|
Discovery (Combeferre): June, 1827
For years, I thought Julien did not like making love. He will never, never ask me in words, and hardly ever in any direct fashion at all. He will kiss me, then turn away. And when I ask, "What's wrong?" The answer, invariably, is "Nothing." "Are you sure?" And if I touch his shoulder then, he will turn and embrace me, or shudder. "I'm sure." "All right." If he is in my arms then he will kiss me; if he is not he might embrace me, as though it is too much for him to bear, as though it is simply impossible to admit that he wants anything until he is trembling in my arms with desire and inexplicable embarrassment. If he has turned away and leaves me alone, if he does not break his composure, I never know whether he wants anything from me but peace. I would never impose on him if I knew it was an imposition. How could I not doubt that when I turn to him in the night, impassioned with the taste of his mouth and the feel of his skin, that sometimes he does not want the caresses I am aching to give him? He does not ask unless I push him to it, and even then he is embarrassed. In turn, he is embarrassed when I ask him anything, even if it is something that I know he would like, moreso if it is something he has little or no experience with, and then I am more likely to abandon the topic than press him into it. I would spend an inordinate amount of time in his arms if I could, if I knew he wanted it, but he does not seem to want half as much as I do. Sometimes I think he accepts my advances only to clear his head, only to make me happy for half a moment, not for the joy of them. How different my lovers are -- Aimery, who could spend half the day making love, Julien, who hates the subject and sometimes hates the act. And I am between them, I suppose, in that I do not find it infinitely amazing, but neither do I abhor it. But Julien does not hate it, all the time, however much he may wish he did. He merely thinks of it as a waste of time if it goes on too long, or an embarrassment if it asks too much of him. The only way I can teach him anything or convince him to try anything new is by showing him what the pleasure in it is before he can demand a full, difficult, unappealing explanation. There is no delicate way to explain so many things, and yet it seems that some of the ones that sound the worst are the most amazing in practice. With something esoteric, I find it is better to surprise him, and sometimes he is entirely capable of surprising me. It was late June and as hot a day as you could wish for. The river had half-boiled in the heat and everyone in the city was half-cooked with their heads full of half-baked ideas, among which I count my own notions. Julien had bathed that morning to alleviate the heat somewhat, then gone back to bed, overcome by the temperature and a lassitude that laid him prone on the white sheet, his bare skin hardly a shade darker than the fabric and his hair, blonder than ever with sun-streaks, silver-gold on the pillow. I had been trying to read while he slept until I paused between chapters and looked at him. After that reckless glance I could not concentrate on the regular progression of paragraphs; my thoughts were too caught up in the spectacle of him, the beauty he possesses that I can never quite forget, but which I often neglect to appreciate in all its splendor. I wanted him that morning so fiercely that I had to set my book aside and join him in nudity, which was a much more sensible mode of dress for the weather in any case. He did not wake until I sat beside him on the bed and kissed the back of his thigh lightly. That startled him out of his dream, and he asked, "What are you doing?" in a sleepy voice. "Admiring you," I said, amused at his unfocused tone. "Oh." He yawned. "I was sleeping." I ran my hand across the small of his back and made him sigh. "I know. Shall I let you go back to sleep?" "You needn't." "All right." I kissed him where my fingers had just touched, down the line of his spine. "What are you doing?" he asked again, turning his head as though he could see me. "Let me, chéri?" I nuzzled the curve of his buttock, and he laughed incredulously. "Let you what?" "Let me make love to you." "What are you talking about?" "Shh. Let me show you," I said, trying to sound soothing, trying not to be too specific. But when I put my hand on his thigh to ease his legs apart, he was reluctant. "You still haven't told me what you're doing." I bit my lip. "Let me show you?" "Tell me." "It sounds worse than it is." "That's as it may be. Tell me. Please." I sighed. "Trust me, love. Please?" He hesitated, then made a small, uncomfortable noise and relaxed against the pillow, letting me spread his legs a little wider. "Thank you." When I resumed my earlier attentions and nibbled on the smooth skin of his buttock, he gasped. "Audric --" "Hmm?" "That tickles." "Oh." I sat up a bit and began rubbing the small of his back as if I were giving him a massage, trying to soothe him into letting me carry on. "Is that a little better?" "Not really. Tell me what you're going to do." "Mon amour, trust me. Give me three minutes, and if you don't like it, I'll leave you be." He didn't answer immediately. "If you insist." "It won't hurt. I promise you that." "All right," he said eventually. I