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***
In the most uncomfortable and cloying matter possible, all relations with Laurence reminded him strongly of his father.
The grass was still plush under his feet as he climbed back in the carriage, the bait set and the trap waiting, and there was little else for Tharkay to do now but wait and agonize.
It was entirely possible he had overplayed his hand, been too unsubtle in offer and advance, and Laurence—despite an improbably lengthy history of ignoring the obvious—would now notice.
Which, if Tharkay was being reasonably optimistic, would not go well.
It would not be a clean break, a crisp severing of old ties that might allow new ones to form, as Sara had given him, but rather a lingering ragged tear, a sense of loss never to fully realized, and so never fully discharged. Laurence would not disavow their friendship on an intuition—or even on fact, if Tharkay were to tell him—despite his likely reservations, not completely. Laurence was too much of a gentleman for that, but the discomfort would weigh on him, their relations would no longer be easy, the effortless companionship that they had now.
And that would be…Tharkay knew enough of isolation, to know exactly how that would be. Not solitude, for that was a completely different beast, preferably alone in the wilderness with the wind low and the night warm, but true isolation, which could happen even in a crowded city.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, ignoring the bumps on the country road that the carriage could not fail to avoid.
England, for all his life, had meant his father. He had been raised to be a gentleman of leisure, as much was possible with his mixed household and skin, a heritage he could neither claim nor quit, and a scalding reminder that this place which resented and begrudged him so much, was quite likely the only place in the world he might fittingly call home.
Now his name was finally on the title of his estate, tying him firmly to the post, a fact which made his breath catch and shoulders itch with the impulse to flee. He was wagering a great deal on Laurence’s innocence, and regardless of the outcome, quite neatly denying himself the very freedom that had made life bearable for more than half his life.
Supposing this latest great gamble came to nothing?
But no, that was not…likely. For better or worse, Laurence tended to be consistent. One might rightly assume that if the best response to gifting a flock of feral dragons was only baffled yet heartfelt gratitude, then gifting a portion of one’s estate should also pass by unremarked, save some heartfelt and completely unsatisfactory gratitude.
At the worst—the most realistic worst, not what Tharkay could himself envision—Laurence might refuse, and would likely think the gesture too selfless, perhaps moved by pity or a misplaced sense of loyalty, or worry overmuch about imposing friendship.
Tharkay had never thought himself selfless, or spontaneous. Foolish perhaps, stubbornly wanting and chasing something he would not dare grab, for fear of damaging it, but not spontaneous.
Temeraire, however—whose own lure Tharkay had carefully laid—would be far more practical, and concern himself not-at-all with the potential motives.
Influencing a man via his dragon was the sort of interference and blackguarded underhandedness that all the English aviators decried with a passion, while Laurence—nearly alone, save Temeraire, and his odd assortment of allies—argued in the reverse, of using the love for one’s aviator to influence a twenty ton beast was equally unjust. Laurence would never approve of Tharkay’s calculations—but then, Laurence was a good man.
Tharkay opened his eyes as the carriage stopped at the hotel, and stepped out resigned. At the least, he might be free of this uncertainty.
***
On first glance, Tharkay’s ancestral home was quite lovely; not particularly large, but a sturdy two-story structure, with ivy grown all along eastern side.
The lower floor was mostly intact, parts of the roof leaked in the eastern wing, and the majority of the windows were loose and rattled wildly in the least breeze. Several of the portraits were missing—this was obvious only by the sudden absence of dust on the walls—which seemed to amuse Tharkay more than anything, as he claimed to have no interest in his more distant relatives. However, Laurence noted that even small items, such door knobs and candlestick holders, and also been stripped down or stolen entirely.
Tharkay had shrugged, “As they were looking to rob me of something far costlier than a little silver, I will count it a win, that they must comfort themselves with such petty piecemeal items.”
Laurence avoided asking as many sensitive questions as possible. He completely eschewed questioning the wisdom of prioritizing the construction on Temeraire’s pavilion over the repair of the roof, or investigating the rather obvious draughts in the western sitting room, or the broken window panes on the second floor.
Temeraire and he were plainly guests, unable to remark or aid without giving offense, and the best Laurence could manage was to throw as much capital as possible on the pavilion to prevent Tharkay’s distraction from the more immediate improvements to his own—though there would be no moving the pavilion after construction, and it was no small alteration—estate.
One improvement Laurence was vocally grateful for was that of a cook. Between them, Tharkay and he had enough sense and experience to care for themselves and the small portions of the house that they did inhabit, but having an experienced cook was one luxury Laurence hoped he would not have to go without.
Temeraire offered one his own cooks—as the dragon had chosen two older women from the village who suited his tastes and sensibilities, and who did not run fainting at the sight of his teeth—and if the meals were occasionally too spicy or bled a little too freely, it was small enough thing.
In truth, Laurence had expected his stay to feel much as it did in New South Wales; a brief sojourn to catch their breath, before being rushed somewhere else, his retirement from the service notwithstanding. However, as they took supper in Temeraire’s unfinished pavilion and Tharkay poured wine for them both—a very agreeable Bordeaux, with a small bowl for Temeraire to try with his beef—Laurence was forced to admit that this felt far more domestic, and far more permanent, than Australia ever had, as they had worked their little valley.
Tharkay met his eyes briefly, over the table, looking far more contented than Laurence could ever recall seeing him, indoors and well-dressed, and smiled at him, for once without a trace of irony.
He offered a toast, and it was only with some small reservation that Laurence returned it, before allowing Temeraire to dominate the conversation.
If there were undertones to their stay, and treatment, it was completely likely that Laurence was merely imagining them. In any case, it was not as if he intended for them to be objects of Tharkay’s charity forever.
***
Iskierka flicked out her black tongue, as if trying to taste the stone pillars—or possibly just to show her contempt, it was difficult to tell, “Well, that is not so very much; my pavilion is far larger and not nearly so plain—”
“Iskierka!”
“—With plenty of silver, and soon I shall be putting in some gemstones—”
“Iskierka! We’re here as guests!”
“--but I suppose Temeraire must be satisfied with what he can be with wages, instead of prizes.”
To be fair to Iskierka, Temeraire’s pavilion was as yet unfinished, with portions of the slate roof still missing, and the tiled floor gaping to reveal the piping for the heated floors. In truth the pavilion, when completed, would likely be far more comfortable than the main house, and nearly the same size.
Temeraire had insisted on some red tassels and lanterns to be hung over the threshold, but they had yet to come up with a feasible manner to keep them lit on the stormy Scottish nights. At the least, it was not yet snowing.
Laurence stood by, and did his best to hide his amusement; though he never seemed to stay still, Granby’s company was strangely relaxing; the man had no polished manners, spoke in the plainest fashion possible, and did not seem to mind being in constant battle with his dearest companion; quite easily, a good and decent man. If anyone could shed light on his current suspicions, yet remain temperate and discreet, his friend was the best candidate.
