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Fic: Unbound (1/1)
When I wrote this, I didn't think I'd actually ever put it up on the net for other people to read. I thought it was just for me, because I needed to write about how Ted and Greg broke up, and also because I'd been toying with the idea of Bosie being Ted's rebound guy for so long and finally seeing Wilde made it so I had to write it. Anyway. After a while I convinced myself it might actually be worth reading to other people than me, so there. When I asked Rinaldo's creator (Edouard, for those of you who know him) for his okay on my brief use of his character in the fic, he told me he'd enjoyed it...
So, for the disclaimers: the concept of Immortality belongs to Ryker, Panzer/Davis, for all the good they're doing with it. Rinaldo belongs to Edouard. Bosie belongs to himself, I assume – my portrayal of him does not claim to be that of the true lord Douglas, however, only of the character portrayed by Jude Law in Wilde, whoever he belongs to. Don't crucify me for it! Theodore Groves is originally a character from PotC and consequently belongs to the mouse, but I like to think I've made him into my very own character by now. Grégoire, however, is completely mine.
Yes, it's Highlander fanfiction and it's slash. But really, it's about getting over the end of a relationship, and it doesn't matter that you're an Immortal or into guys. Reviews will be much welcome.
Unbound
An ibis. Curious creature, white and all in lengths. Standing on the bank of the wide river. Standing immobile, fixed in time. Himself, crouched on a rock, watching the bird watching the sky. Wondering whether the bird is real or just an echo of a memory, called back from the dead in his mind. Curious circle, bound forever onto itself. Or so it would seem.
"Teddy!"
Jerked out of it, the circle spins out of its axis and collapses into the void. Slowly, immobility is cast off. A young man, radiant, an angel's face, a resplendent smile. The perspective changes as legs unfold to come of a height with the brilliance. The delight is as genuine as it is intense, the extended hand a prolongation of this spontaneity. The grip is steady and enthusiastic, a witness to youth and strength aplenty.
"I never thought to see you here!"
Pulled in to the here and now, remembrances rushing forth and words whirling together. The past is redefined by the present. "Nor I you."
"What brings you to Egypt?"
His eyes stray to the river, snap back to the youth. "I've always been a bit of a traveller."
"I remember. Is Grégoire with you?"
It is said with nonchalance, yet the acute shine of the eyes belie the tone and betray the true knowledge of exactly what is being said. He forces himself not to look away this time. "No. We have parted ways."
"Ha."
Silence comes to occupy the space in between them like sand spilling into an hourglass. Grains fall by and still the frank smile remains. There is a beacon in the way those eyes devour his face; warmth and tightness spread in his chest. Finally, the smile widens as a chuckle pours down from the cherry lips, head bent forward for the eyes to look up in laughter.
"I'm staying at the Old Cataract. Do come and see me, Teddy."
He does not ask him not to call him Teddy because after all it brings forth no unwanted memory, a nice change. The face is now tilted up and it is down that the eyes look, no less beckoning. "I'll be sure to."
"Good. I must go..." Figures waiting impatiently at the corner of his eyes, calls for the youth to answer and come. The young man makes to go, turns back to him. "I'll take it as a personal offence if you don't call on me."
"I wouldn't dream of offending you, Bosie, trust me."
A hand pressed lightly on his arm, a promise or a question, and Bosie is on his way, already no more than the memory of an impish smile and twinkling eyes. He wonders whether a memory is enough to incite him to visit, or whether it will have faded into unimportance by the morrow.
But on the following day he sees the smile and the eyes everywhere he turns. He has come to Egypt to forget, or remember, and all he can think of is the brilliance. Bosie had never seemed so brilliant to him.
"Remind me again what we're doing here," asks Ted as Grégoire and he walk on the beach. Sand has got into his shoes and he wishes he could stop to take them off.
"Do you want to become someone respectable or not? We need to do social niceties to get back into certain circles. The sons aren't as bad as the father."
"That would be a hard feat to achieve."
Ted looks at Grégoire as he walks on, refrains from laying a hand on his shoulder blade, in his back, and the urge to touch him sweeps by as Ted steps out of its way. Grégoire turns back to him, eyebrows raised in a clear intimation to follow. Ted looks at Grégoire and sees a mirror of his own respectable attire, the clothes of a dandy and hair to the latest fashion.
"I thought we English were supposed to be obsessed with respectability," he remarks as he catches up with Grégoire.
"What are Frenchmen supposed to be obsessed about, then?"
"Why, but the art of love..."