alternated light caresses and kisses on the silky, pale skin of his lower back, moving gradually lower until he gasped at a particularly intimate touch. I rubbed his back gently, afraid he would tense again and the touches would turn ticklish while I was attempting to give him an exceedingly intimate kiss. He said, "Audric," again, and this time he was not chiding me. I felt his muscles relax under my hands and under my tongue. A sighing request was not a request to stop, for he could have attained that goal by simply moving away. That seemed to be the last thing he was going to do at the moment. He arched into the touch and I heard his breath catch. If I had not been busy, I would have laughed for joy, then. It is so sweet and rare to see him at all abandoned. He said my name again, breathlessly, half-muffled in the pillow, and reached for my hand. I clasped his fingers, treasuring the touch almost as much as the sound of his voice. He is almost never willing to give voice to pleasure, but he was not accustomed to or prepared for what I was doing. "God, please," he said, and surely he was not aware of having said it, for he does not say such things. He sounded as though he would have liked to say more, but when he tried to go on all he could manage was a long breath, half-sigh, half-moan, and another cry, less like a word and more primal than any sound I would have thought my dignified, handsome love would make. I felt him shiver and push against the bed before he relaxed entirely. I gave him another soft kiss and sat up, grinning at him though he had his face buried in the pillow and could not have seen my expression. "Je t'aime," I said, not sure whether he could hear me. "Mmh," he said, which made me grin more. I ran my hand down his back. "You are so lovely," I said to him, hoping that for once he was too tired or distracted to object to the compliment. "What -- I -- come here?" he turned onto his side and held his arms out to me, asking for an embrace. I lay beside him and held him close, disregarding the fact that he was rather a mess and I was rather aroused. I kissed his cheek. "Are you all right?" "I think so." He touched my face with gentle fingers as if he had somehow forgotten what I looked like. His eyes were wide with something like confusion. "Why did you do that?" I blushed and looked away from him, afraid he was disgusted, afraid against all the evidence that he had not liked it. "I'm sorry." "Don't be sorry." He shook my shoulder. "Talk to me." "Because I thought you would enjoy it, and because you were too beautiful, asleep, and I couldn't ignore you." He looked at me for another moment, then kissed me. I had not been expecting him to do that, but I could not protest, not with his fingers tangling in my hair and my breath catching. "God, Audric," he said softly afterward. "That was --" he blushed. I touched his hair and realized that my hand was shaking a little. "I hoped it would be all right." He nodded and buried his face in my shoulder. We held each other for some time in silence before he stirred, as though he had fallen asleep and woken up again. "Good morning," I said softly. "We should get out of bed before it's afternoon." I bit my lip. That was entirely true, and perfectly reasonable, but I did not want to let him go. "Yes, we should." He let me go and gave my shoulder a little push so that I would lie back, then kissed me again, not at all in the manner of someone who wants to get out of bed. I chuckled, and he blinked at me and asked, "What?" "You're not encouraging me to get on with my studies," I said mildly. "Aren't I?" He sat up and moved so that he was straddling me, sitting over but not exactly on my stomach. I laughed and ran my hand down his side, admiring the contours of his body. "No. Not at all." He gave me a considering look, but his eyes were sparkling. "Shall I leave you alone, then?" The best answer to that was to caress his thigh. "Don't do that." "Mm. All right." He leaned down to kiss me again. "Would you --" And he blushed, interrupting himself. "What?" I tried to keep all the teasing out of my tone. "I can't reach it, from here." It took me a moment to believe that what I wanted to hear was what I had heard. When I reached my conclusion, I fumbled under the bed and presented him with the bottle of oil. He took it, his cheeks still red with embarrassment. I bit my lip. "Will you -- may I --?" So many restrictions between us, things I could not say to him, things I could not bear to hear him say. We had not made a list of the rules; we never discussed them, and yet they were there, holding us apart even when we were as close as we could be. I could not ask to make love to him; I could not have borne to hear him say he was in love with someone else. He ignored me when I spoke of peace and progress, and I did my best to ignore him when he spoke of battles. And yet, even in the silence, we could negotiate some things. He kissed me again and then sat back, not entirely looking at me in his moment of indecision. I felt sure that he knew what I would have asked if he permitted the question. He gave me back the bottle, biting his lip as he did it as if I would refuse the gift or the question it represented. I wet my fingers with the oil and smiled at him, though he did not entirely smile back. He