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All In A Row (Soaked Through With Sunshine)
{All-American Rejects RPS // Nick/Tyson, Mike/Chris // NC-17 // Secret Garden AU // 100% untrue & disclaimed // warnings for rimming, edging and ridiculous amounts of romance}
London, 1880 “I’m afraid this do will be a frightful bore,” Chris said, though he was grinning a lopsided grin and fastening his tie in a rather jaunty manner. “Though I dare say there may be some amusement.” He winked, and Nick laughed. He turned a page in the newspaper and stretched more languidly across the chaise lounge. “Michael said he would bring a friend. Some distant relation whose parents have just left him some ghastly rambling old house in the country – family heirloom, I gather. According to Michael, he’s quite a hoot. And,” he added, fixing his gaze onto Nick’s in the looking-glass, “one of our sort, if you catch my meaning.”
“I do, and you’d be well to say nothing more,” Nick flicked a corner of newspaper at him. “How does Michael find this out?”
“He has a gift,” Chris declared, grandly.
“I was aware of that when he dragged the admittance out of me within twenty minutes of my acquaintance.”
“He has an eye for it,” Chris amended. “Perhaps the Irish can simply tell.”
“If that is the case, remind me never to set foot in Dublin.” Nick turned another page. “I would be set upon at once.”
Chris raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth, but Nick beat him to it.
“If you say one word about a group of sailors, I shall use this newspaper in unspeakable ways.”
“Nickolas,” Chris placed one hand over his heart. “Is that a promise?”
Nick rolled his eyes and flicked the nearest part of Chris with the corner of his newspaper again. “You are an ass.”
“Is that any way to speak of the fine gentleman that is Christopher Gaylor?” came a booming voice, thick with an Irish accent, from the doorway. Mike walked in; though really, Mike did not walk anywhere. He bounded, as if his heels had springs. He wrapped his arms around Chris from behind and planted a smacking kiss to his neck. “How’s my feller?” He was grinning from ear to ear.
“Almost ready for public consumption, so be careful,” Chris answered, though he turned around in the circle of Mike’s arms and kissed him, quickly. His eyes travelled over Mike’s shoulder and widened a little; Nick followed his line of sight to the doorway and saw someone standing there.
“Ah, where are me manners?” Mike slapped a palm against his forehead. He turned back to the doorway, one arm still around Chris’s waist. “Chris, Nick, this is Tyson Ritter, a distant relation to the Kennertys. Ty, these are my good friends Christopher Gaylor and Nickolas Wheeler. Though Chris is more a good friend than Nick.” He winked, just in case his meaning were not already blatant.
“How we are not all in gaol yet, the way you two carry on, I don’t know,” Nick sighed, trying to get his neck into a better angle so he could see Tyson properly. All he had seen so far was the shape of a tall man; but he twisted further just as Tyson stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him, and Nick finally saw his face.
Tyson was the single most beautiful thing Nick had seen in his life. Nick liked beauty; he had studied texts and paintings and works of music at university, at times trying to deconstruct their beauty to find out what created it, at other times simply sitting back and letting the sensations of being in the presence of genius wash over him – but Tyson, this man, he was quite simply the most beautiful thing of all. More than the perfect symphony, more than scores of poetry books, more than a sunset over a lake seen from a boat in the middle of it. (He and Chris and Mike had rowed out to the centre of a lake in Derbyshire once, just to watch the sun set. It was a magnificent sight.)
Tyson’s face broke into a smile, and Nick watched, dazed, as he became even more beautiful. “You must be Nickolas, if he’s Christopher,” he said, holding out a hand for Nick to shake.
“Please,” Nick said, faintly, clearing his throat and trying to remember what to do with his limbs. “Call me Nick.” He shook Tyson’s hand, startled by the physical contact. Tyson’s grip was firm, his fingers long and his palm warm. Nick swallowed.
“By the grace of our lord,” Mike muttered, watching them, “I do believe our Nickolas has fallen in love.” He nudged Chris, who laughed.
Nick blushed. He opened his mouth to tell Mike to mind his own business, but couldn’t quite remember how to make words come out. Tyson was watching him, cheeks a little pink himself. (It was more attractive than it had any right to be. He looked like an angel when he blushed, Nick thought.)