Grégoire shoots him an annoyed look and all amusement deserts Ted. Respectability, does he really want that? The times have changed but not that much, and this reminds him too much of his younger years. Imprisoned behind walls that are not made of matter, impeded by many an unspoken rule. Ahead on the beach a small party is walking along, two feminine figures under umbrellas and two in trousers. The day is not the best to have a walk on the beach and Ted fears a storm. There is storm in the air. He does not mind it, but he is sure Grégoire and those they are walking toward will. Grégoire's pace quickens in an uncharacteristic show of impatience but Ted walks on at the same speed. He does not look forward to this at all. He looks at the sea and wishes he were on a ship, up in the rigging, nothing with him but the wind and the sea and the sails and the mast and the ropes, then only would he feel free. Grégoire's voice cuts through his fancy.
"Let me introduce you to a dear friend of mine, Theodore Grayson."
Faces look expectantly at him, faces Grégoire puts names to. The older woman, the shadow of a passed beauty, is of course Lady Queensbury - or has she forfeited that name? The younger one, with a podgy face and big great eyes, is her niece Madeleine Worthington. The first man, a bit older than the other one, is a study of bronze, with calm features organised in a mask of peaceful beauty. Lord Francis Drumlanrig. That leaves the golden youth to be Lord Alfred "Bosie" Douglas and Ted can see why Grégoire described him in such praising terms. A young Apollo indeed, with curious eyes that study his face intently.
Ted spends the afternoon entertaining Lady Queensbury and young Madeleine.
A trickle of sweat runs down Ted's back. It is so hot that he is reminded of the time he served in the Caribbean, not the best memories to be reminiscing as he walks into the lobby of the hotel and asks for Lord Alfred Douglas. Even had he not wanted to, he could not possibly have avoided calling on him, not when he is not yet ready to say goodbye to Theodore Grayson. What troubles him is that he does want to see Bosie.
He is ushered into one of the lounges of the hotel, where Bosie is artistically sprawled in one of the sofas, smoking a cigarette. His radiant smile breaks forth when the blue eyes alight on Ted and he stands, one smooth motion like a ripple on water. Ted is wary as he approaches him; not wary of the youth, but wary of himself.
"How delightful to see you again so soon, I didn't expect as much. Will you share a cigarette with me?"
Ted accepts with gratitude. Acrid smoke is inhaled, but he has smoked much more exotic substances and would not cough at the simplicity of tobacco. "Thank you."
They settle down comfortably and chatter on. Ted has to be brought up to date on the latest happenings in London's high society and Bosie is only too glad to help. When Ted asks what Bosie himself is doing in Egypt, the youth looks off and his eyes lose their brilliance.
"My father wanted me out of the country," he confesses in a whisper. A wry twist of his lips momentarily disfigure the harmony of his features. "He does not approve of my choice of friends."
Ted knows better than to give an answer to this, but lets Bosie come back to his usual self and resume their meaningless talk. After half an hour, they decide to go for a walk. Bosie leaves a note at the reception for his acquaintances, he insists, not his friends. There is a twinkle in his eyes that says more than any word. Once they are out of the city, Bosie slips his hand in the crook of Ted's arm. Ted knows the act well and does not encourage it. Neither does he discourage it.
"Alone at last," Bosie remarks dramatically after the women depart to let the men have their brandy. "I love my mother, don't get me wrong, but sometimes the necessities of being in the company of women seem too heavy to be worth it."
"What necessities would they be?" Grégoire asks conversationally, reclining on a sofa.
"One needs be so careful when conversing with the fair sex... As to what exactly is fair about them, I have yet to be made aware."
"I find that conversing with men is just as demanding," Ted intervenes, leaning an elbow on the mantelpiece.
Francis nods his agreement from the armchair he is in, but it is only toward Ted that Bosie directs his attention. "Truly? Do you not feel freer in the company of men, to speak and act as you wish?"
"I suppose it depends on the sort of men."
A slow smile creeps onto Bosie's lips, changing Apollo into Loki. "Indeed."
"Come and dine with us tonight!"
The offer rings spontaneous but everything has been building up to this. Ted is not quite a debutant at these games and he would need a better manipulator than one Lord Alfred Douglas to trick him into what he does not want. So the true question is, does he want this? It is not owing to Bosie's tactics but the obligation stands.
"I would not want to impose."
The pressure of the hand on his arm increases. "Nonsense. We'd love to have you."
"You and your... acquaintances?"
"Me more than my acquaintances. I'd be positively thrilled. God knows I need a man of some intellect to distract me from them. You'd be doing me a grand favour." The thumb traces a short line on the inside of Ted's arm. "Please."
"At what time?"
The eager look becomes triumphant and the hand lets go of his arm. "In two hours?"
"I'll be there."
Teeth scrape on the lower lip and Ted cannot decide whether it is deliberate or unconscious. "Excellent."