did not look at me even as I caressed him until I said, "Julien," softly. He glanced at me, startled, as though he had forgotten I was there or forgotten that I had my fingers inside him. "What?" "It's all right," I said, still smiling though he was oddly solemn. "You needn't look so worried." "I'm not worried." He took a shuddering breath. "I --" "What?" "I don't know, really." He looked away again, toward the door. I had the dizzying feeling that I had never met him before, this beautiful man sitting on my chest who was reluctantly allowing me to stroke him. He showed few signs of enjoying the process, and fewer signs that he was thinking of anything to do with me. I stopped and pulled my hands away. He sighed. I said, "I'm sorry." "What's wrong?" He looked at me then, and he was Julien again, not an anonymous, impossibly handsome boy. Perhaps because it was Julien, I could not resume what I had been doing. My hands shook at the thought. "I don't mean to ask you for something you don't want." He frowned. "Audric, I wouldn't -- what gives you the idea I don't want it?" I blushed. "You hardly even look like you're awake, let alone enjoying this -- I'm sorry, you can get up. I'll leave you alone." "What on earth is wrong with you?" He blinked at me another moment, then kissed me with every sign of passion that he had been lacking a minute earlier, but it was too late. I could not avoid the vertiginous fear that he was unhappy, even though he said, "Damn it, don't stop now." "Yes, but --" I couldn't explain the sickening feeling that I had coerced him into tolerating this from me, the cold sensation in my stomach that was my suspicion that he did not want it, that he did not want me. "When I want you not to do something, I won't encourage you to do it, all right?" He shook his head impatiently. "God's sake, Audric, I know better than to tease you if I don't want anything." I looked away from him, which was rather difficult at that point, but also necessary if I was going to keep my composure. I could not go on with it, not then. "I'm sorry." "Don't be sorry. Don't be vexing. Just --" I covered my face with my relatively clean hand. I wanted to hide from him, to hide the fact that I wanted him for anything less pure than friendship, for anything more carnal than adoration. I wanted to forget the taste of him that lingered on my tongue. There were no words to explain my sudden conviction that he was allowing me to touch him as a bored and exhausted wife might permit her husband liberties. There was no logic in my conclusion that he did not want me, but I could not dismiss it. "I'm sorry, I said." "What do I have to do to make you realize that I want something from you? How much more obvious could I possibly be?" He shivered. "Why is this so difficult to understand? Do you want me to tell you to stop?" He pulled my hand away from my face. "Please. Don't do this, not now." I still couldn't meet his eyes. His words did not comfort me, for they were only logical. If he was willing to permit something he did not want to please me, he might well protest if I stopped halfway, for that was pleasing to neither of us. "I'm sorry." "Fine." He got up, though he was shuddering with cold and emotion. "If you didn't want anything, you could have said so earlier." I sat up and reached out to him as a child tries to catch a sunbeam when it is obscured by the movement of clouds. "Please --" Although the day was warm, I was cold in his sudden absence. He turned back, his expression as close to furious as I had seen him in quite some time. "What? You don't want to make love, you don't want to do anything else, you don't want me, you want to torture me and then give up -- what do you want now?" I looked at the sheets rather than at him. "I didn't mean to torture you. Come back to bed. Please?" My earlier desire had faded to a dull ache and a hopeless need to hold him. "Why?" "I didn't mean to make you angry. I'm sorry." I shivered. "You're always sorry afterward." He turned away. "I don't think that's a reason to let you torment me." "I never meant to torment you." I got up, though my knees shook, and embraced him from behind, kissing his shoulder, which had tensed considerably in the last few minutes. "Don't be angry with me." "Don't be an idiot. If you don't want anything, say so." "I do want you." I ran my hand down his back; I was not sure exactly how I meant it, but I knew he would respond to that touch. He pulled away from me and turned to face me, his cheeks red again. "You clearly don't, or you wouldn't have balked so." I blinked at him, confused. "I thought you didn't want anything." "I did, then. I don't now." He picked up a shirt from the floor and put it on with swift, irritated movements. "Are you sure?" "Yes." I sighed, still wondering what he had actually wanted, and when he had wanted it or stopped wanting it. "I'm sorry." "So am I." He picked up another shirt and tossed it to me. "Get dressed, would you, you look foolish." I felt myself blush at that and the truth in it. I know I am plain and weak beside him, though I do not often think on it. On the worst days, I am not sure why he would want to look at me. I know perfectly well how easily he could find another, more handsome, more courageous lover. When he is angry, I fear that he will come to a