“I, um,” Tyson started, his voice low and obviously only meant for Nick. Mike and Chris arranged their features to make it look like they weren’t straining to hear the words. “I wouldn’t, um. Be indifferent, if.” He cleared his throat, blushing harder and looking helplessly at the newspaper now sliding off Nick’s lap.
Nick still couldn’t recall how to form words and make them appear outside of his body, so he just nodded a little and tried not to gaze at Tyson too much.
“Pull yourself together,” Chris told him, leaning over to snap his fingers by Nick’s ear. Nick jumped. “You have to be presentable to company in half an hour.”
“Er.” Nick at last found his voice. “I – of course. Yes. I, yes.” He cleared his throat again and stood up. “I had – I must finish dressing.” He retired to the other room, throwing a helpless look at Chris and letting his eyes linger a little on Tyson. He bit his lip, not noticing he was doing so until the door was closed and he was leaning against it. “Oh, God,” he exhaled, sliding down until he sat, knees bent to his chin. He looked up at the ceiling, collecting himself, breathing evenly in and out and willing his erection to at least hide itself under his coat.
At the party that night, all he was aware of was a blur, glinted with light. The candles seemed to make the chandelier sparkle, every piece of jewellery was almost blinding, and the ladies he danced with laughed with shimmering teeth. His eyes refused to stop searching the room until they landed on Tyson; a head of curls, taller than approximately half of the men, bright blue eyes, a sloping smile and a laugh his ears easily picked out of the crowd. He kept catching Tyson glancing at him, and they would simultaneously blush and look away. Nick fervently hoped nobody had noticed; he danced more heartily and with more handsome, unmarried young women than he usually did, played cards with the other men and watched Tyson from behind his eyelashes during the games, pretending to be contemplating his hand of poker. He lost just the right amount of money before declaring himself unlucky for the night, and rather tired; he made a great show of yawning and bidding everybody good-night.
As he rose to go, Tyson stood too. “Mr Wheeler, may I trouble you for a little company for some of the journey? I have not spent the years in town that you have, I fear I do not know the way to my lodgings from here.”
“Just ask the cab driver,” someone shouted, drunkenly and merrily. Tyson smiled a polite small smile, still turned towards Nick.
“But of course,” Nick answered, as soon as he could trust himself to speak. “I should like a little company, if only for some of the way. Come, I shall show you.” They left, passing Mike, who winked at them from behind his cards, a small pile of bank notes sitting on the table in front of him. Mike was what was known as lucky. He regularly beat everybody in the room at cards, to cries of, “See that? The bloody luck of the Irish. Unfair, that’s what it is.” (Mike, of course, cheated. Sometimes.)
The night air was foggy, shapes looming out of it as hansom cabs passed. Nick’s rooms were within walking distance, and Tyson’s lodgings only a little further. They walked in silence, every now and then opening their mouths to speak but stopping at the sound of hooves, or footsteps. When they reached Nick’s rooms, he stopped.
“I … I live here, this is. Your lodgings are just, you go down to the end of the road and turn left and …” Nick’s voice trailed off as Tyson stepped closer. He smelled like the fog, like the wine and the smoke from the party, and underneath that, like soap and something musky and sweet. Nick inhaled hungrily. “You.”
“If you want me to come in with you,” Tyson whispered, mouth a little way from Nick’s ear, “all you need do is ask.”
Nick swallowed. “I,” he breathed, “I would. Please,” he whispered, “Tyson, won’t you come in?”
“I would be delighted to,” Tyson whispered back, and Nick got them inside as fast as he could, inside and up to the rooms he shared with Chris, past the maid dusting the mantelpiece in the drawing room with an instruction that they were not to be disturbed, and into Nick’s bedroom. He hardly dared look at Tyson as they whisked through the flat, Tyson’s scent enveloping his senses, Tyson’s footsteps and breathing just behind him.
