.
There must be a hundred people in the hall at least. They form an amalgam, a thrumming, throbbing mass of bodies around Edwin. And Mister King. The two of them have a small section of floor that no one seems to intrude on. Even the most well-bred of gentlemen might accidentally step into another’s space, certainly after a night of drinks and revelry, but no one crosses into theirs now.
It isn’t a wide berth, their parcel of flooring is still small enough to feel claustrophobic, but it’s space. It’s out of the ordinary.
“May I ask who you are chaperoning this evening, Mister King?” Edwin asks, voice unfaltering. These circumstances have not perturbed him in the slightest.
“You may.” Mister King speaks with a smirk and an accent.
An American accent.
Mister King is American.
Edwin is only given a moment to digest the information. A powerful, respected man from America of all places, standing before Edwin in his home. The sheer fact that he was allowed to step foot on the grounds is cause for fear.
Mister King gestures across the room to the refreshments table. “My sister, Mary, she’s the one in the blue.”
Through the wall of dancers, Edwin manages to spy a sliver of a decidedly mauve fabric. The crowd ebbs and flows, hiding and revealing more and more of the dress until he can spy the girl’s face. Oh. Dorthea catches his eye and glares, snatching yet another hors d'oeuvre to stuff into her loaded evening bag
“I don’t think I can see her, sir,” Edwin shoots a glare back. If she took the last of the devils on horseback, he will most certainly be telling the staff. He’ll make a great show of sniffling to the kitchens while her summer tutor makes her write lines. She knows those are his favorites. “Perhaps, is she near the young lady in mauve?”
Mister King hums. “I fear I am a touch impaired when it comes to discerning color.”
He places an arm around Edwin’s shoulders, bringing him close enough to feel Mister King’s warmth against his back. “Her.” But Edwin can hardly follow the line of sight when he can feel the rumble of the man’s voice in his chest, with his breath ghosting against his neck. He takes a breath and forces himself to focus on the moment.
There are no other young women at the table.
Edwin swallows past the tightness in his throat. “I fear you have lost track of your Mary, Mister King.”
“And why would that be?” Edwin thinks he can feel a grin on the back of his neck. He knows he’s imagining things, but he still shivers.
“That girl has only one brother, sir. Myself.”
The touch around his shoulders disappears, replaced with hands clasping both of his biceps. He feels feverish. “I've been caught then?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Come, let’s get some fresh air.”
Edwin is given no choice. The grip on his arm is looser, far more gentle than Mr. Paine’s, but he is not one to wrench his arm away from someone such as Mister King. The other man is a stranger to the house, so Edwin does take the lead, if only to make this confrontation pass more quickly. Dancers separate and rejoin around them, weaving around each step seemingly without thought, as if their intrusion had been choreographed as well.
With a small, metallic click, the doors to the west veranda unlock. Edwin ensures it closes silently. Their departure must not be noticed.
He turns back to see Mister King leant back against a column, the sole of one shoe braced against the marble. He had been so refined, so sharp, but now his coat is unbuttoned and his tophat nowhere to be seen. He runs a hand through his hair, disturbing the careful styling, and loosens his tie. “Cigarette?”
This cannot be real. Edwin has fallen unconscious and is inside one of his nightly fantasies. Vicar Redgrave is going to hate taking his confession for this.
“No, Mister King, thank you.”
He grins, wolfish, and flicks the case closed. “You can give up the pleasantries, Edwin. Call me Thomas.”
“Well then, Thomas,” Edwin swallows thickly. “What exactly are you doing here?”
Thomas procures a box of matches from his breast pocket, striking it on the laces of his oxfords. He doesn’t look away as he brings the flame to the tip of his cigarette, taking a long drag. “I’m here for a good time.”
“‘A good time’?” Thomas must be unwell to take any pleasure from the evening’s festivities. And to intrude on one of his father’s events? “You must be mad.”
Smoke billows out from Thomas’s mouth as he laughs, but despite their lack of distance, Edwin doesn’t feel it sting his eyes. “Must I?”
“Yes, you must,” Edwin insists. “Do you not know whose house you are in? My father will–”
“I’m not in any house.” He gestures around them, leaving silvery trails handing in the air. “And your father will do nothing.”