Temeraire had gone with Tharkay to Leeds, to examine materials for the unfinished pavilion. With several hours of privacy at his command, Laurence ushered Granby over to tea in the drafty western sitting room. After exchanging some pleasantries, he opened with a polite gambit.
“I have recently begun corresponding with some old associates of mine, and would appreciate your insight on a particular problem of his.”
Laurence’s friend, he explained, had involved himself with a gentlewoman, whom he was unable to marry, and instead had granted her some small parcel of land on his estate.
“Does she want to marry this gentleman?”
“I…do not know. Most likely not. It would be an inappropriate match; quite scandalous.”
“Sometimes scandal can’t be helped,” Granby answered cheerfully, helping himself to the sugar. “If they’re happy with the match, what the rest think doesn’t signify much; or at least it shouldn’t, if he’s as well off as he seems.”
“He is,” Laurence answered quietly, all his attention on his teacup; there was a small chip from when Temeraire had accidentally bumped the breakfast table, and he knew Granby’s had a hairline crack.
He had not known Granby for a romantic, though he had his suspicions; his trademark aviator pragmatism not yet figuring much on marriage and the creation of a household. Of course Laurence had been lectured on the necessity of making a good match nearly all his formative years, and well through his promotions in the Navy, and could not entertain the same casual response.
“So, may I ask where they met?” Honestly, Laurence had not considered the details of his deceit, and only vaguely heard the humor in Granby’s voice. “Somewhere exotic and distant, perhaps?”
Laurence went still. He fingered the rim of his cup, before putting it back on its plate.
“Perhaps.”
There was little enough to say to that; he had not put in a great deal of thought into his fiction, thinking Granby would see the need for such a thing, and not openly question it; Granby was hardly a stranger to the need for discretion.
It had not occurred to him, however, that Granby might be offended by Laurence needing a fiction to speak of such a thing at all, as there were no secrets between them regarding his own inclinations—and apparently Laurence’s own situation included. There was less to be mortified by the humor in his voice, than the complete lack of surprise or confusion. Perhaps Granby had been confided in, or perhaps Laurence had been as oblivious as he suspected; it was not impossible, that this was common knowledge to everyone but himself. It was completely possible that he was the last to know.
“Laurence? I didn’t mean anything by it—I’m making a mull of this, I know—”
“No, not at all,” Laurence answered without thinking, without really hearing. “But it is simply a mistake. The whole thing. You see, on the one hand she must be sensible to the honor paid to her,” so many years of loyalty, friendship, the satisfaction of having Tharkay by his side, “so the decent thing to do would be to accept the proposal and have done with it. But that action would be insincere—false.
“He has drafted the estate to any of her male offspring, regardless of the union. He has left nothing for his own children, no space for another--gentlewoman,” here Laurence stumbled, caught on genders, “One more suited to his class and tastes, nothing. It is the most romantic, quixotic of gambles that he cannot win. And I cannot counsel him out of it.”
Laurence stopped, breathed, and clenched his hands. Put his cup back on its saucer, and looked up at Granby. Granby said nothing; the energy in Laurence’s voice had surprised him.
“So…she does not want to marry him?”
“No. Not in the slightest,” though Laurence honestly could not say, had not had the courage to consider the implication rationally in the slightest. Had not thought it necessary; it was impossible, there was no point in considering. He could not bring himself to look Granby in eyes now, either. “If she does, it is due to duty. There is no—completely outrageous—it is a bad match. A mistake.”
Granby, for his own part, seemed embarrassed, and oddly surprised; Laurence could not fault him in that, and felt guilty for putting him in such an unenviable position.
“For the life of me, I do not know how to counsel him.”
“Well, speaking from personal experience, I would rather have my heart broken, than be pitied. I imagine your friend is of a similar mind.” Granby shifted awkwardly in his chair, privy to far more than Laurence would have cared for him to know; surely Granby thought him heartless, rather than practical. “Are you certain she will not have him? I mean, it’s natural to be a little unsure, but—”
“No,” Laurence cut him off, conscious of his own discourtesy, but unwilling to listen to any more entreaties where there could be none. “No, I am, sadly, quite sure.”
Granby stared at him for a bit, tapping the side of his cup idly.
“Well, then there’s nothing for it,” Granby’s voice took on an odd quality, as if here were picking the words from a long ways away. He had a strange look about him, and watched Laurence close for his reaction. “If he’s really set in his mind, and knows what he may lose, then that’s his choice. He wouldn’t want pity, or God forbid, duty—no English man would.”
“It is wrong,” Laurence tried one last time, feeling more hopeless than anything else, at that moment.
“Begging your pardon Laurence, but that’s not really yours to say. The man’s always known his own mind, well enough.” Granby took a sip of his tea, and grimaced. “Are we still speaking of hypotheticals?
“Yes.”
“Do we need to?”
“Yes.”
Granby snorted, and shifted in his chair idly, impatiently. “Why are you having this conversation with me, rather than him?”
Laurence took a moment to stare out the window, and to meet Granby’s eyes; it was strange to be interrogated by his former lieutenant, his subordinate and trusted friend, and harder still to know that the other man was completely in the right.
“I want to do the right thing, John. I do not—” Laurence stopped, uncertain. Cowardice was only a part of it.
“Seems like you’ve already made your mind.”
Laurence shrugged; it was the obvious choice, to him. “How long have you known? About—about my friend?”
“I can’t really answer that, without giving out confidences that aren’t mine to give. But I will say,” Granby paused, and scratched his right arm idly, just above the amputation, quite likely as uncomfortable as Laurence was. “Your friend would be happy with things as they are. Seems to me, a man who does a thing like that may not be looking for a match, or even a promise. She isn’t meant to find about the land, is she? I doubt it; he wouldn’t want her to feel compelled.”
“No. But he deserves better, far better, and more than he asks.”
It had been an absurd accident that Laurence knew at all. Tharkay was away on business—which he had not disclosed, and Laurence had been disinclined to ask—to return in two weeks. Tharkay was rarely in his own home for longer than a few weeks at a time, and Laurence had gone to Tharkay’s solicitor, with the half-formed intent to begin searching for some acreage of his own, yet still within Temeraire’s constituency.
This created a rather narrow selection, but perhaps not too far beyond their immediate finances, and it would not hurt to know what to expect in terms of cost. Tharkay had spoken well of the man, and Laurence did not feel comfortable speaking to his own family’s solicitor, at the moment; if nothing else, George and his mother would hear of it.
Instead, the solicitor—in a gross breach of confidence—had congratulated him on his recent acquisition of Heretofordshire Manor; on his shared ownership of the estate, with Mr. Tharkay. Laurence had then been sat down for a brief lecture on estate pur auter vie, during which Laurence had waited for a moment to politely interrupt, because the man was clearly mistaken.
Laurence had not believed any of it, until he saw his own name on the title—his signature was nearly perfect, as Tharkay had taken some care in forging his hand satisfactorily.
“I…realize I may be going about this backwards, but has it occurred that maybe your friend could just want to help this girl?”