"You want him."
The words snap in the air like the crack of a whip, for which Ted is sorry. He meant them as an assertion, not an attack. Grégoire's spine has straightened and Ted wants to ask what's happened to them, except he already knows he will get no answer, only make matters worse. He wants to go over to Grégoire and mould himself to him along the length of his back, but he stays still and looks at him. Grégoire turns around and there is a depth of emotion in his eyes that he does not usually show.
"Come with me." Ted feels dead inside but he must have displayed some reaction because Grégoire takes a step forward and insists. "Come with me to dinner tonight." Or I might not be able to resist him, Ted thinks he means to say. "I – I'd like for you to. I wish you'd just take the time to know him. You'd like him as well."
Or maybe it's something entirely different that Grégoire means to say.
I love you. The words are stuck in his throat and all Ted can say is, "No."
Grégoire's face closes up and Ted can feel the distance growing between them, while not a step is taken. The words do more than sound like a whip; they cut like one, too, and draw blood.
"Very well."
Ted looks off in the distance but does not see the Elephantine Island displayed before his eyes; instead he imagines wavelets licking at his bare feet on the wet sand. Memories of a time now gone when there would have been another pair of feet beside his. His illusion shatters into thousands of tiny pieces as the voice speaks up, he is joined on the balcony and his gaze focuses on the elephant-shaped boulders that granted the island its name.
"Are they not absolutely tedious?"
Voices drift from inside the suite. Ted looks down at the hand resting on the railing next to his, the long fingers, supple and bent. "I've had to associate with worse. If you dislike them so, why bother?"
"I'd rather be in bad company than alone."
A finger moves to the left, just enough to touch Ted's. His breath catches in his throat but he makes no sound. Skin against skin, no motion, simple contact and he feels weak in the knees, something warm and tense swirling slowly in his belly, spreading lower. He does not really acknowledge the movement until it is done, until the hand wholly covers his, fingers entwined over the wood of the railing.
"Would you fancy a swim?"
The casual words make him turn to Bosie, hand jerking out from under his. The blue eyes are laughing at him, or perhaps it is just the lights.
"In the hotel pool, downstairs."
"Your acquaintances?"
With a secret smile Bosie walks back inside and tells them, smile gone and frown on his usually smooth brow, that he is plagued with the most awful headache, and if they would be kind enough to excuse him for tonight? They all walk out, and as Ted does so Bosie catches his eye and Ted knows what he has to do. His choice. He walks out with the others and once they have parted ways he doubles back and finds Bosie waiting for him in the lobby, clad in a bathrobe. The hotel staff is nowhere to be seen.
Grégoire does not come back until the following morning. Ted knows better than to ask, and instead he lets the worst possibilities chase each other in his mind. They pack and leave within the next few days. It is but a single occurrence in a world where illustrations keep rushing them, illustrations of their inability to stay together.
Five months later, Ted is yelling out the bitterness, the resentment and all the hurt he has accumulated. It is an ugly time, ugly things to say and ugly things to hear, but he pours his heart out at long last. When he is done, Grégoire has nothing to say in answer. He takes his bags and leaves, and Ted convinces himself that it is what he wants. He convinces himself that there is no distinction between what he wants and what they need, or the other way around. He convinces himself that he wants Grégoire gone, and it is not until a world and a few days stand between them that he breaks down into sobs, hearkening to the gaping hole in his heart. By then, he has no idea where Grégoire is, so he stays in place and hopes for him to come back to him.
He stops waiting after a year.
The pool is outdoors. The moon crescent reflects on the smooth surface of the water. It feels unnatural to Ted, still water, and he thinks that he should find a position on a ship and say goodbye to Theodore Grayson after all. What does he need Theodore Grayson for?
The water splashes and ripples. The bathrobe is discarded on the edge of the pool and after a few seconds Bosie surfaces on the other side, shaking droplets of water out of his hair. "What are you waiting for?"
A good question, Ted reflects as Bosie swims back towards him. The lines of his body are taut an instant, supple the next as muscles work to bring him to the edge of the pool, right under Ted. He is nude and water clings to his eyelashes, making them appear longer and darker than they already are. Bosie pushes himself out of the water and stands in front of Ted, as charming as a dangerous snake and with the same undulating grace. His nimble fingers work swiftly on ridding Ted of his clothes. Ted lets him, strangely passive; he feels as if he were watching himself go through the motions. But entering the cold water pulls him back into his body, along with the warm tongue exploring his mouth.
After that, all melts into a blur.
Ted leaves the house in a huff. He has been angry at himself, the world and Grégoire for a couple of weeks. There is no choice in his actions, only necessity. He leaves the key behind and wishes better luck to the next owner. A year, it has been a year last week, and Grégoire is not back. Ted lets himself feel nothing but wrath as he drives away, never to come back.