Once the bedroom door was closed, Nick turned around and pushed Tyson against it and fastened his mouth, hungrily, desperately, onto Tyson’s. Tyson groaned and grasped at his hips, pulling him closer, crashing their erections together. They moaned then in unison, Nick grinding hard against him, Tyson grinding back, using the door to propel himself and Nick towards the bed. Nick walked backwards, trying not to trip, tasting wine on Tyson’s tongue, plucking at his shirt, hands shaking as he undid the buttons. He had not ever, in all of his life, wanted someone so urgently as he wanted Tyson now. They fell onto the bed, a tangle of limbs and groans, and Tyson moved his mouth, moved it down to Nick’s neck, licking and sucking and leaving a line of tiny bites that made Nick shiver. He arched his neck, Tyson licking a line up his exposed throat, undoing his shirt buttons, pushing items of clothing hastily out of the way. Movements frantic, they managed only to get each other’s trousers unfastened before Tyson simply settled his groin over Nick’s, pressing their erections flush. They thrusted against each other, delicious friction, mouths crashing together again, swallowing each other’s whimpers and moans. Nick came, suddenly, overwhelmingly, gripping Tyson’s arms and bucking up against him. Tyson came a few seconds later with a long low moan, grinding onto Nick’s stomach.
They lay in a tangle, letting their breathing return to normal. Nick stroked fingertips through Tyson’s hair. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, exhaled. Tyson stirred in his arms.
“You,” he murmured, “are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, Nickolas.”
Nick smiled. They slept on top of the covers that night, still half clothed, until Nick awoke shivering at some hour of the morning and pulled the blankets over them.
He awoke next to sunlight streaming in through the shutters, and breathing damp against his earlobe. He shifted, and when he caught sight of the curling dark hair on the pillow next to him, the night before crashed in via his temples.
Meeting Tyson. The party. Coming home, shaking with anticipation, getting Tyson in the door, kissing the very life out of him, the feel of Tyson coming on his stomach. He looked down; his stomach was faintly sticky and a little crusted. He shifted, trying not to wake Tyson, but there came a mumbled, “G’morning.”
“You’re awake,” Nick observed, settling closer to him. Tyson lifted his head and smiled. Nick flooded with warmth; Tyson was breathtaking, he thought, with his hair wild and his eyes half-closed and his smile so open.
“I thought you might have been a particularly good dream,” he murmured, leaning closer. Nick caught his mouth with his own, kissing him languidly. It was different from the biting, devouring kisses of the night before; soft, gentle, slow. Nick’s entire body began to tingle, piece by piece.
When they finally broke apart, Nick had one palm cupping Tyson’s cheek without remembering putting it there. “I didn’t believe,” he whispered, “in love at first sight.”
Tyson smiled. “I did,” he whispered back, trailing a line of light, small kisses along Nick’s jaw until he reached his earlobe, taking it softly between his teeth and tugging just a little. A bubble of joy welled in Nick’s chest until it escaped in a small laugh.
“Tyson Ritter,” he remembered, thinking back to Mike’s introductions. “Where have you been all my life?”
“Yorkshire,” Tyson answered, voice muffled by Nick’s throat, which he was currently kissing with an open mouth. “Rugby. Cambridge.”
“I’m a Repton and Oxford man myself,” Nick breathed, arching his neck.
“Let me guess,” Tyson murmured, voice a rumble against Nick’s clavicle. “The arts, mainly.”
“How did you know?” It dawned on Nick that Tyson was making an infinitely slow downward progress, and a squirming feeling began in his belly.
Tyson looked up and gave a toothy smile. “I had a feeling,” he said, and helped Nick out of the rest of his clothes.
His downward progress had rather sped up by the time all of Nick’s clothes were tossed aside. Tyson’s head had ended up somewhere around Nick’s waist; he moved and shuffled down until his legs must have been hanging mostly if not all off the bed. Nick bent one leg, and Tyson rested his cheek against the thigh. He contemplated Nick’s morning erection, bobbing closer and closer to his stomach as he squirmed under the scrutiny.
“True beauty,” Tyson murmured, then turned his head and licked a long line up Nick’s thigh. Nick’s breath stuttered and hitched as Tyson licked lines and circles and swirls over his skin, from the dip behind his knee all the way up to the crease where leg met hip, always keeping to the soft flesh of the inner thigh. Nick’s nerve endings tingled and awoke as Tyson’s tongue swept across them, further and further in, before skating tantalisingly from hip to hip, starting in on the other thigh. Nick spread them further at Tyson’s nudges, Tyson’s hands following his mouth to stroke and press and trace patterns with his fingertips. Nick tried hard to keep quiet, but it was difficult; he wanted to whimper, to moan, to cry out as Tyson’s tongue swept ever closer to its target.