“Yes, briefly,” Laurence answered, for Tharkay had been helpful to a fault. Had always been so incredibly helpful, far more than Laurence cared to reflect on; it would be respectable to pretend that this was nothing more than charity. “I cannot credit it.”
To pretend it was only one more random act of kindness in a long, long list of kind acts felt criminal, unsupportable. Yet Granby was not wrong; it was not his place to judge another’s choices, made so selflessly.
“Laurence,” Granby sighed, “I cannot speak in hypotheticals anymore. How the devil did you find out, anyway?”
There was a flush creeping along his cheeks, and Laurence tried to shrug—an abortive movement of one shoulder. What did it matter, when, precisely, he had started to note the minor yet numerous incidences of kindness and care, how often Tharkay would stare at his lips or his hands while always keeping his own touch light and fleeting, when Laurence noticed he had started to respond to it, instinctively—Laurence still did not know how to answer it.
“I understand it can be a bit,” Granby paused tactfully, “bewildering, to find such attentions on you, but now you know, you’re decided, he’s decided—what advice exactly are you looking for?”
Laurence said nothing, tracing the pattern on the teacup idly with his fingertips. He had been hoping, possibly, to learn that he was wildly mistaken. That the depraved undercurrents were all in his own mind.
“I am—I apologize, John, I have been—out of sorts. It simply seems too incredible, and truly—for all the world I only wish for him to be happy.”
But I cannot give him—will not give him—it was simply unthinkable, for a man not so afflicted to entertain any thoughts—
But there was no way to say any of that, without offending Granby—who surely would be offended, provided he was not already, to be applied to for advice or consolation when he hardly considered his condition an affliction.
“That is a handsome apology, Laurence,” Granby drained his cup and stood. “But now I’m afraid I must ask a favor.”
Laurence perforce stood as well. “Of course, I did not mean to keep you so—”
“Don’t hit me.”
Of course Granby still had his duties to the Corps, his own life and complications, and did not have the time to listen to some rather selfish worries—and then Granby’s left hand was on his shoulder and he was leaning down to kiss him, full on the mouth, as if he were a woman. It was strange to be reminded how tall Granby was, and how gentle he could be.
For a while, Laurence did not think. His eyes closed.
“There! Not lightening, no thunder, and as Iskierka is outside, neither of us on fire either. I’ll make us more tea then, shall I?”
“John—”
“It’s your own conscience you’re fighting with, Laurence, and I’m not fool enough to get in the middle of that, unless you’re of a mind to do something mad.” Granby made a curt, dismissive gesture with his hand.
Belatedly, Laurence felt himself blush at the word ‘mad’; this whole venture felt a little mad, and Granby had kissed him in front of the windows in full view of the world and everyone, which thank God was no one more at the moment than the young birch trees and the wet empty lawn. Iskierka was likely still finding fault with the pavilion.
Granby was searching his face, checking for his reaction.
“You argue forcefully that your lady is indifferent, and I’m not sure even you believe it.”
Laurence felt the heat drain from his face at that, and eventually followed Granby into the kitchen; it was not done, to force a guest to make his own tea. Thankfully, Granby spoke only of new projects within the Corps, and some idle gossip.
***
“Dearest,” Laurence paused, considered his options, and chose to be as straightforward as possible; there was no telling what Temeraire might infer from anything vague. “You once asked me to advise you if I were considering marrying someone.”
Temeraire’s wings flinched on the upswing, but smoothed out as Laurence limped and stuttered his way through an explanation; at the least, it was easier now, after speaking with Granby. After he finished, there was only the sound of the wind rushing in his ears, and Temeraire’s wingbeats.
“Well, I suppose, if you must, then I do not mind if you marry Tharkay, for he will not try and take you from me; he has always followed us, instead. And he has done a great many valiant things, and is very nearly a member of my crew, if only he did not wander about so much.”
Laurence put a hand on the dragon’s neck, careful at this halfhearted reception. “It would not be a marriage in the traditional sense, my dear. But it would—it should not impact my time with you, or our normal dealings.”
“That is good to hear,” Temeraire turned his head, so he could see Laurence with one blue eye. For a moment the gaze seemed measuring, searching, before becoming satisfied. “Because Tharkay is always wandering, and I would not want you to go wandering around with him without me. So this will be like your time with Admiral Roland?”
His relationship with Jane, even before they had fallen apart, had always been based on friendship. Though Laurence had proposed, he could not in all honesty envision domestic life between them; Jane had an open aversion to domesticity, to settling down, and it would have been selfish and unfair to force upon her a life, and intimacy, that she did not want in the least.
While Tharkay certainly seemed content with Laurence, that did not imply that he would welcome any advances, or that he would not seek out fairer company, in due time, whatever Granby had implied.
“I—” Laurence took a moment to decide whether or not he should be embarrassed, before deciding there was not enough time to indulge. “Similar, but slightly more formal than that. After all, we live with Tharkay. And he may not—I am not certain that he may be as willing to match with me, as Jane used to be.”
Temeraire took predictable offense at that, ruff high; Laurence was his captain, a prince of China, war hero, had been in many battles and places, and he was rich again.
“Darling, it is not as simple for humans as it is for dragons; there is more to consider, than merely fame and wealth.”
Temeraire had snorted, with a surprising amount of scorn. Monogamy had—to the best of Laurence’s knowledge—never been successfully explained to dragons, nor was it popular among the aviators themselves; the dragons had not been persuaded to see the point of restricting their relations to only one other dragon.
Surprisingly—or not, Laurence decided, there was nothing very surprising about his life anymore—Temeraire agreed that discretion ought to be the better part of valor, in such a delicate situation.
However, despite Temeraire’s prodigious intelligence, he had a dragon’s true sense of discretion, and within the week presented Tharkay with a gorgeous silver tea service. Fortuitously, he did not have time to custom-add gemstones.
This was explained away easily enough; they took breakfast in Temeraire’s pavilion regularly, and unbreakable dishware was always convenient to have on hand when discussing politics—or deliberately riling up, as Tharkay occasionally enjoyed—a twenty ton dragon.
A plausible explanation could be had, and Laurence used a similar explanation for the new porcelain china, of green and bright yellow flowers, gold-plated silverware, and Tharkay’s new gold-frogged coat (which he blamed Laurence for (which was not completely incorrect)) by suggesting that Tharkay might need to appear in Parliament to offer Temeraire public support.
This explanation brought Laurence no small amount of mirth, as Tharkay had swiftly paled at the thought. In something of a last-ditch effort, a few members had objected to Temeraire’s qualifications to enter the House of Commons, citing his material aid in Laurence’s high treason.
While being a completely valid point, Laurence found this rationale a little late, as Temeraire had put it, “Complete stuff, because you would not put me to trial after we saved all the dragons in Europe, even our friends, only sent me away to Pen Y Fan, because you did not think I mattered then. You cannot try me now, after I helped win the war, and am a hero, just because I matter today and am inconvenient.”
Laurence had hidden his worry; while no politician, he had seen worse results from smaller, pettifogged technicalities, and had not relished the thought of muscling through the simple issue of Temeraire’s confirmation. Fortunately, the zeitgeist of victory, and Temeraire’s own charisma and association with Wellington, had carried the day.
