satai

I forgot that I can use this account for posting completed works, not just WIPs! What a concept. This is my assignment for Candy Hearts Exchange 2023, and it was a hell of a lot of fun to write. I have some backstory for Thom and Rob's relationship that ended up on the cutting room floor, so that might end up becoming a second fic at some point in the future.

Can be read on AO3.

“No, thank you.”

“Oh, come on, Thom, you must go out with me tonight. We’ll take a light supper somewhere or other and then go on to the Quail Club, it shall be great fun.” The speaker of this second sentiment, Robert Mount, had such an imploring look on his face that one might more rightly expect it from someone asking to borrow money, rather than requesting the pleasure of a friend’s company.

“How many times must I tell you, Rob, that I do not like the Quail as you do?” said Thomas Bridgetower, the beseeched, with the air of someone reciting a well-memorized line. “They talk endlessly of hunting and women - in terms far too similar for my liking -, I don’t care to gamble, and you know very well that all of the cigar smoke makes my throat burn.”

“You never complain when I smoke.”

“I do so complain, you’ve simply learned to ignore me.”

“So I have,” said Rob with a smile, leaning and putting out his cigar in the porcelain ashtray on the tea table in front of him. “And anyway, there are people there, Thom, real people! Not just lines on a page.” He leaned forward and poked the book in Thom’s lap for emphasis. “What are you reading today, anyhow?”

“Catullus,” said Thom without looking up from his page. When Rob didn’t respond, he briefly looked up and clarified: “Poetry.”

Rob waved his hand dismissively. “You and your Grecians. And your poetry. Why don’t you try something livelier, perhaps even from this century?”

Thom placidly turned another page. “Classics enrich the soul. And I’ll have you know that Catullus can be quite stimulating.” He regretted this turn of phrase immediately, as Rob got a sly look on his face with which he was all too familiar.

“Stimulating, you say?” said Rob, too-innocent. “Perhaps I should give it a fair shake after all. I should be quite interested to learn what has you so engrossed…” He leapt out of his chair in a bolt and reached for Thom, as if to tear the book from his hands.

“ Rob! ” Thom yelped, his voice higher pitched than he had intended, clutching the book to his chest. While not exactly as invigorating Rob was pretending to assume, some of the verses in this particular volume would certainly have invited much deeper questioning than Thom was prepared for. This elicited a bark of laughter from Rob, who pulled back and held up his hands in a placating gesture.

“All right, all right. I know how protective you are of your books.”

Thom felt his face contort into a sour expression he knew was unattractive. He hated being teased, and Rob, as dear a friend he was, sometimes reminded him too much of the older boys at school, who had frequently mocked his bookishness and who had, on more than one occasion, “accidentally” knocked a beloved volume into the mud. “I hardly think it unreasonable that I make an effort to keep my belongings in good condition.”

Rob’s face became serious again. “You’re right. I was only fooling about – but I know you don’t like it when I do that, and I shouldn’t. I’m sorry.” His dark eyes shone with sincerity.

Thom sighed, his flash of anger gone as soon as it had arrived. “Oh, never mind it.” Rob smiled again, and it was as if a small sunbeam had burst into the room. Rob had a way of doing that - of lighting a place up just by being there, of making you feel special just being near him.

He gave a quick, tidy half-bow. “You are a true gentleman, Mr. Bridgetower, and I thank you for it.” At this excess, Thom rolled his eyes.

“No need to lay it on quite so thick, I think.”

Rob laughed, but when he spoke again, his voice had softened. “You know, I… I should really like you to come out with me sometime, Thom. I know you aren’t fond of the smoking and the drinking and the– the men’s talk, but your presence elevates the room. People ask after you when you aren’t around, you know.”

Thom could feel his ears getting hot. “They do not.”

“Ainsley does –”

“Ainsley hates me.”

“– and so does, erm, Montmorency, and Sam Bellwether once.”