At last, when Nick was trembling and his hands were opening and closing aimlessly and he was breathing hard through his nose, Tyson’s tongue swept once up and down Nick’s erection. Nick’s hips bucked off the mattress and Tyson’s breath puffed across the shaft, a small amused sound, pleased, coming from Tyson’s mouth – and then he dipped his head, back, down, past the base of Nick’s erection, past the sensitive folds of skin, and when Nick realised where Tyson’s destination lay, he couldn’t help the groan he gave, spreading his legs as far as they would go and closing his eyes as Tyson’s tongue found, at last, its mark.
Nick had been to bed with men before – had even, on occasion, been invited to join Mike and Chris – but not a one of them had ever done this to him. Tyson lapped, his tongue a wet and warm and delicious sensation against him. Nick wished he could spread his thighs more, and he bucked up against and into that wetness, hoarse moans emitting from his throat as Tyson’s tongue worked, licking and lapping and gently thrusting inside once for every five times Nick’s heart beat. It was racing, threatening to thump right out of his chest as he arched, squirmed, writhed as Tyson mercilessly thrust and lapped.
Tyson moaned, and Nick felt it go through him and arched harder, coming without so much as touching himself; his hands had been fisting the sheets since Tyson’s tongue touched him, and he almost ripped them as he came, his every particle shaking, almost not caring if he screamed in ecstasy.
As he settled back, Tyson giving his still-twitching thighs several last wet, open-mouthed kisses, Nick crooked one finger to beckon him back up. Tyson crawled up his body and wrapped his arms around him. They were both shaking.
It took Nick several moments to return his breathing to normal and his limbs to stop trembling, but as he stilled he noticed that Tyson was making small desperate sounds. “Please,” Tyson breathed, shaking against Nick. “Please.”
Nick moaned, rolled Tyson over onto his back, and slid quickly until his head was level with Tyson’s waist. He waited the few seconds it took Tyson to look down and lock their gaze; and then Nick slid his mouth onto Tyson’s erection, fighting the urge to close his eyes in pure pleasure. It felt good, right, perfect to be sliding his mouth up and down it, giving soft sucks, wrapping one hand around the base and eliciting broken sounds from Tyson, half whimpers, fractions of moans. Nick licked and sucked in an instinctive pattern, the note of Tyson’s whimpers higher and higher as he went. Nick twisted his wrist; Tyson let go an “Ahh!” before flinging one arm over his mouth and – Nick could see it from below – biting down to keep the groans in. Nick’s eyes rolled shut and he moaned, soft. Tyson gave a startled buck and a gasp, and he came.
Nick’s mouth filled. He made sure to give a few last sucks and bursts of pressure from laying his tongue along places on the shaft he had never thought to lay it before, but felt he wanted to, with Tyson; at each of these pressures, Tyson twitched with his whole body and let another piece of a moan escape. Nick at last lifted his mouth away to swallow, eyes on Tyson’s dazed ones.
Nick crawled up and lay on Tyson’s chest. Tyson was heaving his breath back, and wrapped both arms around Nick. “You are incredible,” he murmured, kissing Nick’s hair.
“All I ask is that you let me do that, again and again,” Nick murmured back. He looked up to see Tyson staring at him in startled disbelief. “Now I’ve done it once, I don’t think I can bear not doing it as much as I possibly can,” he explained. “You,” he breathed, leaning closer to brush their noses together, “you make the most exquisite noises. I shan’t be able to think about anything else for some time.”
“You’re an angel,” Tyson whispered. “An absolute angel, sent from Heaven to me. What I don’t know is what I did to deserve such goodness.”
Nick closed his eyes and inched their mouths closer. “You took those words right out of my mind,” he breathed, and kissed him.
:*: London, 1886 “The advantage of having no family,” Mike declared, pointing accusingly at Nick and Tyson, “is that nobody is trying to marry you off.”
“You wait until my sister is old enough to bother me,” Tyson returned. “She already keeps writing to ask if I’m engaged yet. I blame that governess of hers, filling her head with romantic nonsense.”