It was slightly harder to explain away the new windows on the house, which were miraculously replaced within the five day span that Tharkay was away on business in Leeds, and Laurence advising new captains at Loch Laggan on African terrain and Chinese customs. In truth, he was a little surprised the Corps would allow him anywhere their aviators, much less admit he was still useful.
“While I do not mean to sound ungrateful, for they are certainly a very lovely addition,” Tharkay had only sounded thoughtful, standing next to a preening Temeraire while staring up at the gleaming side of the manor, “You did not need to do this.”
“Oh, but I did, because I would feel like a complete scrub, if you and Laurence were cold or wet or not properly cared for. I am not going to be at all like other dragons, who only mess about with gold or jewels—which are very nice—but then let their captains get cold or hungry, or do not buy them proper boots.”
Thankfully, all Tharkay had asked, later that evening, was that Laurence prevent the acquisition of bejeweled footwear, by any means necessary.
Laurence agreed easily, sharply aware of how comfortable he was, spending the evening in front of the fire with Tharkay while he perused the newspaper and Laurence worked away at his correspondence. A part of him felt that he should feel guilty at this quiet pleasure, if he only he could summon up the interest to do so.
“I suppose I should no longer be surprised by how quickly the merchants have adapted to creating the most ostentatious of garments,” Laurence said, working out the next few written lines to his mother in his head. “Though I do worry about what they may come up with next; more cloth-of-gold, I expect.”
“No doubt Temeraire will wish to present his captain with so fine a gift, before anyone else. Until you begin to outshine the sun, I suppose I shall not worry.”
“If such events should somehow come to pass,” Laurence tapped his fingers, taking care not to blot the ink, “I think the two may come so close together as to preclude a warning.”
Despite his expectations of an easy retirement, late rising and lazing over his correspondence, Laurence had found his time fully occupied acting as Temeraire’s intermediary and secretary, and started to dabble in cartography, with Tharkay’s assistance.
“After all, if one must traipse about getting lost all over the globe, it behooves one to make something of the experience.”
“If you insist,” Tharkay leaned over his shoulder. “Did you know you have placed Khotan too far north by two degrees?”
Laurence sighed, and reached for his pen, and realized only after Tharkay had left the room that his hand had been on Laurence’s shoulder for an exceptionally long time.
***
One downside to Tharkay’s library was a large inheritance of tomes on English and Scottish law and history; each as dry as death and twice as dull, and Temeraire drank them in during their nightly readings, when he was not arguing with their logic or ridiculing a legal tradition nearly 800 years old.
Laurence could not debate the utility of the knowledge, dull as it was; it did not hurt Temeraire’s chances in the House of Commons to be familiar with English law, but that did not make it any more interesting. Though they had never been very friendly with one another, Laurence wondered what his father would have thought, if he could have seen his runaway sailor son instructing his dragon in law.
Tharkay caught them at it, one evening, with Laurence fair to wilting and Temeraire’s ruff high.
“This is all very interesting,” Tharkay interrupted, “Very impassioned, certainly—but I am not certain you will carry your argument. Have you tried mock debating?”
Assuming a most condescending persona, Tharkay leaned against the nearest pillar, punctuating his quarrel with dismissive sweeps of his hand and one of the thickest, most genteel drawls Laurence had ever heard.
However, it was the hand sweeps that caught his attention, more than Tharkay’s expression or the carefully insouciance; the gesture was not Tharkay’s, and so yet to so obviously natural that Laurence had to wonder where he had learned it, or if there had been a time when Tharkay had truly been this snobbish. “All this noise out of you is quite pointless, as dragons have no need of furthering themselves, if they have men to it for them.”
“Oh, they would say so, as if all dragons had captains who were good, or must be saddled with captains even when they do not want them, at all.”
Few people would ever grin so widely in the face of a heavy-weight’s wrath as Temeraire’s ruff rose high like a fire and his eyes slitted. If his fellow MPs had the slightest bit of sense—and after meeting so many at his mother’s dinner parties, Laurence was not certain that they did—the sight of Temeraire would be sufficient argument. This was fortunate, as Temeraire was not accustomed to being so deliberately provoked.
“But it is for your own benefit, for dragons are simply not intelligent enough, or civilized enough, to make rational decisions; and you all are far too important to simply throw yourselves to the wind, and be allowed to make mistakes. Men have managed you for years without harm, without asking for anything more than your gratitude--”
“Oh! That is very well to say that men ask for nothing, when Government asks for a great deal, and if Napoleon had not offered us our rights first, then Government should have never given them to us, at all.”
“Yes, trust a Frenchman to foul up a good system,” Tharkay waved a hand negligently, “But simply because you have bulled through a single parchment does not mean that any of you have the sense to feed yourselves, alone.”
Temeraire had growled—actually growled, causing a few lose tiles to vibrate minutely on the floor, while Tharkay slouched insolently and provoked him further, a long slow smile reaching all up one side of his face, dark eyes glittering.
They seemed to have both forgotten that Laurence was there.
“This,” Temeraire announced, “is exactly how Lien acts.”
“This,” Tharkay drawled, his voice once again his own and not the heavy aristocratic accent that reminded Laurence so heavily of his father’s political gatherings, “is what you must learn to counter, without threatening to gobble up your opponent. I confess I have rarely seen you so terrifying, but I would not count on this gamble always succeeding. You must focus instead on examples of your commonsense; your friend Perscitia has broken a great deal of ground in that area.”
Tharkay caught Laurence’s eye, and shrugged out of his pompous slouch, returning to the man Laurence was more familiar with, as if just now remembering his audience on Temeraire’s foreleg.
“I fear you missed your calling at the stage,” Laurence added quietly, “I have never seen a more convincing double of Charles Rose.”
“It is easy, for I need only mimic my father’s family.”
Temeraire started at that, and his ruff lowered—he had been incredibly incensed on Tharkay’s behalf, to hear how they had ravaged the house before he and Laurence had moved in—and looked bashful. He leaned down to nose Tharkay, affectionately and with a quiet thank you, and Laurence realized Temeraire would be well loved, if anything should happen to him. In retrospect it seemed obvious, yet he could not deny he felt relieved; Temeraire was unlikely to get a heir from him, anytime soon.
Tharkay had always viewed dragons from novel perspective, often seeming more comfortable in bartering for their aid than that of his fellow humans; certainly preferred them to his fellow Britons. Laurence had not thought to counsel Temeraire on strategy—which he knew a little of, thanks to his family.
“I hope I was not out of line,” Tharkay held the house door open for him, face inscrutable as they had walked the short distance from the pavilion. “He will face worse opposition, and I only meant to offer what experience and advice I can.”
“You are good for him,” Laurence spoke quietly, looking up at him from the step. “You offer him what I cannot.”
Tharkay stood on the stair, looking slightly surprised, lips open. Laurence’s attention caught momentarily on his mouth, and when he glanced back up there was sufficient shock in Tharkay’s eyes to tell him the attention had not gone unnoticed.
