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My heart is not proud, O Lord / my eyes are not haughty; / I do not concern myself with great matters / or things too wonderful for me. / But I have stilled and quieted my soul.
--
Adam has never seen anything in this world worth keeping to himself, for himself, more than his first real look at Julian Sark.
They’ve been sitting on Adam’s couch for days, watching Bond movies and methodically working their way through Adam’s obscenely large collection of spy novels. It could be days, Adam thinks, or it could be hours. He’s not sure, and he doesn’t really care. His father wants to see him soon; his own temptation has just begun.
Adam’s father knows temptation well. It’s his stock in trade, really, and Adam suspects that Sark knows temptation just as deeply. But Adam has had his own world to keep for so long that beyond the temptation to shave R.P. Tyler’s poodle – which, in his own defence, he’s only done twice – he’s never faced anything like Julian Sark, curled up on his couch, tearing his way through The Charm School.
His father chose well. It would be so easy just to lean in…
And then Sark looks up. He says something softly, something Adam doesn’t quite hear, and then rubs his neck, smirking up at Adam like they share some joke. Like they’ve both just shaved R.P. Tyler’s poodle.
Adam smiles back down at him and wants to keep that look forever.
--
If I say, surely the darkness will hide me / and the light become night around me / even the darkness will not be dark to you; / the night will shine like the day, / for darkness is as light to you.
--
Adam has never felt anything in the universe that he wants to revel in more than the first time his fingers touch the crease of Sark’s neck. The moment is soft, warm, shivery. It’s also accidental.
Or maybe, Adam thinks as he jerks his hand back, maybe it’s not. He’s wanted to touch that crease of skin since probably the third day they met. Since before they met up with his father.
Particularly on the drive home from the pub in Flatley Close, that bit of skin called to him. Sark looked over at him twice on the drive back to Lower Tadfield. Each time the curve of his neck as he turned to Adam just… it made him want to do something swift, something reckless.
So maybe the touch wasn’t quite so accidental. Adam rubs his fingers together, still feeling the warmth of Sark’s neck, still wondering at the texture. It hasn’t yet dissipated, and he thinks briefly that he wouldn’t mind feeling that softness again, and again, and again.
--
Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls ; / all your waves and breakers have swept over me.
--
Adam has never tasted anything in his life that he wants to savour more than the taste of Sark’s tongue the first time they kiss. His mouth tastes of tea, and somehow of cinnamon, everything mundanely English, everything worldly and exotic, all the adventures Adam’s never had, and all the adventures he’s made for himself.
Sark has dropped his bag by the door. They haven’t seen each other in three weeks, not since Sark left one morning with a note that said simply, Business. Will return. JS. They stood facing each other through the doorway for what seemed like an eternity, Adam leaning against the frame and Sark looking questioningly at him from across the threshold, both silent. All the things Adam meant to say, all the questions he meant to ask, none of it seemed to come out. But somehow – neither Heaven nor Hell, Adam was certain, could say for sure – they ended up here, Adam’s back pressed up against the door, Sark rubbing up against him like some languid golden cat. They kiss like they have all the time in the world.
And maybe, Adam thinks, maybe they do. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees R.P. Tyler standing across the street, pouring far too much water on the azaleas along his footpath, slack-jawed and staring. He smiles against Sark’s mouth, feels Sark smile back, and pushes him ever so slightly through the door, slamming it behind him.
This next bit, he thinks as Sark pulls him up against the mirror next to the door, setting his mouth on Adam’s throat, deserves to be savoured without the added benefit of a letter to the editor.
--
Save me, O God, / for the waters have come up to my neck. / I sink in the miry depths / where there is no foothold. / I have come into the deep waters; / the floods engulf me.
--
Adam has never heard anything like the sounds Sark makes as they lie together for the first time. In the back of his mind, Adam wishes he could catalogue them all, slowly, a scientific study for the benefit of mankind and his own delirious pleasure. So he starts to try.
There’s the catch in Sark’s breath as Adam sets his mouth just below his ear. It’s soft, that spot, and as Adam teases it with the tip of his tongue, the noises Sark makes are soft as well. Adam rakes his teeth across it, and Sark stops breathing altogether, which makes Adam want to hurry on to whatever it is that comes next.
The hum of appreciation as Adam pulls his t-shirt over his head, dropping it at his feet and just letting Sark look for a moment, makes Adam smile. It’s similar to the hum of appreciation that Sark gives as Adam pulls him close and rubs his thumb over Sark’s nipple. Similar, yes, but it’s not quite the same. He buries his face in Sark’s neck, works his other hand at the buckle of Sark’s belt, and wonders how many times he’ll have to hear those sounds to work out the difference in his head.
Sark’s a quiet man, in general, so the first moan Adam hears surprises him. He’s pushing their hips together, grinding against Sark like a promise, and Sark’s tongue is doing something to his ear that is making it increasingly hard to think. So he reaches between them and just strokes, down Sark’s stomach and into his pants and against his cock and Sark moans around his ear like Adam’s just done something spectacular.
And when Sark mouths his name, shaping like a silent prayer it as he presses his mouth against Adam’s chest, Adam can’t help but moan back. As he wraps his hand around their cocks and sets a rhythm, he wonders how many sounds he has yet to hear, how many he just hasn’t managed to coax out yet. It’s his own private symphony.
--
I will lie down and sleep in peace, / for you alone, O Lord, / make me dwell in safety.
--
Adam has never smelled anything that he’s delighted in more than the scent of Sark’s skin against his nose as he’s waking up. Sark is still asleep, breathing evenly against the pillow, and Adam snuffles closer, falling back to sleep with the scent of Sark enveloping him.
He couldn’t have created this if he’d tried.
--
Love is as strong as death / its jealousy unyielding as the grave. / It burns like blazing fire, / like a mighty flame. / Many waters cannot quench love; / rivers cannot wash it away.