The effect of this sentence was rather diminished, in Nick’s opinion, by the fact that he had pulled Nick into his lap and was playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. Nick was curled up in Tyson’s arms, head leaning against his shoulder, Mike’s various aunts and cousins finally having left.
“It’s all that Catholicism,” Chris stated, returning from the drinks cabinet with glasses of whiskey. “Large families looking to be made even larger.”
“Well, here’s one lad who won’t be increasing the size of the Kennertys,” Mike said, holding his glass up. “Cheers.”
Chris was looking thoughtful. “You don’t want any little Michaels running around?” he asked, voice gentle. Mike just looked at him, shaking his head and pulling him close.
“Are ye mad?” He kissed him, a soft press of lips. “I’ve got you, what on earth would I want my own progeny for?”
Chris just smiled, and settled against him on the sofa. “What about you?” Nick asked him, warm and safe as Tyson stroked fingertips through his hair. “Would you want little Christophers and Christinas?”
“No,” Chris shook his head. “I’ve got my hands full with this one,” he tilted towards Mike, who laughed.
“Get away with you,” he chuckled, pushing a little. Chris just grinned, and Mike pounced on him. They ended up stretched out on the sofa, Mike pinning Chris down onto it and kissing him thoroughly, whiskey glasses set aside on the table. Nick turned his face up to Tyson, like a flower basking in sunlight, and smiled softly.
Tyson whispered into his ear, “You’re so beautiful,” and brushed first their cheeks and then their lips together. Nick’s smile spread, peaceful, content, and he opened his mouth softly and kissed Tyson at a gentle pace set entirely to their heartbeats.
:*: London, 1891 “Are you not going to introduce me?” asked the girl, as Tyson led her inside the house. A small dog trotted at her ankles, and she was dressed in the current fashion. Nick bowed politely.
“Bailey, this is my friend Mr Nickolas Wheeler, with whom I share this house. Nickolas, my darling sister Bailey. It is her first season in town.”
Bailey blushed a little, demurely, as she curtseyed. “How do you do, Mr Wheeler?”
“Very well, I thank you, Miss Ritter,” Nick replied. “Your brother informs me we are to bring you out into society.”
“I do hope the task won’t be very tiresome for you,” she said, all eyelashes and coquettery. She would be married within a twelvemonth, he thought wryly.
“My dearest darling, there is no need to practice your charms on Mr Wheeler,” Tyson told her, directing the footman with one hand to take Bailey’s things to her room. “He is quite the confirmed bachelor.” He leaned closer to her and whispered loudly, “And far too old for you, in any case.”
“Don’t be silly, there’s no such thing,” Bailey replied, still smiling prettily at Nick. He wanted to laugh, but held it down.
“I am going to have to keep my eye on you,” Tyson said, smiling with utmost pride at her, “I can see that.”
“Oh Tyson, I do hope you will not scare away any suitors. If they are … agreeable.” Bailey smiled again at Nick.
This time, Nick did laugh. “There is certainly no doubt that you are a Ritter,” he said, extending an arm to her. “Come, let me show you the house.”
He caught the look Ty threw him over Bailey’s shoulder, and grinned back.
:*: Thistleplain Manor, 1892 “You will keep my things here for me, won’t you?” Bailey asked, suddenly sounding like the anxious young girl she really was. Tyson pulled her into a rough hug.
“Of course, you silly little thing. I shall expect you to visit, whenever you can manage.”
Nick added his own arms to the hug. “He shall be tired of my company by the time you return; no doubt I will need your persuading for him to like me again.” He winked, and Bailey giggled.
“Pshaw, I could never grow tired of you, Nickolas,” Tyson pooh-poohed. The hug broke, the three of them returning to the ordering of Bailey’s cases to the carriage. “Reginald will take good care of you, I am sure of it.”
“I know it,” Bailey smiled, happiness radiating once more from every pore. She had been married the week before; Nick had spent the entire ceremony trying not to stare at Tyson, who had given her away and looked nearly unbearably splendid in his morning suit. Reginald was a good man, due to serve in India under the English government. Bailey was excited by the prospect of life in the East; the heat, the society. She would have all the other Mem Sahibs for friends, and had told Nick she felt she could be perfectly content there.