Laurence chose an early evening over more conversation; he had been up since before daybreak, nursing a cup of tea while considering where his life was, and where he meant for it to go. He had not considered his future beyond the immediate end of the war for…years. He certainly had never expected to find himself here.
Laurence closed his eyes and put his hand beneath the sheets, and did what he had not done since he was a boy.
***
One of the most reliable consequences of war was a dearth of young men. Laurence had always been vaguely aware of this fact during his time in the Navy, as his mother’s friends would always lament the absence seemingly only in his presence, as if he were solely responsible for the lack of choice prospects for the season.
However, things had indeed come to a pretty pass if a former traitor, transport, and irregular character—as Ning had so succinctly put it—as he was considered a fine catch indeed, if the number of dinner invitations his mother had received on his behalf were any indicator.
“Why they insist on sending them through an intermediary, rather to me direct, I have simply not the foggiest.”
Tharkay nodded in agreement, without lifting his eyes from his book, “The English are inscrutable.”
“Normally I would think it due to avoid any indication of scandal, or to avoid seeming too bold, but…” Lawrence ignored this short slight against his countrymen—and truly, Tharkay could do better--continued over the invitations, with one eyebrow raised. “I believe they already know my history, and very little is left to the imagination on their part.”
“I will inform Temeraire you are need of proper clothes appropriate to your station immediately.”
“You will do no such thing whatsoever,” Laurence tossed the cards on the side table, and took a drink of his scotch instead. “Unless you mean to accompany me? I daresay you would make the far more profitable prospect, and Temeraire could order decent coats for us both.”
Tharkay shot him a bland glance, over his book. It was little wonder Laurence did not catch fire immediately.
“So we match,” Laurence grinned, and offered a brief salute. “I see no reason why I should be the only one looking like a cake, if you are both so eager to find me proper dress.”
Tharkay snorted, lips twisting briefly, before turning his attention back to his book. Laurence stretched his legs to top up his drink again; he had made a point to keep his rooms well stocked, as they seemed to spend most of their evenings there. Tharkay’s room—the master bedroom--was plagued with hidden draughts that they had been able to stop in full.
“It may not be such a bad venture, even so,” Laurence kept his eyes on his glass, not wanting to seem to press too hard. “To meet some other society, our neighbors,” he shrugged; he recognized a fair amount of the family names, but even so eight years abroad had been sufficient time to several new ones to appear; even at the best of times in the Navy, where his schedule had been slightly more regular, he could not claim a close familiarity with anyone not in the service.
“This would be the society that demanded you hanged, yes?” Tharkay asked laconically, seemingly wholly engrossed in his pages. “And the one that has yet to reconcile that an English gentleman and landowner may in fact also be a foreigner? Yes, such a venture definitely has a distinct appeal.”
“The very people we share this country with, and the people who are most unlikely to change their opinions in a void,” Laurence held back a sigh; this argument was hardly a new one between them. “You cannot expect much change by constantly holding yourself apart.”
“Not that I am insensitive to your intentions,” and that was a clear indicator of pressing his host too far, when Tharkay spoke with such a dispassionate drawing room drawl, “But has it ever occurred to you that perhaps I intend to remain a bachelor? The life of bucolic domesticity is not the dream of every man.”
Yes, he was not imagining the barely-there pique, and that was his clearly his indication to stop.
“And in any case, I rather doubt that either of us could find some woman willing to join a household with a dragon, even if he is involved with Government.”
“I am not so certain of that,” Laurence was grateful to swing out for a new topic. “If nothing else, the war proved that people can quickly adapt to having the beasts in far closer proximity than was previously believed; especially if it saves money and time. In any case I believe Temeraire’s annual income rather exceeds my own, at the moment. And proximity will breed familiarity.”
“Which in turn shall breed contempt.” Laurence took a studied sip of his drink; he was accustomed enough to Tharkay’s occasional black humor and moods, but it still took some practice to navigate them correctly, without backing down or giving undue offense.
However, Tharkay continued on with genuine curiosity, even if he did not deign to glance away from his novel that he was no longer reading. “I did not know you were still interested in being married. I assume you are also looking to purchase an estate, sometime in the near future.”
“I do not have the funds required for such plans, at the moment,” Laurence tactfully neglected to add that he had made some casual inquiries. Hopefully Tharkay’s solicitor had not been in touch.
“But Temeraire does, or will,” finally Tharkay glanced up at him. “If he knows this is something you desire, I imagine you shall find yourself so settled within a six-month. Perhaps sooner.”
That…was not an inaccurate estimation; it did not do to underestimate Temeraire’s ability to act, once something had grabbed his attention. Laurence twitched his lips up, and made a point to meet Tharkay’s eyes. Despite the speed of his speech, his face was again impassive, inscrutable.
Laurence sighed, and kicked his leg idly as he glanced into the fire instead.
“I…do not know. I did.” Long and richly detailed fantasies of what his life after the Navy would be, after the war, with his house, fields, and his wife. All the necessary props in their proper place to fulfill the story, and now only Laurence himself was the part that did not match the dream.
“I am not quite the man I hoped I would be, and am no longer sure that life would suit. I am not…entirely sure where my life leads me. By Temeraire’s side, I suppose. Perhaps China. Or even Australia again.”
“While I do not mean in the least to tell you your business,” Tharkay had never had any problem doing such a thing for anyone, much less Laurence, “I think you may find some difficulty in managing an estate and marriage from a different hemisphere. You can have your home, or you can have your freedom; you cannot have both.”
Now that gave Laurence pause; Tharkay’s blank expression gave no indication of his feelings on the matter, but the challenge had been clear in his voice. He had always been so protective of his own freedom, before choosing—before finally being able to resettle his father’s estate. That was another matter Laurence was desperately curious to unravel.
“Perhaps,” Laurence toyed with his glass. “But I do not mean to be an obstacle to you achieving your own marital ambitions; it was not my intention that Temeraire and I be inconvenient houseguests permanently. As you say, not every woman will tolerate a dragon on her doorstep, but I think far fewer would be amenable to another man in the household.”
Tharkay stared at him, and Laurence fancied he could hear the opening quips and careless reassurances lighting through that carefully bland countenance. While this conversation had a little too much of the flavor of pretense to it, Laurence could not have envisioned another way to broach a subject that required such delicate handling.
“I have no intentions to marry,” Tharkay kept his tone concise. “Neither of you are inconvenient; this place is yours, as long as you will it.”
Tharkay stood suddenly, the book folded on the sofa’s arm.
“I beg your pardon, I have an early day tomorrow, and have tarried far too long already.”
“Tenzing—”
But Tharkay did not slow or turn around, and so Laurence followed him to the hallway. When he did turn, his shoulders were stiff, his face unchanged. “Is something the matter?”
“I would not impose on friendship to such a degree, without justification.”
Tharkay thinned his lips, and then smirked, deflecting, “And I say again, think no more on it—”
Damning himself for own impudence—while simultaneously damning himself for having left this sorry state of affairs for this long, Laurence slid a palm against his cheek. Tharkay froze.