By nightfall, he is glad the house is sold already, for fear that he would go back. Instead he holds onto his pillow and dreams of Grégoire.
Beams of sunlight filter through the partially closed curtains, falling onto the bed. The sheets are rumpled, the air filled with the smell of sweat and sex. Shadows dance at the corner of Ted's eyes so he closes them to focus on the hand stroking lazy circles on his back. Now and then, lips kiss the curve of his shoulder, the base of his nape, the niche in between two vertebrae, the flat of his shoulder blade, and once they give a playful bite to the swell of his arse. Just now a tongue traces lavish symbols on his lower back, closer and closer to his spine, to kiss him on the spot where he knows Grégoire to have a mole. He shifts, wondering whether it was done on purpose. His answer comes readily.
"You love him, don't you?" Another kiss at the same spot as all of Ted's muscles tense. "You spoke his name in your sleep." The expert tongue licks its way up his spine and it does not help him relax. The demand is whispered against his nape. "Tell me what it is like to love."
The words won't come and so Ted tells him, "There are no words," in a voice far too deep to be his own. He feels Bosie smile as the youth buries his face in his neck to nibble at the sensitive skin, and wonders at the distance between them. There are no words, only actions, Ted wants to add, but the sinful things that are occupying Bosie's tongue and hands take the breath out of him, and for a few very long minutes he lets himself be lost in the youth.
When he runs into Rinaldo in Paris, Ted cannot believe his luck. The smile he casts at the tall Italian who he met through Grégoire is genuine, the most genuine he has sported in a year and a half, no, more than that in truth. Hope blossoms through his chest like a breath of fresh air after strangulation.
"Ted!" Their smiles match each other as they clasp hands. "Is Gregorio with you?"
He feels as if he'd had the breath knocked out of him, yet he keeps on smiling mechanically for a few seconds. "Don't call him that, you know how he hates it," he manages to say, then is forced to look away from the concerned gaze of Rinaldo. Unshed tears blur his sight.
"What happened?"
It is not mere concern but actual fear that rings through the Italian's words and Ted realises how much worse it could be. Ted shakes his head. "He is well." Or so he hopes.
Acknowledgement dawns on Rinaldo's features, followed by sympathy. It is more than Ted can take, so he pretexts an appointment and leaves the city within the next few hours.
Muted breaths, sticky limbs, dim lights and secret emotions. Ted looks at the hand on his chest, entwines their fingers together. He adores this body. It has been two weeks now, a fortnight since Bosie found him on the bank of the Nile. Ted has no illusion as to the character and feelings of his young lover, and he does not mind. Ted too is using him, so who is he to judge? Bosie moans and shifts in his sleep, closer to Ted. It feels good to be in bed with another, to feel warmth curled against him, even when the other is simply a young Adonis with a perfect body but little interest in Ted or anyone beside himself. And perfect it is, down to its flaws. In two weeks, Ted has explored more of Bosie's body than he had done of Grégoire's in the first month, not that it is surprising.
"What are you thinking about?" The voice has him look down at a sleepy Bosie, eyes closed but who nestles closer to him, disentangling his fingers from Ted's to put his hand on his shoulder instead, holding him. "You were frowning."
"How many times did you sleep with him?"
This has the eyes wide open as Bosie forces himself from the last remnants of sleep. His eyes study Ted, trying to gauge his mood. The hand on his shoulder has instinctively tightened but now he relaxes it, slides it to the side of Ted's torso. "Only once." Ted hopes it is the truth, because it is a sweet truth to hear. Would Bosie lie to make it easy on him? Unlikely. "He shagged me out of resentment."
"Not that you minded."
"Not that I minded."
Bosie settles back down and drops a mechanical kiss in Ted's neck. Ted wants to ask him whether he loves his Irish author, whether he thinks of him when they fuck. Instead he disturbs the sleepy head by paying one last homage to the perfect body. They seem to fit together when Ted is deep within Bosie and sweet profanities tumble from the youth's lips. Afterwards Ted kisses each of Bosie's fingers, then stands and pulls item after item of clothing on. It is Bosie himself, still perfectly nude, that holds his jacket for him to slip into. His eyes dance with the same twinkle as usual, as if this were all very natural and Ted had told him everything about his departure. Maybe he has, only not with words.
"I do hope you'll look me up if ever you stop by London in your travels."
"We both know better."
Bosie does not ask whether Ted means his being in London or his looking him up. The youth walks him to the door of the suite, throws him one last impish smile. "I must say, I did not expect Egypt to be all that entrancing."