After the carriage had left, and the servants returned inside the house to their duties, Tyson wrapped his arms around Nick. “Are you quite sure you wish to live here?” he murmured, lips close to Nick’s ear.
Nick leaned back against him. “Perfectly, absolutely sure. Just as long as you are,” he added.
“Oh yes,” Tyson breathed, pressing kisses to the skin just behind Nick’s ear. Nick shivered, hoping his knees wouldn’t buckle. “Absolutely certain.” He felt Tyson’s smile, and closed his eyes to inhale shakily. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
Tyson’s arms slipped from around his waist, and Nick obediently followed as Tyson bounded through the gardens, laughing, walking with springs in his heels as if he had taken Mike’s shoes when they left London. Nick let out a whooping laugh and his own heels lifted him off the ground in joy.
They bounced through the kitchen gardens, past the orchard, and then Tyson stopped. He took a key out of his pocket, held it up, and smiled a particular smile at Nick. “Welcome,” he said, slipping the key into the lock in a green door in the wall ahead of them, “to our paradise.”
He opened the door, took Nick’s hand, and led him into the garden. It was lush and green, with ivy growing over the walls and trees lining them; a fountain stood in the centre, water cascading out of a graceful mermaid’s urn. Tyson closed the door behind them and stood, beaming, as Nick took it all in. “I,” he breathed.
Tyson wrapped his arms around Nick’s waist again, this time pulling him to face him. “It’s ours,” he said. “We can come here whenever we like, and we can lock the rest of the world out. Just us, and the trees, and the garden.”
“Oh Ty,” Nick breathed, knowing he should be looking around at the garden again but unable to take his eyes from Tyson’s, “it’s beautiful.”
“I would give you the world, were it mine to give,” Tyson whispered, and it seemed as if all the love in the world was pouring from his eyes into Nick’s.
“This is the world,” Nick whispered back, leaning in and touching their foreheads, their noses, tilting until their mouths met and Tyson sighed in perfect contentment.
:*: “So this is the ancestral pile,” Mike observed, eyes taking in the house and the grounds.
“No,” Tyson said, taking one arm from where it was wrapped around Nick’s waist so he could point over at the moor, “that’s the ancestral pile. This is just our house.”
Chris laughed. The distant rumble of wheels signalled the carriage’s progress down the wooded avenue away from the house, and all the servants were inside it taking Chris and Mike’s bags to their rooms. “Did you inherit the moor?”
“Yes,” Tyson said, seriously, “from my mother.”
“Did she love it out there?” Nick asked, turning his neck a little. Tyson’s body was spooned around him from behind.
“She did,” Tyson nodded. “Taught me about the birds and the foxes.”
Nick nestled further into the curve of Tyson’s arms, and Mike beamed at them. “Look at you two. Like a pair of newlyweds, you and your big house and your moor.”
Nick laughed. “I feel like a newlywed.” Tyson kissed his hair and smiled into it. “We landed on our feet here,” he sighed, happy, looking up at the angry grey winter sky. “You should see it in summer, it’s glorious.”
“Invite us before Christmas next time,” Chris rolled his eyes.
“Pssh, you don’t need an invitation,” Tyson waved a hand. “The invitation is implied in our being here and you being there.”
“We’ll remember that,” Mike assured them, grinning. “And so will you when we’re bearing down upon you and won’t leave you alone.”
“We’d like that,” Tyson said, sincere. “Come on, Nick, let’s show them the gardens.” He winked, as if to say All but ours; that’s our secret, and Nick felt deliciously happy as he thought of their own secret paradise, a place nobody else knew, a place where they could shut the world out. The day was blustery, but not wet, and Tyson showed Mike and Chris the gardens and the grounds a little, while Nick went inside to make sure dinner would be ready for four at the correct time. He and Tyson showed them all over the house; its libraries, studies, bedrooms, suites for guests, the one they had set aside for Bailey, who hadn’t even reached India yet – Chris examined the tapestries and paintings, while Mike exclaimed over the books in the libraries, and Nick and Tyson proudly stood as only those sharing things they are fond of with people they adore can stand.