Laurence was being incredibly inappropriate, but it was clear that Tharkay had no intention of addressing the elephant in the room, and Laurence lacked the vocabulary to broach the subject without consuming his host’s patience or—far more likely—being diverted again. Tharkay’s short-cut hair brushed over his fingertips, stubble warm under his palm, and pulse fluttered at his throat.
“Will?” His voice was steady, casual, even if his pupils were blown. “What are you doing?”
Something exceedingly tactless, was at the forefront of his mind even as the heat rose up his neck and to his cheeks, but Lawrence answered instead, voice far rougher than he’d hoped, “Considering my future.”
Tharkay started slightly, repressing the twitch as quickly as it risen, so there was only the briefest movement around his eyes.
Leaning over to kiss him was harder than Laurence had hoped it would have been—Tharkay seemed to have stopped breathing. He smelled pleasantly of leather, and felt rough under his lips. Laurence broke away gently, hiding a wince at the obscene wet sound they made, as chaste as the contact had been.
Tharkay had closed his eyes, and seemed to have difficulty keeping them open. “If this is pity, or some flavor of friendship—”
“Oh for God’s sake—”
This time Tharkay went limp in his arms as he was clutched tighter, and moaned, low in his throat. It felt a little strange, not needing to bend so far to reach, to be gripped back painfully hard, to feel the sudden heat bloom in his chest from nothing more than a few chaste, hard kisses against this man, as rough and dry as his lips were.
Nevertheless, Tharkay pushed him away slightly; without his realizing it, they had pushed up tight against the wall. “Are you certain, that this—
“Yes,” Laurence took a moment to drink in the bared emotions, for once not hidden or masked or even vaguely sardonic. When he kissed Tharkay gently, carefully, and shivered at the hands sliding over his lower back, his neck to keep him firm.
***
It was during boarding school that Tharkay was made aware of how much the circumstances of his birth would hinder his prospects, by his fellow classmates and tutors; how much the color of his skin and his Oriental features would depreciate his academic achievements, his cunning and skill, for no obvious reason than this was how things were done, in England.
The typical response, of course, would be to be bitter, sour; Tharkay was vaguely aware of his resentment, on an academic level, but instead preferred to withdraw from society, from people, and—after his father’s death, and his own unofficial and tenuous disinheritance—from England entire.
The world was too large, too tempting, to stay focused on something so small; and Tharkay had never truly craved company, or human touch—he could tell himself that, in a qualified sort honesty--save in a happily few aching moments that lingered over years and miles.
On the whole he considered his life, while hardly fortunate, on balance, no worse than he could stand.
A small hand knocking on the bedroom door woke him, setting his heart racing; one of Temeraire’s servants, likely. At the least he had had the presence of mind to lock the door last night, and the knocking went away shortly.
His hand was half-curled over Laurence’s chest, pale and gently scarred from a life of war and hard travelling, and Tharkay could feel his slow heartbeat, through his fingertips. Laurence slept his head tilted at an angle, so Tharkay could not make out his face save the hard outline of his jaw; his hair was a blond mess on the pillows, and Tharkay was distantly aware that the rank smell of sweat and sex was entrenched on their skin; they had not bothered to bathe, or rise, afterwards.
The only question now, of course, was how to persuade Laurence to stay in the home.
If Laurence instantly regretted the coupling, then it would be best if Tharkay would leave—Temeraire would anchor Laurence well enough, and at least Tharkay would know where to find him. If he did not immediately regret it, Laurence was far too honorable, too innocent, to maintain such a deceit for long—
Tharkay closed his eyes, and tried to press everything into memory; the smell, the cotton sheets, the ache near his elbow where Laurence had bruised him, the heat and texture of the body he was nearly draped over. It was late morning, likely near to noon, the sun high against the window sash, and the morning birds silent.
He had never craved company, had never wanted to belong, anywhere, to be attached to anything, and now he could not picture his life alone, without this man, anymore. It used to be simple—never comfortable, never easy, but possible, and now it was not. He could not run or plot or fight his way out, this time.
When Laurence woke, with a faint grunt, low in his chest, his heartbeat sped up considerably under Tharkay’s fingers, as did his breathing, as he took in his surroundings.
“I will not mention this again,” Tharkay did not open his eyes, but waited until Laurence’s breathing had slowed, “If you wish it.”
For a while—an excruciating long while, it seemed to him—Laurence did not answer. When he did, it was only to press Tharkay’s hand further against his chest and lean over on his elbow to kiss him, gently. His breath was sour with the morning, and his stubble rasped; Tharkay leaned up, and tried to force the moment to last as long as he could—
“Laurence?” claws gently scratched at the second-story window, likely scoring the paint outside, Temeraire’s resonant voice easily penetrating the walls. “Are you well? You are late for breakfast, and Charlotte says she cannot find you—”
The bed bounced as Laurence leapt, nearly darting out the window before he remembered his state of undress and leaned back inside, murmuring quiet apologies and reassurances with barely a stammer.
“Laurence you are not—are you not cold? Why—”
While Tharkay could not see Temeraire from the spot, he did could see a quick flicker of black tongue as the dragon scented the air by the open window, and Laurence flushed a bright red along his cheeks which spread down his neck. “Oh. Well. Congratulations, Laurence. Will you be down soon? The porridge has gone a little sticky, but I think Charlotte might warm it up, if you will come down soon.”
“Yes my dear, of course, we will be down very soon—”
Tharkay waited, silent, until Laurence had closed the window, bare skin nicely pimpled from the cold air, and replaced the sash. Laurence was still a bright red color when he turned back to bed.
“You have been planning this?”
Gratifyingly—perfectly, there could be nothing more perfect—Laurence turned a deeper shade of red, bare and naked for Tharkay to enjoy, and looked a little sheepish. He coughed, his voice husky, “We really ought to get dressed, for he will not leave the window until we are down.”
***
There were certain aspects of their new relationship—certain, rather obvious aspects—that made Laurence uneasy.
He was unfortunately aware that Tharkay was quite likely mindful of his reservations, for Tharkay rarely pressed for affection, and even then only when they were quite alone, outside of a casual, lingering touch on his arm or shoulder, the kind of gesture any man might show a close friend without fear of it being misconstrued.
If they kissed, Laurence had to initiate to moment, carefully restricted from the evenings to early mornings, where their hands might wander without needing comment or explanation—and Tharkay could demonstrate how very skilled he was with his hands. For nearly a month, he only used his hands to make Laurence writhe and buck and moan, and never asked for similar treatment, though he seemed wonderfully responsive under Laurence’s rather awkward, clumsy caresses.
Nevertheless, it was not something Laurence felt capable of speaking of, now that the affair was in motion, and Tharkay’s sole unsolicited contribution had been to keep a bottle of oil on his nightstand.
Laurence—unthinking, still rather rumpled in the morning—had asked about it. Tharkay had given him a slow glance, bruises ringing his collarbone and neck from their night before, and said it helped warm the nerves in his hands.