Ted does not know how to react anymore, so he remains genuine. He looks at Bosie and smiles. His footsteps make no sound on the carpeted floor of the hallway. When he walks out of the hotel he breathes in and smiles again, and he thinks that he might just be ready to live a little.
~~ the end ~~
So, for the disclaimers: the concept of Immortality belongs to Ryker, Panzer/Davis, for all the good they're doing with it. Rinaldo belongs to Edouard. Bosie belongs to himself, I assume – my portrayal of him does not claim to be that of the true lord Douglas, however, only of the character portrayed by Jude Law in Wilde, whoever he belongs to. Don't crucify me for it! Theodore Groves is originally a character from PotC and consequently belongs to the mouse, but I like to think I've made him into my very own character by now. Grégoire, however, is completely mine.
Yes, it's Highlander fanfiction and it's slash. But really, it's about getting over the end of a relationship, and it doesn't matter that you're an Immortal or into guys. Reviews will be much welcome.
Unbound
An ibis. Curious creature, white and all in lengths. Standing on the bank of the wide river. Standing immobile, fixed in time. Himself, crouched on a rock, watching the bird watching the sky. Wondering whether the bird is real or just an echo of a memory, called back from the dead in his mind. Curious circle, bound forever onto itself. Or so it would seem.
"Teddy!"
Jerked out of it, the circle spins out of its axis and collapses into the void. Slowly, immobility is cast off. A young man, radiant, an angel's face, a resplendent smile. The perspective changes as legs unfold to come of a height with the brilliance. The delight is as genuine as it is intense, the extended hand a prolongation of this spontaneity. The grip is steady and enthusiastic, a witness to youth and strength aplenty.
"I never thought to see you here!"
Pulled in to the here and now, remembrances rushing forth and words whirling together. The past is redefined by the present. "Nor I you."
"What brings you to Egypt?"
His eyes stray to the river, snap back to the youth. "I've always been a bit of a traveller."
"I remember. Is Grégoire with you?"
It is said with nonchalance, yet the acute shine of the eyes belie the tone and betray the true knowledge of exactly what is being said. He forces himself not to look away this time. "No. We have parted ways."
"Ha."
Silence comes to occupy the space in between them like sand spilling into an hourglass. Grains fall by and still the frank smile remains. There is a beacon in the way those eyes devour his face; warmth and tightness spread in his chest. Finally, the smile widens as a chuckle pours down from the cherry lips, head bent forward for the eyes to look up in laughter.
"I'm staying at the Old Cataract. Do come and see me, Teddy."
He does not ask him not to call him Teddy because after all it brings forth no unwanted memory, a nice change. The face is now tilted up and it is down that the eyes look, no less beckoning. "I'll be sure to."
"Good. I must go..." Figures waiting impatiently at the corner of his eyes, calls for the youth to answer and come. The young man makes to go, turns back to him. "I'll take it as a personal offence if you don't call on me."
"I wouldn't dream of offending you, Bosie, trust me."
A hand pressed lightly on his arm, a promise or a question, and Bosie is on his way, already no more than the memory of an impish smile and twinkling eyes. He wonders whether a memory is enough to incite him to visit, or whether it will have faded into unimportance by the morrow.
But on the following day he sees the smile and the eyes everywhere he turns. He has come to Egypt to forget, or remember, and all he can think of is the brilliance. Bosie had never seemed so brilliant to him.
"Remind me again what we're doing here," asks Ted as Grégoire and he walk on the beach. Sand has got into his shoes and he wishes he could stop to take them off.
"Do you want to become someone respectable or not? We need to do social niceties to get back into certain circles. The sons aren't as bad as the father."
"That would be a hard feat to achieve."
Ted looks at Grégoire as he walks on, refrains from laying a hand on his shoulder blade, in his back, and the urge to touch him sweeps by as Ted steps out of its way. Grégoire turns back to him, eyebrows raised in a clear intimation to follow. Ted looks at Grégoire and sees a mirror of his own respectable attire, the clothes of a dandy and hair to the latest fashion.
"I thought we English were supposed to be obsessed with respectability," he remarks as he catches up with Grégoire.
"What are Frenchmen supposed to be obsessed about, then?"
"Why, but the art of love..."
Grégoire shoots him an annoyed look and all amusement deserts Ted. Respectability, does he really want that? The times have changed but not that much, and this reminds him too much of his younger years. Imprisoned behind walls that are not made of matter, impeded by many an unspoken rule. Ahead on the beach a small party is walking along, two feminine figures under umbrellas and two in trousers. The day is not the best to have a walk on the beach and Ted fears a storm. There is storm in the air. He does not mind it, but he is sure Grégoire and those they are walking toward will. Grégoire's pace quickens in an uncharacteristic show of impatience but Ted walks on at the same speed. He does not look forward to this at all. He looks at the sea and wishes he were on a ship, up in the rigging, nothing with him but the wind and the sea and the sails and the mast and the ropes, then only would he feel free. Grégoire's voice cuts through his fancy.