sudden realization that he could find someone better suited to him than I, and I will do almost anything to convince him to forgive me. I sat on the bed and pulled on the shirt. "Let me make it up to you, chéri." "Not now." "But --" I picked at the top sheet and did not look at him for fear he would chide me again for acting the buffoon. "I doubt you'll be able to concentrate." "Whose fault is that?" He glared at me. "I hate it when you do this." "Let me make amends," I said again, softly. I needed his approval however I could acquire it, even if all he did was cease to fume at me. "You didn't want me five minutes ago." "Yes, I did." I offered him a hand, palm up, as petitioners beseech something higher than themselves for some favor. "I wasn't sure you wanted anything. And now I'm sure." All I was sure of was that he had wanted something, not whether he still did nor whether I could convince him to want it again, but there was enough truth in what I said to serve my purpose and hold to my many vows never to lie to him. He sat beside me and embraced me, giving me a kiss that was equal parts desire and anger. "Are you?" That was the reassurance I had needed. There was an overwhelming passion in him that infected me. I shuddered in his arms and felt that passion warm me as though he had breathed new life into me and into my desire for him. "Yes," I said, breathless, and started unbuttoning his shirt. "If you're going to damned well torment me again --" I kissed his neck, wanting to soothe him, afraid that he would want to stop just as I felt safe wanting him again. "No. I wouldn't." He pushed me away, and I fell back on the bed, surprised at him. He took off his shirt and threw it onto the floor. He was still angry, I could see that, and feel it in the hasty, sharp tugs he used to unbutton the shirt I'd put on at his behest. But his anger did not frighten me anymore, for he had not given up on me. "Don't tease me." "I couldn't," I said, and surely he could hear the truth in the hoarseness of my voice and see it in me, for I was shivering and hard again. He caught at my wrist, then laced our fingers together, pinning my hand to the pillow as if I had any desire to escape from him. He bent to kiss me again until we both gasped for breath. "I love you," he said, as if it were an accusation. "And I you. Please --" He straddled me as he had before, but this time he completed the motion. I cried out in desire, mad with the slick heat of his body and the desperation of the moment. He put his hand over my mouth and said, "Be careful," an odd chastisement, delivered in a low voice, as though he was not doing everything in his power to drive me out of my mind. "I'm sorry," I managed, once I had closed my eyes and could only feel him, rather than see him over me, breathtaking and beloved. "Don't -- damned well -- be sorry." He squeezed my fingers. "Don't you dare be sorry for this." I reached up and touched his hair for a moment, marveling at him, at the fact that this impassioned, wonderful boy might want me, but I had to pull my hand back and cover my mouth lest I make another ill-advised noise. "Oh, Julien," was all I could say, that and, "I love you." He let my hand go and I took hold of his hip, as if he needed or could have borne more encouragement than he had already had. He braced himself against the bed and against my shoulder. "Ah, Audric," he said, in a voice unlike his own, and then, "Oh --" as though he surprised himself with the speed and force of his own passion as much as he had surprised me. I was lost in the madness of the moment and the boneless exhaustion of my recovery from it for long enough that by the time I could open my eyes again, it was only in time to have him kiss my cheek, say, "I -- I'm sorry," and get out of bed. If I had had any faith in my ability to stand up at that moment, I would have leapt out of bed and embraced him. As it was, I said, "Julien, that was wonderful," and stayed flat on my back. "Perhaps." He picked up the shirt he had cast aside in his earlier fury and gave it a rueful look. "It's too hot to get dressed," I said softly. "Come back to bed." "It's too hot to embrace you," he said and gave me a wistful look. I almost laughed at that; I knew I was a terrible mess, and I did not have the energy to get up and bathe. "Somehow I doubt that. Please?" He made a half-sound, that brief puff of air that is neither a laugh nor a snort, and lay beside me again. "I need another bath." "Perhaps later," I said, and kissed his cheek. "I need one now, though." I tugged him into a too warm, too sticky embrace that was perfectly comfortable for all of its faults. "Not just now. You'd fall asleep." "Possibly." "Fall asleep with me?" He nuzzled my shoulder. "All right." "I adore you," I murmured into his hair. He sighed contentedly. "And I you." "Thank you." "For what?" He blinked at me sleepily. "All of that." There was no way to express the depth of my gratitude to him for loving me, for permitting me to love him, for letting me desire him and sometimes, sometimes desiring me. Or, if there was a way, I could not find it in his arms, on the edge of falling asleep. "You're welcome." He sounded bemused or half-asleep, or both. I yawned and let myself drift off to sleep while all was well in the world.
[ before | after ]
| 