Laurence had nodded; it seemed reasonable, though he was sorry Tharkay’s hands were giving him trouble, and continued dressing, helping Tharkay with his cravat. Tharkay had some mysterious business in Edinburgh, that day, and was sharply dressed.
It was not until mid-way his flight to London, apropos of nothing more than the gray clouds against the open blue sky, that Laurence thought about the careful way Tharkay had said it, the fact that Laurence had never noticed Tharkay using the oil so, and then cursed himself for a fool even while he had turned such a violent red that Temeraire had offered to put down at once.
Laurence did not address the bottle again, which did not move, and Tharkay said absolutely nothing.
***
This was not to imply that Laurence was entirely comfortable the new arrangements; addressing it with Tharkay proved easier than he expected.
“I fear it may be an indelicate subject.”
“I am not letting you out of bed, if you mean to entertain indelicate thoughts.”
“I am not an invert,” Laurence stared at the ceiling, which was in need of a good dash of paint. It was nearing dawn, and Tharkay had woken him with a gentle caress along his ribs, over the scars, and one thing had naturally led to the other.
“Then…was that a new form of exercise, recently featured in some circular that does not get as far as me? I would have proposed exercise far sooner, if I had known.”
Laurence sighed heavily, not bothering to conceal it; some things would likely never change, and Tharkay’s habit of mild mocking and impudence caused more affection than rancor, nowadays. Had for some time.
“I have spent nearly two decades in His Majesty’s Navy, and all of my teenage years, during which, I have on good authority, that I was no particularly uncomely.”
“Do you realize you break sentences more, when you are uncomfortable?”
“If I had the least inclination, or even penchant, I would have known then. Yet I am completely comfortable now. Completely…satisfied.” Tharkay snorted at that, genteelly, before curling himself around Laurence more, smugness radiating off him.
“Why did you take the impetus at all, if you were not certain you would enjoy the result?”
“To fail to even make the attempt would be far more cowardly, to lose a chance through inaction—I do not know how I could have faced you. I was only uncertain of my welcome.”
“That sounds more like Will Laurence,” the smile was clear in Tenzing’s voice, accompanied by a little light mocking.
“I also realize I…am not quite the person I was, all those years ago. If I was capable of a little change, for so great a reward, I had to try.”
Tharkay did not answer him immediately on that score; there was a gentle press of lips against his neck and jaw, unhurried and luxuriant. Laurence felt himself relaxing, far easier than he would have expected himself to calm after what should have been a rather shocking and disturbing confession.
Naturally, Tharkay did not let him settle off gently back to sleep, or continue his gentle caresses. “Roland told me she seduced you.”
Laurence’s eyes shot back open, but Tharkay continued on, unmindful to any distress he was causing; or, very possibly, enjoying it.
“I meant to refuse my commission, after they condemned you, and instead work on a more flexible basis. At least until I knew where they had concealed you.”
Laurence huffed, and allowed his fingers to continue their idle tracery on Tharkay’s arm, thrown over his chest.
“I was about to leave with no little drama,” Laurence had known those moments had been intentional, when Tharkay caused a ruckus in the room before leaving his company, “When Roland stated that if she had not taken the initiative to pull you to her bed, your relationship would have stalled at platonic. She did not give me any lurid details; you may rest easy there, but I think she meant it as advice. We had not exchanged a word of you prior to that moment.”
“Everyone seemed to know I fought for you, save you, and I did not want to endanger what friendship we had,” Tharkay was close to whispering, as if he still intended to keep some of his secrets. “I never thought anything carnal would cross your mind…and I tend towards caution, in some matters. To my detriment.”
I could have had you in my bed far sooner, Tharkay did not say the words, but Laurence heard them. There was a small bit of regret there, for lack of nerve, for what may have been had earlier, with less time wasted.
“Caution served you well,” Laurence tried to take some of the sting out of the words. “I cannot guarantee what your welcome may have been, before now, and you were no less dear then.” Tharkay made a noncommittal sound, towards the back of his throat.
For nearly five years, Laurence had neither the time nor inclination to seek out a woman’s touch, however brief or available. The part of him that desired any such thing had gone silent, still, beneath pain and grief; his own disillusionment with his country and—harder, it was so much harder--with himself.
He could not picture the man he had been, all those years ago, still surviving to this day, could not picture the circumstances of his life or his associates. Laurence was well off the map now, and could only judge his course by his instincts.
“As we are both being honest, I am curious,” Tharaky’s tone turned idle, carefully careless, “What was the stimulant that made you want to gamble on me, if you are unaccustomed to looking for…indelicate company?”
“Other than realizing you intended a permanent home with my dragon and I, exclusive to all others?” That you very possibly intended to gift your estate, your inheritance, every tangible object possible save the truth, if I had allowed it.
“Yes, after that,” the smile was evident in Tharkay’s voice, still pressed against Laurence’s shoulder.
The sky was starting to lighten, and he could hear distant birds. Laurence considered his chances of avoiding what was certainly to be a somewhat vulnerable conversation, and decided he was the last person in the household who deserved to hide something Tharkay wanted.
“In Australia, the last morning by the lakeside. You had your shirt off to bathe, before the heat came upon us. I just…noticed.”
Laurence stopped, remembering the near constant dizziness from hunger and ceaseless heat of the day and long weeks of dehydration. It was not the first time he had seen Tharkay undress, nor the last, but it was one of the few times in those five years that he had looked at another human being in appreciation; noticed his skin and strength, and marveled academically at his elegance.
The image would haunt him, occasionally, until he could no longer persuade himself that his appreciation was purely academic.
“Noticed…?”
Laurence huffed to himself, wryly amused at this blatant attempt of soliciting compliments; it was easy enough to turn them both, to loom over Tharkay’s slimmer figure and take his mouth as easily as breathing. Tharkay’s hands slid easily over his spine, over his shoulder blades.
“Your shoulders are very broad.”
His mouth no longer felt so strange under Laurence’s, though it was still rough, dry, and still strangely eager; Jane had on occasion been forceful, but that did not seem to fully describe the sheer degree of hunger that Tharkay’s touch and kiss always held.
The body beneath him arched eagerly into his hands as Laurence felt his ribs, enjoyed the vulnerable skin on his stomach. Touching him...vigorously was still new, strange, to feel the familiar skin and heat under his hand from the wrong angle, but Tharkay always responded favorably, tipped his head and exposed neck and collarbone, gasping when Laurence’s teeth made themselves known against the soft places around his collar. As Laurence still felt clumsy and unpolished in this, any encouragement was noted and welcomed.
Tharkay was surprisingly quiet, surprisingly complacent with the pace Laurence chose and how hard of a grip, so Laurence was inappropriately proud with the startled sound of pleasure coming from depth of Tharkay’s throat, before he lay gasping and limp. It was easy enough then to indulge himself in the softer, more exploratory touches, enjoying the strength under his hands and the gentle twitch that sometimes came from nipping his chest, his nipples.