As evening drew in and the threatening clouds began to empty onto the moor, a chambermaid lit the lamps and they settled in with a bottle or two of brandy, talking over art and music and science, as if they were still the students they had not been for over a decade, Nick curled up in Tyson’s lap, warm by the fire, and Mike and Chris with their limbs tangled, sitting as close as could be. Nick felt full, after supper, and sleepy, and safe here with Tyson’s arms around him, Mike’s hearty laughter circling over his head, the scent of Tyson’s skin warm under his nose. He nuzzled against Tyson’s neck happily, like a cat.
“I half think you’re going to start purring,” Tyson murmured. Nick looked up at him, letting his eyes shine freely.
“Perhaps I am,” he smiled. He almost felt as though he could, too, a rumble deep in his chest somewhere, the sound of perfect rightness. Tyson kissed the top of his head and beamed down at him.
“I do so love you, Nickolas,” he whispered. Nick leaned up and nudged their noses together.
“And I you, Tyson,” he exhaled, closing his eyes.
They excused themselves, Mike watching them leave with twinkling eyes and a muttered, “What did I tell ye? Newlyweds.” Nick turned the blankets on the bed down as Tyson unbuttoned his shirt, and when Nick looked up he saw Tyson had been watching the curve of his back. Tyson took hold of his hips, the touch gentle.
“I keep thinking I should one day think you less beautiful,” he murmured as Nick straightened his back and leaned against him, “but it hasn’t happened yet.”
“I,” Nick breathed. “You will never be anything less than an angel to me.” He turned to face Tyson, kissing him breathlessly, hungrily. Tyson pressed them both gently onto the bed, undressing Nick quickly.
“I love you, oh Nick,” Tyson exhaled, his voice shaky as he pulled Nick to him, skittered fingertips across his skin. Nick arched into the touch. “Will you let me – I want to try something.”
“Anything,” Nick nodded, clutching at Tyson’s arms.
“You must promise me you won’t try to do a thing to me, all right?” Tyson bit his lip. “This is all,” he leaned forward and kissed Nick’s neck, “for you.”
“I will, I – yes, I promise – oh Ty,” Nick whimpered, as Tyson’s fingers stroked in the places he knew Nick liked. Nimble, clever, beautiful fingers, Nick thought, as they made their way over his skin, circling and skating and touching, waking every nerve ending, making his skin tingle and glow and come alive.
Tyson breathed steadily as he wrapped his hand around Nick’s erection, and Nick thrust up into the touch. “Shhh,” Tyson whispered, as Nick let escape small whimpers. “Be patient, my love,” he murmured, mouth under Nick’s ear, kissing and licking in circles and lines. Nick lay as still as he could as Tyson stroked with that hand, sure and strong strokes that were somehow absolutely perfect and nowhere near enough. Nick’s toes curled as Tyson slowly but surely built up rhythm; but just as a tightness began in Nick’s lower back, Tyson pinched something hard and the flash of pain drove the orgasm clean away.
“Ty –” Nick protested, but Tyson’s mouth was on his clavicle.
“Shhhh,” he murmured, and it vibrated through Nick’s chest. “You promised you’d let me.”
Nick settled back and Tyson set a rhythm again, slower, sure strokes that were so delicious Nick could hardly bear it, just perfectly this side of pleasing, so close to enough yet not quite, and as Tyson slowly, slowly built the rhythm again, Nick felt another tightening, another pooling, and this time he said, “Ty –”
Tyson pinched, again, and the orgasm receded. “Yes,” Tyson whispered, moving up to kiss Nick, let him bite hungrily at his mouth, trembling all over, “yes. That’s exactly it, Nicky.”
Nick moaned, and Tyson started the rhythm again, slow and perfect and not enough, until it was almost enough and he staved off the orgasm. He did it seven more times, each more exquisite than the last, until Nick couldn’t stop shaking, his throat producing a constant stream of whimpers and moans, and at last, at last, Tyson let him come, let it spill over his hand, and Nick saw stars on his eyelids, his whole body involved in the sensations, his mouth falling open and loud groans coming out of it.
Tyson fell onto it as soon as Nick went slack, reverberations still twitching through him. Tyson covered his body with his own, and at last Nick could use his hands, plunged them past Tyson’s waist and grasped hold of Tyson’s erection in both palms. It took one hard stroke for Tyson to buck and cry out, coming into the space between them as Nick watched the curve of his neck.