Finding this latest indignity altogether too much, Thom finally put his book to the side altogether. “You’re a dirty liar, Robert Mount. I myself heard Sam Bellwether say that he found me a dreadful bore.” Even the recollection of this phrase, overheard months ago from someone he didn’t care a whit about, brought an unwelcome flush to the back of his neck. It had stung to feel again, as he so often did while trying to fit into “men’s society”, like the nervous little schoolboy standing around in the shadow of those who were more interesting, and better-liked, and whose noses weren’t always stuck in some book or other.

Rob had the decency to look abashed. “Yes, well, perhaps it wasn’t Sam Bellwether, but… well, is it so wrong for me to miss you when you aren’t around? Is it so wrong that I should like to more often enjoy the company of my own dear friend?” He said the last all in a rush and without quite looking Thom in the eye.

Rob was rarely one for such sincere attestation of feelings, tending more towards the jocular or anything that could be said whilst patting one’s companion on the back in a show of masculine camaraderie. This proclamation was enough to spread Thom’s flush all the way across his face.

“I…” Thom started, then stopped, overcome with feeling.

The sort of feeling which Thom had spent a great deal of time tamping down.

Damn it all.

“Is Lady Charrington still hosting a ball this Friday evening?”

Rob’s face alit with delight. “She most certainly is, my dear Thom!” (Thom felt a twinge in his chest at that particular appellation.) “And I spotted your invitation on the stand as I came in, so I know you have a place on the guest list. Not that I had any doubt on that matter.”

“Ah, the very spirit of discretion, as always, sir.”

Rob pretended to splutter in outrage. “I merely recognized Lady Charrington’s very distinctive powder-blue envelope and made the connection with her upcoming soirée! It’s not as though I opened it.”

“Oh, of course not. Only the one time…”

“You can't keep bringing that up, Thom…”

As they settled back into their customary banter, Thom smiled to himself. He had never been one for balls, but Rob was always good company, and a marvel to behold on the dance floor. (A tiny part of himself wondered, for a shining moment, what it might be like to dance with Rob himself.)

You’ll dine well, in a few days, with me,
if the gods are kind to you, my dear Fabullus,
and if you bring lots of good food with you,
and don’t come without a pretty girl
and wine and wit and all your laughter.
I say you’ll dine well, and charmingly,
if you bring all that: since your Catullus’s
purse alas is full of cobwebs.
But accept endearments in return for the wine
or whatever’s sweeter and finer:
since I’ll give you a perfume my girl
was given by the Loves and Cupids,
and when you’ve smelt it, you’ll ask the gods
to make you, Fabullus, all nose.

- Catullus 13. Invitation: to Fabullus

As much as Thom hated to admit it, he was beginning to think that Rob had a point about getting out more often. If he was more accustomed to socializing, he might not be so utterly exhausted only halfway into the evening.

He had borne the days until the ball with a mixture of dread and anticipation. The evening of the event, he massaged sweet-smelling oil into his black curls until they shone, stood barefoot in shirtsleeves debating between two nearly identical waistcoats for an inordinate amount of time, and panicked when he realized that his best jacket had lost a button. He gave silent thanks to his mother, who had been a seamstress, as he sewed in a replacement.

Rob arrived with unexpected punctuality, looking as irritatingly handsome as he always did. His waves of thick, dark hair looked just this side of unruly, yet still seemed to do just as Rob wanted; his long, hawkish nose was something most people considered an unfortunate distraction from his good looks, but Thom privately thought it gave him an air of drama. Thom had never been particularly despairing about his own appearance - he was tall, his brown skin gleamed like polished sard, and even as children his sisters had loudly bemoaned his long lashes - but standing next to Rob made it difficult not to feel that the shine had gone from one’s buckles, so to speak.

Neither of them was hungry enough to take supper, so they set off to Lady Charrington’s estates. They talked the whole way, and Thom’s stomach had nearly settled by the time they arrived at the gates, at which point his nerves returned and put his whole body in knots. Rob seemed to realize this and turned to him before they entered.

“We don’t have to go, you know. Not if you don’t want to.”

“She’s expecting us, we can hardly back out now,” said Thom gloomily, “and I suppose I should try to be seen in society now and again.”