“You are a fool then.” Mr. Paine can be cruel and vindictive when crossed. No one knows that better than the members of his house. “He will ruin you for this.”
His teeth glint in the light. “I’d love to see him try.”
Something about it sends a chill down Edwin’s spine. The air shifts and he knows he could run. He could call for his father and have this interloper thrown out. He could – he should flee. Edwin knows it. There is something here that goes beyond him.
But if he runs, he could never see Thomas again.
Curiosity may kill him, but he will die satisfied. Edwin clears his throat, straightens his back. He may as well ask his questions. “You’re American.”
“Brilliant observation,” Thomas says. His eyes rake over Edwin lasciviously, not bothering to attempt concealing the act.
Edwin clenches his jaw. He will not react. He will not be distracted by the flirtations of a handsome man. “What brings you here?”
“The party? Weren’t we just over this?” Smoke pours out from his nose with his amused exhale. “I’m in the country for business, nothing I would want to bore you with.”
“You’ll find I am quite difficult to bore.”
“I will?” Thomas raises an eyebrow. “What else will I find out about you?”
He’s so cocky. Edwin knows it must be for good reason. Because he is dangerous! Because his business is not above board. He would never think of other reasons while questioning a suspect.
“You’ll have to do some discovery yourself, sir.” There. That's a good repartee.
“Very well.”
His cigarette is snuffed against his palm without the slightest flinch. Edwin feels himself twitch. The remains are left in an ashtray, cinders swept off his palm with only a sootmark. He didn’t burn? How is that possible?
Edwin opens his mouth to question, but only a gasp escapes him as Thomas slings an arm around his waist. “What are you–?”
“Let’s take this investigation somewhere a little more private, yeah?” He glances over his shoulder to the yellowy glow of the windows. There’s no one looking out, why would they, but the chance of being seen is high enough to unsettle the carefully constructed façade of calm.
“I know just the place.”
Thomas stays close as they carefully follow the path across the grounds. Their shoulders brush every few steps, knocking their hands against each other. Edwin swallows the urge to tangle their fingers together.
“Just over this hill,” Edwin assures. He’s not sure which of them he’s telling.
Why is he nervous? Thomas cannot know the grounds better than him. Despite the uncertain edge to the man, he’s not afraid of him. Quite the opposite. Oh, so very much the opposite.
“Where are we going, again?”
“I don’t believe I told you.” Edwin can feel his eyes on him. He shouldn’t feel so… so . Is this what seemingly reciprocated attraction feels like? He’s not sure he enjoys it.
“The flower garden,” he answers after a long moment. “My great grandfather had it planted for my great grandmother when they became engaged.”
Thomas hums. “How sweet.”
Edwin nods. Thomas does not need to know that she was uninterested in gardening, or that she rarely, if ever, stepped foot inside the fence. The gesture was a rare, singular moment of sweetness in an otherwise cold, obligatory marriage.
The gate shows her near-century of age, rust flaking off when Edwin touches the latch. Her neglect ended only a few summers ago. The sound she makes as she opens is dulled, a low groan instead of a loud, painful creak, but he still grimaces. Someday, when Edwin is the man of the house, he will do more than just oil her joints.
The garden is the best part of the estate by a mile. He spent many evenings with novels and magazines stolen from the rest of the family, tucked in the hydrangea bushes to ensure the grounds staff wouldn’t find him before he finished his reading. He’s half sure some of Dorthea’s Burnet novels are still hidden there. He resolves to check some other night.
In the distance, the sound of the celebration roars on. The busy thrum of life and merrimaking partygoers is little more than background noise. So many people, reduced to nothing but faint shadows on windows.
Edwin knows better than to behave like it, but the sight makes him feel all but alone with Thomas. No one will notice their absence. No one will be looking out the windows to the garden, not that they could get a good view through the fencing and ivy. He latches the gate behind them regardless. He would rather not have to worry about someone checking for intruders. Edwin’s already found Thomas.
Thomas gasps as he steps foot in the garden. Edwin can't help preening. “It’s lovely, isn't it?”