"Let me introduce you to a dear friend of mine, Theodore Grayson."
Faces look expectantly at him, faces Grégoire puts names to. The older woman, the shadow of a passed beauty, is of course Lady Queensbury - or has she forfeited that name? The younger one, with a podgy face and big great eyes, is her niece Madeleine Worthington. The first man, a bit older than the other one, is a study of bronze, with calm features organised in a mask of peaceful beauty. Lord Francis Drumlanrig. That leaves the golden youth to be Lord Alfred "Bosie" Douglas and Ted can see why Grégoire described him in such praising terms. A young Apollo indeed, with curious eyes that study his face intently.
Ted spends the afternoon entertaining Lady Queensbury and young Madeleine.
A trickle of sweat runs down Ted's back. It is so hot that he is reminded of the time he served in the Caribbean, not the best memories to be reminiscing as he walks into the lobby of the hotel and asks for Lord Alfred Douglas. Even had he not wanted to, he could not possibly have avoided calling on him, not when he is not yet ready to say goodbye to Theodore Grayson. What troubles him is that he does want to see Bosie.
He is ushered into one of the lounges of the hotel, where Bosie is artistically sprawled in one of the sofas, smoking a cigarette. His radiant smile breaks forth when the blue eyes alight on Ted and he stands, one smooth motion like a ripple on water. Ted is wary as he approaches him; not wary of the youth, but wary of himself.
"How delightful to see you again so soon, I didn't expect as much. Will you share a cigarette with me?"
Ted accepts with gratitude. Acrid smoke is inhaled, but he has smoked much more exotic substances and would not cough at the simplicity of tobacco. "Thank you."
They settle down comfortably and chatter on. Ted has to be brought up to date on the latest happenings in London's high society and Bosie is only too glad to help. When Ted asks what Bosie himself is doing in Egypt, the youth looks off and his eyes lose their brilliance.
"My father wanted me out of the country," he confesses in a whisper. A wry twist of his lips momentarily disfigure the harmony of his features. "He does not approve of my choice of friends."
Ted knows better than to give an answer to this, but lets Bosie come back to his usual self and resume their meaningless talk. After half an hour, they decide to go for a walk. Bosie leaves a note at the reception for his acquaintances, he insists, not his friends. There is a twinkle in his eyes that says more than any word. Once they are out of the city, Bosie slips his hand in the crook of Ted's arm. Ted knows the act well and does not encourage it. Neither does he discourage it.
"Alone at last," Bosie remarks dramatically after the women depart to let the men have their brandy. "I love my mother, don't get me wrong, but sometimes the necessities of being in the company of women seem too heavy to be worth it."
"What necessities would they be?" Grégoire asks conversationally, reclining on a sofa.
"One needs be so careful when conversing with the fair sex... As to what exactly is fair about them, I have yet to be made aware."
"I find that conversing with men is just as demanding," Ted intervenes, leaning an elbow on the mantelpiece.
Francis nods his agreement from the armchair he is in, but it is only toward Ted that Bosie directs his attention. "Truly? Do you not feel freer in the company of men, to speak and act as you wish?"
"I suppose it depends on the sort of men."
A slow smile creeps onto Bosie's lips, changing Apollo into Loki. "Indeed."
"Come and dine with us tonight!"
The offer rings spontaneous but everything has been building up to this. Ted is not quite a debutant at these games and he would need a better manipulator than one Lord Alfred Douglas to trick him into what he does not want. So the true question is, does he want this? It is not owing to Bosie's tactics but the obligation stands.
"I would not want to impose."
The pressure of the hand on his arm increases. "Nonsense. We'd love to have you."
"You and your... acquaintances?"
"Me more than my acquaintances. I'd be positively thrilled. God knows I need a man of some intellect to distract me from them. You'd be doing me a grand favour." The thumb traces a short line on the inside of Ted's arm. "Please."
"At what time?"
The eager look becomes triumphant and the hand lets go of his arm. "In two hours?"
"I'll be there."
Teeth scrape on the lower lip and Ted cannot decide whether it is deliberate or unconscious. "Excellent."
"You want him."
The words snap in the air like the crack of a whip, for which Ted is sorry. He meant them as an assertion, not an attack. Grégoire's spine has straightened and Ted wants to ask what's happened to them, except he already knows he will get no answer, only make matters worse. He wants to go over to Grégoire and mould himself to him along the length of his back, but he stays still and looks at him. Grégoire turns around and there is a depth of emotion in his eyes that he does not usually show.