Rob smiled encouragingly. “Let’s show them all that you haven’t turned to dust in your library, shall we?”

The ballroom was, as expected, exquisitely decorated. Lady Charrington was nothing if not known for her spectacular fêtes, whether or not there was an occasion to be marked; in fact, Rob and Thom’s first meeting had been at a ball she had thrown for her pet pug Cuthbert’s birthday. Every flat surface was overflowing with grand bursts of fresh-cut roses in soft shades of pink and white, vases barely visible underneath the weight of the blossoms. Well-dressed men and women moved around the marble dance floor in swirls of color, powder blue and daffodil yellow mixed with stark blacks and whites. Thom spent an embarrassingly long moment gawking like a country bumpkin at the chandelier, dripping with what looked like thousands of tear-shaped crystals that threw rainbows of light all around the room. He bobbed his head along with Rob as they greeted Lady Charrington, who barely turned away from her lady companion to acknowledge them in return. (“Not so bad, was it?” whispered Rob slyly as they walked away. Thom refused to answer him.)

He was known to be a wall-prop and thus had less expected of him at events, but Thom still gamely asked Miss Lucy Radcliff for a dance and was graciously accepted, if not eagerly. He made adequate conversation as they danced and remembered enough of the steps to avoid making a total fool of himself, and at the end Miss Radcliff smiled politely and thanked him, which was more than he could say of his partner the last time he had danced the quadrille. Rob had been dancing just across from him, and had winked cheekily at him whenever they crossed each other, weaving the distinctive pattern of the quadrille together across the dance floor. After taking a reprieve (and a drink to further steady his nerves), he saw Lady Mary Baxter, who was the sister of one of his kinder schoolmates, and began to dance with her as well. These successes had Thom feeling flush with triumph, and as he made the demi-contretemp , he instinctively looked for Rob - for validation, perhaps, of his progress, or recognition at the least. Perhaps he was beginning to like balls a bit after all.

Strangely, Rob was not on the dance floor, but standing along the side, near a window. In fact, aside from the first dance they had both shared, Thom didn’t think he had seen Rob dancing with anyone all evening. He finished out the dance, bid his farewell to the young Lady Baxter, and made his way over to Rob, flushed and smiling.

“Look at that! I suppose I’m not so bad after all. Your advice helped - I haven’t stepped on any toes all evening.”

Rob tried to return his smile, but it was clearly an artificial one. Thom pressed on. “Whose cards have you made your way onto tonight?”

“Nobody,” muttered Rob moodily.

“I suppose you’ve got to be more careful about these sorts of things than I do. If you don’t keep track of everyone you’ve been dancing with, you might double up and finally get caught in a courtship.”

Rob’s face got even darker. “Hardly.”

“Oh, come off it, every unmarried woman in the ton wants you to take her to wife, and every married woman wants you to father her grandchildren. Most of these ladies are keeping their cards open in the hopes that you ask them to the floor. If you had a dance card and not the other way around, you’d be booked through June.”

“I don’t want to dance with any of them.”

Thom blinked. “Rob, if this is your idea of going out dancing I’m not sure you have the altogether right idea about what it entails. Namely, dancing.”

Instead of answering, Rob steered him around the edge of the dance floor in the direction of the glass double doors, which led outside to the veranda and several long tables heaped with refreshments. As the doors closed, Thom relished the newfound silence, almost shocking after the bustle of the ballroom. He waited until they had both picked up a glass of brandy and took a hearty sip before speaking again.

“If you don’t dance with someone soon, I’m afraid there’s going to be a brawl.”

“Hah!” barked Rob. He took a swig, seemed to contemplate for a moment, and then threw back his head and drank the rest of the glass. He then poured another and repeated this motion. Thom was more than a little startled, but pressed on.

“What about the eldest Miss Hampton? I seem to recall you getting on rather well with her at a point in the past.”

Rob shook his head. “She thought we were… rather closer than I had intended. I didn’t want to lead her on.”

“Well, er, how about…” Thom cast his mind about, trying to think up some young women whose mothers weren’t vying for his friend’s hand in marriage.