“Yeah,” Thomas breathes more than says. “It’s nice.”
“It’s my favorite place on the grounds.”
“I can see why.”
The enclosure is small, really. There’s only enough space for a few dozen plants, not including the careful latticework along the fencing for climbing plants, and a narrow pathway around the center. It’s well tread, Edwin has put at least one whole week of his life into meandering through the footpath again and again, stamping out any life beneath his feet.
He should make a note to speak to the staff about that. He would hate for the path to become unsightly.
Edwin offers his arm to Thomas. “Allow me to give you a tour.”
Thomas grins and loops his arm through. He holds Edwin maybe a little more closely than absolutely necessary, but Edwin leans into it. Another man’s hands on him is rare, rarer still that the touch isn’t meant to hurt.
The irises are near the gate, chosen for the shared name instead of any particular favor. Edwin dotes on them. They always seem so lonely, leaves reaching through the gate for sunlight, for an unpaid visitor. Despite their mythological namesake, the flowers are crisp white. They are a rare speck in a field of mostly purple.
Several out of season plants follow, Edwin spares Thomas their names. A few fallen lyre flowers crunch under their steps, earning a momentary grimace. Their season ended only a few weeks earlier and the flowers had already started to drop. Two years, he reminds himself. He need only wait two years, and then he will be home for spring and he’ll get to see them on the vine.
Spikes of lupine poke up between the foliage, silver and blue and the occasional yellow, flowering sweetly next to too similar stems of foxglove, the reason the groundskeepers refused to allow him in when he had been smaller and more ill advised. Edwin doesn’t believe he would have endangered himself, but he has stained his fingers more than a few times eating the berries off the shading hawthorne planted by the back wall.
He only learned that he hadn’t been slowly poisoning himself when a gardener had taken him through on his first proper tour. The word proper was emphasized, with pointed looks toward the clematis that he had damaged climbing in and out. The lock was taken off the gate after that. It took Edwin nearly a week to visit again.
He’s gently guiding Thomas away from monkshood, suddenly unnerved with just how many deadly plants he has been caring for, when he sees them.
“Something the matter?” Thomas asks as he’s all but dragged over to the corner trellis.
“The moonflowers,” Edwin places a hand over his chest. How exhilarating. “They only bloom at night. They’ll close back up at first light.”
Thomas hums, reaching out to one of the fully bloomed flowers, tracing a petal with his thumb. He plucks it before Edwin can speak up, holding the delicate bud between his fingertips. Edwin can’t help following the motion, then the hand, as Thomas raises to tuck the blossom behind his ear.
“Beautiful.” His touch lingers. Edwin’s face heats. He trails his fingers down, slow, so slow, thumb caressing his cheekbone almost too lightly to feel. “The flower’s nice too.”
Edwin swallows thickly. Thomas’ eyes drift from his down to his mouth. “Edwin,” he looks back up. Have his eyes always been so blue? “May I kiss you?”
“Yes,” Edwin whispers.
Thomas is on him before he finishes the word. His lips are soft, smooth against Edwin’s slightly chapped ones. He tastes like tobacco and horrifically expensive champagne, intoxicating and addictive. Edwin grips his shoulders a little too hard, inexperienced showing as he whimpers from something so chaste.
And then Thomas groans. His tongue runs along the seam of Edwin’s lips and he opens with a gasp, allowing Thomas to slide into his mouth. His hand moves to cup the back of Edwin’s neck as he kisses him again, again, again.
Edwin’s back meets vines. Distantly, he recognizes the wisteria behind the smell of Thomas’s cologne. His hands wander, from shoulders to his biceps, squeezing and then keening as just how strong Thomas must be, to clinging desperately to Thomas’ back. Their chests press together, rising and falling in unison, an erotic parody of the dancing happening in the manor house.
“Thomas.” Edwin moans, arching into his unyeilding body. He’s pinned. A shiver runs through him, he enjoys it.
They separate with a nip to Edwin’s bottom lip. Thomas’s hand moves from his waist down to the top of his trousers, hooking two fingers behind the top button and tugging with a breathless, “Can I?”