"Come with me." Ted feels dead inside but he must have displayed some reaction because Grégoire takes a step forward and insists. "Come with me to dinner tonight." Or I might not be able to resist him, Ted thinks he means to say. "I – I'd like for you to. I wish you'd just take the time to know him. You'd like him as well."
Or maybe it's something entirely different that Grégoire means to say.
I love you. The words are stuck in his throat and all Ted can say is, "No."
Grégoire's face closes up and Ted can feel the distance growing between them, while not a step is taken. The words do more than sound like a whip; they cut like one, too, and draw blood.
"Very well."
Ted looks off in the distance but does not see the Elephantine Island displayed before his eyes; instead he imagines wavelets licking at his bare feet on the wet sand. Memories of a time now gone when there would have been another pair of feet beside his. His illusion shatters into thousands of tiny pieces as the voice speaks up, he is joined on the balcony and his gaze focuses on the elephant-shaped boulders that granted the island its name.
"Are they not absolutely tedious?"
Voices drift from inside the suite. Ted looks down at the hand resting on the railing next to his, the long fingers, supple and bent. "I've had to associate with worse. If you dislike them so, why bother?"
"I'd rather be in bad company than alone."
A finger moves to the left, just enough to touch Ted's. His breath catches in his throat but he makes no sound. Skin against skin, no motion, simple contact and he feels weak in the knees, something warm and tense swirling slowly in his belly, spreading lower. He does not really acknowledge the movement until it is done, until the hand wholly covers his, fingers entwined over the wood of the railing.
"Would you fancy a swim?"
The casual words make him turn to Bosie, hand jerking out from under his. The blue eyes are laughing at him, or perhaps it is just the lights.
"In the hotel pool, downstairs."
"Your acquaintances?"
With a secret smile Bosie walks back inside and tells them, smile gone and frown on his usually smooth brow, that he is plagued with the most awful headache, and if they would be kind enough to excuse him for tonight? They all walk out, and as Ted does so Bosie catches his eye and Ted knows what he has to do. His choice. He walks out with the others and once they have parted ways he doubles back and finds Bosie waiting for him in the lobby, clad in a bathrobe. The hotel staff is nowhere to be seen.
Grégoire does not come back until the following morning. Ted knows better than to ask, and instead he lets the worst possibilities chase each other in his mind. They pack and leave within the next few days. It is but a single occurrence in a world where illustrations keep rushing them, illustrations of their inability to stay together.
Five months later, Ted is yelling out the bitterness, the resentment and all the hurt he has accumulated. It is an ugly time, ugly things to say and ugly things to hear, but he pours his heart out at long last. When he is done, Grégoire has nothing to say in answer. He takes his bags and leaves, and Ted convinces himself that it is what he wants. He convinces himself that there is no distinction between what he wants and what they need, or the other way around. He convinces himself that he wants Grégoire gone, and it is not until a world and a few days stand between them that he breaks down into sobs, hearkening to the gaping hole in his heart. By then, he has no idea where Grégoire is, so he stays in place and hopes for him to come back to him.
He stops waiting after a year.
The pool is outdoors. The moon crescent reflects on the smooth surface of the water. It feels unnatural to Ted, still water, and he thinks that he should find a position on a ship and say goodbye to Theodore Grayson after all. What does he need Theodore Grayson for?
The water splashes and ripples. The bathrobe is discarded on the edge of the pool and after a few seconds Bosie surfaces on the other side, shaking droplets of water out of his hair. "What are you waiting for?"
A good question, Ted reflects as Bosie swims back towards him. The lines of his body are taut an instant, supple the next as muscles work to bring him to the edge of the pool, right under Ted. He is nude and water clings to his eyelashes, making them appear longer and darker than they already are. Bosie pushes himself out of the water and stands in front of Ted, as charming as a dangerous snake and with the same undulating grace. His nimble fingers work swiftly on ridding Ted of his clothes. Ted lets him, strangely passive; he feels as if he were watching himself go through the motions. But entering the cold water pulls him back into his body, along with the warm tongue exploring his mouth.
After that, all melts into a blur.
Ted leaves the house in a huff. He has been angry at himself, the world and Grégoire for a couple of weeks. There is no choice in his actions, only necessity. He leaves the key behind and wishes better luck to the next owner. A year, it has been a year last week, and Grégoire is not back. Ted lets himself feel nothing but wrath as he drives away, never to come back.
By nightfall, he is glad the house is sold already, for fear that he would go back. Instead he holds onto his pillow and dreams of Grégoire.
