athens7 as Jack (font: Courier New)
and mazaher as Patrick (font: Verdana)
The Christmas ball at the Grevilles', and what happened after that
he is, chatting up Lady Greville. He said he would rather stay at home
tonight, yet he’s basking in her interest and lavishing her with
attentions. I shouldn’t mind-- not my business, is it? I ought to go and
discuss the list of my possible engagements for the next concert season
with Mr. Lloyd in the next room. In a little while I’ll go. What is she
saying now... She’s hiding behind her fan, that oversized lace
monstrosity. She likes to play Carmen... I need another glass of hock
and seltzer. What now: her hand on his arm... No! He’s mine! Mine! I
I put down my glass before it slips my numb fingers, manage to remember
just enough of my manners to lie to my host about a sudden malaise, and
run out of the room, out of the building, out on the street before I
dishonour myself and him by claiming my Jack from her clutches and from
his own philandering.
The cold, damp air outside chills me to the bone. Or is it the chill of
panic seizing me from within? A carriage clatters around the corner,
answers my raised hand. Soon I’ll be away from here, I’ll be home, I’ll
close the door and curl up on the sofa and die, because there is nothing
else I can do.
But no, that’s his step coming, he’s followed me, and a layer of shame
settles over my desperate jealousy. I should have known. I am in
horrible pain, and it’s all of my own doing, and I am stupid enough that
I ruined at once my standing with Lord Greville, my career as a pianist,
and his evening out. I don’t care a damn for the Grevilles, or my
career. But I can’t stand the thought that I displeased him out of a
childish pique, while here he comes, following me as he promised, my
faithful, his cool low voice giving the address --my address-- to the
I am ashamed, and so I attack him. If you want to hide a leaf, plant a
forest. The annoyance in his words as he asks me what my abrupt flight
was about is enough to set me biting at him in short sharp retorts. No,
I can’t look at him and allow him to see my humiliation, so I deflect
his attention by insulting his appearance.
“You look like a butler,” I say, when what I really think is, “You look
too good for Lady Greville... you look too good for me”.
As soon as the carriage comes to a standstill in front of my door, I
bolt out, jump the steps, hastily press and turn the key in the
doorlatch, trying to leave him behind. But again he follows, damn him to
hell, he follows and sticks a boot between the jamb and the door I’m
trying to slam shut in his face. I’m sure I’ve hurt his foot, but still
he won’t leave me, he follows me inside, pressing me, until I turn to
face him and still he advances, and I step back, and now my back is to
the wall and he frames my face between his arms, and I am trapped.
Perhaps I want to be.
“Look at me,” he says, words quiet and clear.
I am his, and I can’t but obey.
Now he will see. He will see me, and I will be ruined, and he
“Patrick,” he breathes, and I know at once that the worst has happened.
He lights up, flooded with innocent joy, as though the orphan he is had
been invited, for this once in his life, to a Christmas family dinner. I
am his joy, and so I am his destruction. The plague devouring me is
catching, he is damned, he is lost, we are lost.
Hell begins right here.
So I kiss him.
Fiercely I kiss him, ravenously, as I work on his belt, his trouser
buttons, his coat and waistcoat buttons, his shirt’s tiny buttons, the
hard button of his collar, all those exasperating buttons lined up on a
gentleman’s outfit, and finally get to the string, blissfully easier to
pull free, because I need to feel his skin on mine, and as soon as I
have freed his belly and hips and he shudders at the cool air licking at
him, I busy myself with my own clothes until the centre of us, the core
of us, the place without words and without thoughts of us, is open and
naked and touching.
I kiss him, I eat him up, and he kisses me back. He strokes my hips,
then grasps me, pushing me harder up the wall, and I curl my spine and
raise my legs to wrap them around his strong taut waist. I stretch a
hand down and take him in hand...
He gasps, he trembles, and I moan in delight for the feel of him in my
hand. He pulls back, trying to regain breath, but if he breathes he will
come to his senses and leave, so,
“Take me,” I growl.
“Yes, you can,” and quickly I spit on my hand already fragrant with his
scent, and coat his prick, and guide him in.
This is forbidden, I’m stealing, I’m damned, but like a starving dog
grabs a bone from the table even if it knows it will be whipped, I
cannot stop. I push through pain, and I don’t care. Pain is what I
deserve, for wanting him, for daring to believe he’s mine, for wanting
this gemlike moment to last forever; pain is what he deserves, for
daring... for daring to love me.
By force he is inside, filling me, and still it’s not enough.
“Please,” I pray, and may the Devil bless him, for he begins to move.
All thought leaves me. I slide beyond pain into a pleasure that
dissolves me. I cease to be, I return to the not-space-not-time when I
did not yet exist, and nothing had yet been cursed by ruin. I float
there safe, neither alone nor in his company, no duty no honour no sin
no damnation, until I hear him shout his pleasure and his spasm brings
me back to here-and-now, the molecules of my self coalescing into unity
only to be shattered into pieces by my own climax.
I feel us slipping down on the carpet, I feel his shoulder under my
fingertips. I grasp him tight, and shame returns in a giant wave,
sweeping me away and separating us.
What have I done? What have I done to him?
at this point that our lives splinter and time takes different, parallel