“I told you, I don’t want to dance with any of them,” Rob erupted. His face was flushed - whether from the brandy or from feeling, Thom didn’t know. This was a side of Rob that Thom had never seen, and it was making him increasingly uneasy.

“Well, then why did you ask me to come?” Thom said, a little too loudly. “If you don’t want to dance, why did we bother at all? Why didn’t you just leave me alone?” He regretted this as soon as it left his mouth.

He had very little time to regret his statement, however, because quick as a flash, Rob reached out and grabbed him by the shoulder, dragging him down the steps of the veranda and into the garden despite his sputtered protests. Once they were hidden from the view of the partygoers still inside the ballroom, surrounded by elegant shrubbery, Rob turned to face him, swaying slightly. The look on his face was something Thom had never seen before. The warm light pouring out of the ballroom and spilling through the hedge behind him cast him in a chiaroscuro, leaving Thom’s throat tight at the sight of him. He had the tremendous feeling of standing at the edge of a precipice.

“Thom,” said Rob, with a tremble in his voice - but that was impossible, Rob’s voice never trembled, he was always confident, never afraid to say what he was thinking - “I don’t want to dance with them .”

Thom went to speak and found he couldn’t. He opened and closed his mouth, gaping like a fish.

Rob’s eyes were impossibly big and dark. “Good God, you have no idea what you do to me, do you?” His voice was labored, almost in pain. “I try, I try so hard, but Thom…!”

He cut himself off with an agonized sound, and without warning, Thom found Rob’s lips pressed to his.

After a moment, in which Thom found himself paralyzed, Rob tore himself back. He looked horrified. “Oh, God, Thom, I - I’m so sorry, please, I -” But before he could finish, Thom lunged forward and kissed him back.

Thom felt a groan vibrate against his lips as Rob’s hands came around and gripped his back in a passionate embrace. Thom let his own arms encircle Rob and clutch him tightly, until the two were pressed so close together they might have been one person. The kiss deepened until they were panting into each other’s mouths. One of Thom’s hands wound into Rob’s hair, just as thick and soft as he had ever imagined; on some strange instinct, he tugged, and was rewarded with a shocked whine. A sound, he decided, he very much wanted to hear again, and as often as possible. Despite needing more air, Thom didn’t want to pull away; a sentiment, it seemed, that Rob shared. When they finally separated, there was panting, and then a long moment of silence that seemed to stretch for eternity. Thom didn’t know what to say.

Rob, unsurprisingly, was the one to break the silence. “Thom… I…” he began, then laughed. “This isn’t how I ever imagined this happening.”

The idea that Rob had been imagining this was simply too much for Thom to process in the moment, so he set it aside. “How did you imagine it?” he asked instead.

“Inside, for one thing,” said Rob, picking a leaf off of Thom’s lapel. “And - ugh - with less brandy, I think.”

“Yes, you did, erm, taste quite strong.”

A wild, slightly hysterical bark of laughter tore from Rob’s throat, startling some birds from a nearby tree into flight. He flung his arms out and wrapped Thom in another embrace. Thom let himself be surrounded by the warmth, welcomed the soft, wet press of lips to his jaw, his neck, with a shudder. He closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he would open them and see the familiar molded ceiling of his bedchambers.

“This is madness, I hope you know.”

He felt a chuckle rumble against his jaw. “‘But if tempests of mind, and mad passion impel you to too much sin, you wretch, then let misery, and evil fate, be yours!’”

Thom felt a broad smile spread across his face. “You read Catullus.”

“I may have taken up some reading this week, before the ball. I had to know what was so stimulating.”

Thom groaned, both in embarrassment and because Rob had pulled back to undo the top button of his shirt. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Now you will know far too much about me.”

Rob grinned wickedly. “As far as I am concerned, there is no such thing,” he said, and dove back in.

Juventius, if I were always allowed
to kiss your honey-sweet eyes,
I might kiss you three hundred
thousand times, and never be sated,
not even if my kisses were more
than the crop’s ripe ears of wheat.