Edwin nods frantically. Small, purple petals cascade over them. Thomas grins.
His knees hit the ground with a heavy thud. Edwin begins to ask if he’s alright, but the first syllable turns to a squeak as Thomas kisses his erection through the fabric.
One kiss turns to Thomas nuzzling into him, laving long, wet licks over his length. Thank the heavens that dark fabrics are in vogue. Edwin bites into the side of his fist, but the wounded sounds that escape him seem just as loud.
The sensation is dull, but Thomas is a performer. He takes his time, ensuring the trousers are soaked with his saliva before pulling them open. This can’t be real. Even in his filthiest, most sinful fantasies, he could never imagine someone doing this.
His drawers are pulled down only enough for Thomas to reveal his arousal. He smiles, broad and bright, and lets it rest against his cheek, batting his eyes up at Edwin. Thomas moans as he twitches.
“Oh, Thomas .” The hand against his mouth falls away, leaving the tinge of blood in his mouth and nothing to dampen his pleas. His hands flounder, weaving uncomfortably into the vines to find something, anything to brace himself with.
“You’re so pretty, Edwin,” Thomas murmurs against the base of him. He presses a kiss there. A second. “Shoulda known your cock would be too.”
Edwin sobs. His grip tightens. The wood creaks dangerously. If the ground opens up and drags him to hell for this, he would go happily.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Edwin feels his smile against him, those soft, kissed pink lips on his co– on him. Thomas’ hand leaves his waist, gently unwrapping his fingers from the trellis. He guides him by the wrist, settling in his perfectly ruffled hair. “You can pull if you want to.”
Edwin doesn’t get the chance to respond. He opens his mouth as Thomas does the same, swallowing him entirely.
It’s hot. His mouth is like the molten heat of a foundry, his silver tongue pressed flat against the underside of him. Thomas holds him there as Edwin gasps and pants, hand clenching and loosening in his hair, curses spilling from him unbidden.
He tries to count, to think of sport or the lake behind his dormitory or some trivia that may distract, but Thomas is a sight to behold. Edwin can’t tear his eyes away. How can one man be so beautiful? He understands why artists find their muse in their lovers. He could spend his life painting Thomas on his knees.
Saliva spills out past his lips, down Edwin’s cock and Thomas’s chin. If he could smile with his mouth so occupied, Edwin thinks he would be. He draws back slowly, until he holds only the head, and gives him a soft suck. The tip of his tongue flicks over the sensitive skin, teasing his foreskin.
It’s so much more intense than his hand. Thomas hums, taking more of him and then falling back. His thumbs press into the jut of Edwin’s hips, keeping him still against the wall as he works. It’s slick and messy, wet sounds and moans that seem to echo. Thomas’s eyes flutter shut as the tension in Edwin’s body ratchets higher and higher.
All too soon, Edwin throws his head back with a shout. Thomas takes him as deep as he can, nose pressed into his pelvis. He swallows around him again and again, taking every drop, every pulse of fluid until Edwin squirms away, the attention too much for his oversensitive nerves.
Thomas is on his feet in a second. He takes Edwin’s face in his hands, pulling him in for a kiss. It’s different, no longer sweet and smoky. Heavens, is that? Is this what he tastes like?
The kiss lingers, fading into something sweeter, more chaste. Edwin nips at Thomas’ bottom lip and ears himself a small chuckle.
“That was nice,” he murmurs.
“It was.” Edwin steals another kiss. He’s never felt such pleasure. He didn’t know it was even possible. He fears his own touch won’t be enough in the future. His gaze trails down to the closures of Thomas’ trousers. “Should I?”
“No need.”
Edwin makes to protest, but Thomas’ grin stops him. “You-?”
“Did you hear yourself? How could I not?” Edwin shivers, setting free another bout of petals. Thomas laughs, leaning back to brush them out of Edwin’s hair.
Edwin straightens his back, brushing some stray petals off Thomas’ shoulder. “Next time, then.”
“Next time?”
“That is what I said, yes.” Thomas raises an eyebrow in surprise and Edwin pulls him into another kiss. “I’ll meet you here, say, tomorrow night?”
“It’s a date.”