***
He should have been long past the point of being surprised by any of Tharkay’s unstated skills; the man had had a classical education, spoke some Latin, rode a horse like a lord, and—on one memorable occasion—cooked them both a dinner worthy of a French chef.
That said, Tharkay showed a remarkable aptitude for swallowing him down his throat, past the point Lawrence thought possible, if he had been capable of thinking at all. It was more his gentlemanly manners, hammered into his bones, that kept him from thrusting against Tharkay’s mouth, his face, as the other man rose away with a wet, squelching sound that made the blood rush anew against Lawrence’s face.
The tricky part, Laurence was learning, as teeth nibbled his inner thighs—he could not repress the twitching, the shivers—and as his erection was ignored, was not make any sound.
The more sound he made, the more likely it was Tharkay would stop, bringing Laurence fresh to his senses just in time to hear his own voice, broken and raw, begging and wanton. The mortification that came from hearing himself thus, and finding his knuckles clenched deep in the sheets—or, worse, Tharkay’s shoulder, deep enough to leave bruises, or his hair, scandalously indecent—would then cause him to curse, or swear, and—far, far worse—plead for some mercy, while Tharkay relentlessly kissed his stomach and pinched his nipples to hear him hiss.
Occasionally Laurence would find himself kissed hard enough, thoroughly enough, to leave him breathless and quite forget why he had been so piqued, as Tharkay’s weight bore him into the bed.
On this occasion, however, Tharkay’s lips and tongue were burning far too high on his thighs, pressing his leg up and away, to bare him further to the air. Later on, Laurence was quite sure, there would be fingerprints on his hips, and his buttocks, from all the rough handling.
“Permission to approach,” Tharkay could have well been speaking Greek at that point, hurried and breathy, and Laurence in no mind to entertain conversation.
“Now, yes, damn you—”
“Laurence,” Tharkay, on occasion, could also drop his voice into the lordly command-tone that had ordered and harried Laurence all throughout his ensign and midshipman days, and cause a cold start and shivers anew down his body that was already very near its capabilities. “Do I have your permission?”
“Yes,” Laurence pushed the hair out of his face, unable to keep his own voice steady. “You do, of course, whatever—”
--Fingers were slipped into his mouth, gently, unexpectedly, though Laurence took no little pride in the small shivers as he sucked and licked, and noted Tharkay’s eyes cloudy and desperate, while he bit his lip when Laurence kept his gaze steady and swallowed, because he would do more, was willing, if so approached—
--And then his knee was pushed further over Tharkay’s shoulder, obscenely, while Tharkay’s mouth—thank God, thank God—returned to his cock to lick and nibble, and dip his tongue into the slit—
“--God’s damned Christ yes—”
--While Tharkay’s fingers rubbed against his balls and further back, circled his hole with so little pressure that Laurence did not really notice until the knuckle was inside; not unpleasant, but still strange, though they had done this much before with two fingers inside him, with pleasantly spine-shaking results, and then hurriedly pushed further in before he was ready and—
--Tharkay swallowed around him again, close enough that it would not matter what he did to him, except then Tharkay pulled away too soon, again—Tharkay had learned the currents and seasons of Laurence’s body far too soon, and Laurence bucked helplessly, horrifically needy—
“Tenzing, damn you—”
--And that was two fingers, inside him, tighter now but without the pain he had been expecting, braced for, and Tharkay was staring at him, and twisting his fingers--
His back arched off the bed and his hips pumped, shuddered, and Laurence did not realize how hard he had thrown his head back until he felt a twinge along the side of his neck, from the sudden violent movement. He would feel that pain, later on in the day.
Tharkay twisted his fingers again, pushing, and Laurence bit down on his lip, keeping the whine in his throat even if he could not keep his hips from thrusting, or stop his heel from digging into Tharkay’s back and the bed while he sought greater purchase.
Tharkay could finish him like this; had done it before, with only his fingers inside him and his teeth on Laurence’s collarbone, while Laurence moaned and screamed into his fist, shocked and surprised by how hard the wave had taken him. He had not known, had not suspected it in the least how it might feel, and Tharkay lapped up his pleasure and shock while Laurence lay gasping.
Laurence dragged in a breath, “You use oil for this. For the rest.”
Tharkay looked doubtful, “Will, I don’t think—”
“Get the damn oil,” Laurence flinched inwardly at the savagery in his voice, the hunger, because they had been dancing around this point for so long that he did not think he could stand further prevarication. He tried for a softer tone, and wound up growling, “Tenzing, please.”
Tharkay stared at him for a few moments, and then the fingers slipped out—slightly uncomfortable, but in his haste Tharkay did not seem to notice his flinch—and his heat gone, but swiftly returned, hands slick and burning hot against his hips, his stomach, and when Tharkay did slip in one finger again, then two, it felt better than it had the first time, smoother and hotter, and there had no need to pretend that the sensation caused no pain, not when his hips were snapping and bucking, and his spine felt like melting.
Laurence did his best to bite down the rest of his moans, his sighs, but it was difficult with Tharkay staring at him as if he meant to devour him whole, like a predator poised to lunge.
“It will be easier,” Tharkay managed, brokenly, damp, “on your knees. If you—if you would—”
Laurence turned over, feeling the ache from his cock to his scalp, and back down to that place that Tharkay had been exploiting so thoroughly, between his legs, and spread his knees and arched his spine, ignored the mortified thrill in his veins, and did not wonder if this was how the Whitechapel women felt, hot and needy and so close but for a touch—
--Ignoring the gasp behind him, likely startled by how wanton and eager he was acting—
--And then Tharkay’s hand was on his hip, trying for a casual stroke along his spine with the palm of his hand, trying for a gentle grip on his hip, and Laurence gasped when he pushed in, deeper and faster than he had been prepared for, thicker, but he still so close—
And, unsurprisingly, so was Tharkay, who must have tried for a slower pace, a sweeter touch, but only managed a few gentle strokes with his cock before thrusting in deep, the sweat dripping down Laurence’s back and the sound balls slapping against his buttocks heavy and obscene in his ears and—
He was biting his arm to keep the moans in, his teeth close to breaking the skin, the high pleadings and grunts running about his throat as his body sang—
Despite the buildup and his better intentions, it was over ridiculously quick, Tharkay’s hand, still slick with oil, wrapping around to grip his cock tightly while he pounded him from behind and Laurence embarrassed himself all over the sheets, wracked with shivers in the aftermath as his orgasm seemed to go deeper, and longer, and Tharkay swiveled his hips to come at him at just the right angle.
There were a few broken curses, mindless endearments thrown at his back, an odd mix of English and Chinese and a language Laurence did not recognize, not that he was any state fit to understand his mother tongue, at the moment.
Laurence collapsed where he had been kneeling, ignoring the damp mess under his stomach, and Tharkay had managed to fall next to him, and then gently on to his back.
“Dear god,” Laurence murmured, several minutes later. He had wondered why the act—which he had thought surely must be rather painful, if not so galling and shameful—was so popular among his fellow seamen.
“Yes,” Tharkay agreed, still breathless.
Laurence did not think he would walk for a week.
***