Beams of sunlight filter through the partially closed curtains, falling onto the bed. The sheets are rumpled, the air filled with the smell of sweat and sex. Shadows dance at the corner of Ted's eyes so he closes them to focus on the hand stroking lazy circles on his back. Now and then, lips kiss the curve of his shoulder, the base of his nape, the niche in between two vertebrae, the flat of his shoulder blade, and once they give a playful bite to the swell of his arse. Just now a tongue traces lavish symbols on his lower back, closer and closer to his spine, to kiss him on the spot where he knows Grégoire to have a mole. He shifts, wondering whether it was done on purpose. His answer comes readily.
"You love him, don't you?" Another kiss at the same spot as all of Ted's muscles tense. "You spoke his name in your sleep." The expert tongue licks its way up his spine and it does not help him relax. The demand is whispered against his nape. "Tell me what it is like to love."
The words won't come and so Ted tells him, "There are no words," in a voice far too deep to be his own. He feels Bosie smile as the youth buries his face in his neck to nibble at the sensitive skin, and wonders at the distance between them. There are no words, only actions, Ted wants to add, but the sinful things that are occupying Bosie's tongue and hands take the breath out of him, and for a few very long minutes he lets himself be lost in the youth.
When he runs into Rinaldo in Paris, Ted cannot believe his luck. The smile he casts at the tall Italian who he met through Grégoire is genuine, the most genuine he has sported in a year and a half, no, more than that in truth. Hope blossoms through his chest like a breath of fresh air after strangulation.
"Ted!" Their smiles match each other as they clasp hands. "Is Gregorio with you?"
He feels as if he'd had the breath knocked out of him, yet he keeps on smiling mechanically for a few seconds. "Don't call him that, you know how he hates it," he manages to say, then is forced to look away from the concerned gaze of Rinaldo. Unshed tears blur his sight.
"What happened?"
It is not mere concern but actual fear that rings through the Italian's words and Ted realises how much worse it could be. Ted shakes his head. "He is well." Or so he hopes.
Acknowledgement dawns on Rinaldo's features, followed by sympathy. It is more than Ted can take, so he pretexts an appointment and leaves the city within the next few hours.
Muted breaths, sticky limbs, dim lights and secret emotions. Ted looks at the hand on his chest, entwines their fingers together. He adores this body. It has been two weeks now, a fortnight since Bosie found him on the bank of the Nile. Ted has no illusion as to the character and feelings of his young lover, and he does not mind. Ted too is using him, so who is he to judge? Bosie moans and shifts in his sleep, closer to Ted. It feels good to be in bed with another, to feel warmth curled against him, even when the other is simply a young Adonis with a perfect body but little interest in Ted or anyone beside himself. And perfect it is, down to its flaws. In two weeks, Ted has explored more of Bosie's body than he had done of Grégoire's in the first month, not that it is surprising.
"What are you thinking about?" The voice has him look down at a sleepy Bosie, eyes closed but who nestles closer to him, disentangling his fingers from Ted's to put his hand on his shoulder instead, holding him. "You were frowning."
"How many times did you sleep with him?"
This has the eyes wide open as Bosie forces himself from the last remnants of sleep. His eyes study Ted, trying to gauge his mood. The hand on his shoulder has instinctively tightened but now he relaxes it, slides it to the side of Ted's torso. "Only once." Ted hopes it is the truth, because it is a sweet truth to hear. Would Bosie lie to make it easy on him? Unlikely. "He shagged me out of resentment."
"Not that you minded."
"Not that I minded."
Bosie settles back down and drops a mechanical kiss in Ted's neck. Ted wants to ask him whether he loves his Irish author, whether he thinks of him when they fuck. Instead he disturbs the sleepy head by paying one last homage to the perfect body. They seem to fit together when Ted is deep within Bosie and sweet profanities tumble from the youth's lips. Afterwards Ted kisses each of Bosie's fingers, then stands and pulls item after item of clothing on. It is Bosie himself, still perfectly nude, that holds his jacket for him to slip into. His eyes dance with the same twinkle as usual, as if this were all very natural and Ted had told him everything about his departure. Maybe he has, only not with words.
"I do hope you'll look me up if ever you stop by London in your travels."
"We both know better."
Bosie does not ask whether Ted means his being in London or his looking him up. The youth walks him to the door of the suite, throws him one last impish smile. "I must say, I did not expect Egypt to be all that entrancing."
Ted does not know how to react anymore, so he remains genuine. He looks at Bosie and smiles. His footsteps make no sound on the carpeted floor of the hallway. When he walks out of the hotel he breathes in and smiles again, and he thinks that he might just be ready to live a little.
~~ the end ~~
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