They curled in together, breathing slowing, and turned over onto their sides after a minute. Tyson’s chest curled around Nick’s back, and they settled as close as two people could. Tyson kissed Nick’s shoulder.
In the morning, Nick woke early and found Chris standing at the windows of Tyson’s study, looking out at the blustery moor. “You’ve built a heaven here,” he said when he heard Nick’s footsteps and turned to smile at him. Chris turned back to the window. “You and Ty, your own piece of heaven.”
Nick smiled out at the moor. “Yes,” he said, “we have. You and Mike are always welcome here.”
Chris smiled at him again, still the young boy Nick had sat next to at school and asked to borrow blotting-paper from. “I am glad of it,” was all he said, and Nick squeezed his shoulder before going back to the bedroom to see if Tyson was awake yet.
:*: Thistleplain Manor, 1901 They had locked the door and spent all afternoon in the garden. The sun was high, the sky one big arch of glorious blue with wisps of cloud wheeling across it every hour or two. The trees and the walls kept it cool, but they splashed water from the fountain onto their faces and flicked drops at each other, laughing. Nick’s shirt was half off and Tyson caught him, arms circling his waist and pulling him in closer, tugging the cloth away from his body.
“Come here, my beautiful boy,” he murmured, and Nick smiled into the kiss, their mouths open and meeting in the middle, corners turned up.
“I’m not a boy any more,” Nick reminded him. “My limbs are creaky and ancient.”
Tyson chuckled a deep, throaty chuckle and a glint appeared in his eye. “You are not too old, my angel. Your limbs are lithe yet.” As if to demonstrate, he hoisted Nick up by the hips and set him on the thick stone edge of the fountain. Nick wrapped his legs around Tyson’s waist, rocking their hips together. Tyson tipped his head back and groaned.
“You are right, of course,” Nick murmured, leaning in to press his mouth to Tyson’s neck. “I am never too old for this.” He tugged Tyson’s shirt out and away from his trousers.
Their progress left a pool of clothes by the fountain and they lay in the bower they had made, soft blankets stretched out as Tyson examined every inch of Nick’s naked body with his mouth and his fingertips. Nick moaned at every touch, gasped at every lick, his entire self awake and alive with sensation. The birds wheeled out of the trees at his cries as Tyson’s tongue prepared him, their favourite game.
The oil came after Tyson’s tongue, a small jar kept secreted under a stone, and when Tyson slipped inside him Nick tasted heaven, just like always. Tyson set a slow rhythm, hand working on Nick, mouth leaving small light kisses all over his neck and his cheeks and his eyelids and the curve of his ears. They made slow, delicious love as the garden grew around them, their paradise, both trembling with barely-held sensations and low moans and murmurings.
Nick’s orgasm wasn’t like the crashing of the tide, as it usually was; this time, it crept over him slowly, filling him up from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head with a quiet, tranquil ecstasy. He breathed out, and whispered, “I love you, Tyson, oh, I love you so entirely,” and he quivered with it and felt he might just rise up off the ground. He felt as if he was filled with golden light, an aching beauty too enormous for just his body to hold.
Tyson was shaking, and breathed, “I love you, oh Nick, I love you,” with the same wonder in his voice, and when Nick looked at him he knew Tyson was feeling exactly the same, having exactly this orgasm, and he kissed him hungrily, firmly, perfectly.
They lay tangled in the bower afterwards, neither needing to say a word. Nick stroked his fingertips down Tyson’s arm and murmured, “I suppose I am not so old after all.”
Tyson propped his head up on his hand and smiled. “I did tell you.”
Nick settled closer, arms around. “Let’s stay here a while,” he said, “and watch the roses grow.”
Tyson kissed his hair. “You’re so silly,” he murmured, fondness radiating out of the words. Nick’s skin hummed happily.
They slept like that, twined together, the lovers in the garden, and as the sun set beyond the wall it seemed for a moment that a shaft of light stole in through the keyhole in the door. It alighted on Nick’s hair, moved briefly to Tyson’s eyelids, and then it was gone.
Nick shifted closer to Tyson, and slept on.
