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Studies (Feuilly): October, 1829
The picture made Rosalie leave -- not the finished picture, but the first draft. If I had not put so much work and money into it, if I had not bought oil paints, a canvas, and an easel, perhaps she would not have wanted to see it as badly as she did. It was ambitious of me to think that I could do what I wanted to with the oils, even though I was working from sketches and memory, but I meant to create something much grander than my normal work. She was intrigued by the canvas from the first day, when she complained about the smell and the bother I'd gone to in order to prime it properly. "What are you painting now?" "A portrait." She shook her head. "I'd have thought you do enough painting at work. Why are you doing it in your spare time?" "It's going to be a present." I should have told her then that it was for a friend, but she didn't ask. She assumed that it was for her, and, therefore, that it was of herself. I never showed it to her to prove her assumptions wrong. I kept the easel turned to the wall when I wasn't working on it, with the canvas draped carefully to prevent insects from getting themselves stuck in the wet paint. It was the size of a small window, perhaps the length of my forearm on each side. I could not have hidden it anywhere. The sketches stayed in my volume of Plato where they had been since I began then, and where Rosalie would never look for anything. I never explicitly told her not to look at the canvas. I knew that would be more tempting than implicitly trusting her not to peer at it. And she didn't look until it had been there two months. If she'd looked before, it might not have been such a problem; I could have amended it, perhaps, or changed it so that I really was painting her. I hadn't worked on the face much, but the Sunday before I had spent a great deal of time getting the shading just so in the hair. On a warm October evening, she kissed me and got out of bed. We had been making love a few minutes before. I was filled with lassitude and a calm trust in the world, and specifically in Rosalie. Her pale blonde hair was loose around her shoulders. She had appropriated one of my shirts to serve as a nightshift, for she was too modest to sleep in the nude, and not willing to admit that she might possibly spend the night with me until she actually did it. She lit the candle and set it on the table by the bed. I smiled at her and said, "Ah, mon ange, you are lovely like that. Come back to bed and kiss me." "In a moment. I want to see how your painting of me is coming along." She turned the easel. I sat up, my heart pounding in my ears. "Rosalie, don't --" But she ignored me and pulled off the cover, with a flourish and a shriek. "Who is she?" I couldn't answer. I was afraid she would scream again, and my ego was offended. I blinked at the painting, at two months of work, and repeated, "She?" Rosalie stabbed a finger at the auburn-tressed figure on the canvas. "My hair is not that color, monsieur l'artiste. Who's your model? Does she always pose in the nude? When were you going to leave me for her?" She buried her face in her hands and began to sob. "I thought you loved me." "I do," I protested. "Who is she?" I hesitated a moment. "A friend of mine." "Liar!" She took off the shirt she had borrowed and threw it at me, then covered her nudity with her hands, an infuriated, betrayed Venus. "I've never made love to her, cherie. Never." She wasn't listening to me. She dressed as quickly as she could, weeping and haranguing me all the while. "I thought it was so romantic, that you were an artist, so poetic and beautiful, and I thought you were an innocent sort of artist, only painting birds and flowers and landscapes and hills and things. Oh, if I'd only known, you cad, you horrible man, you took such advantage of me. I was so naive. You probably had her in here every night you couldn't seduce me, fiend. So that's your damned meeting, that's your friend, is she, that's how you spent all those evenings when you just couldn't see me. Oh, my friends were right, they warned me, they did, about you and girls like your brunette slut, your model, your dirty whore. You can take her and go to hell!" "It's not like that. Please, Rosalie, give me a moment." "The hell I will!" She put her shoes on and opened the door before she tied them. "You can go on painting her and any other tramp who'll lift her skirts for you, but you don't have to hide it from me, not anymore. I'm never coming back here again." She stormed out and slammed the door. I sat on the bed and sighed, not sure if I could have said anything else to calm her, not certain how upset I was that she had gone. I took the candle from the table and examined my painting closely, and what had seemed glowing, alive, and real a day before looked terribly wrong. I took out the sketches, compared them to the final product, and swore. It had not been imagination or assumption that made Rosalie see a woman on the canvas. There was a feminine wideness in the hips, the curve of the thighs, a roundness of the breast which were not in my charcoal sketches, and which were certainly not true to life. I had drawn Aimery without telling him that I was doing it, over the course of the spring before I'd met Rosalie. I'd slip out of bed and put on a light, then sketch him, sleeping on his stomach with one arm crooked, empty, in the attitude of a little boy who has misplaced his doll in his dreams. I liked most of the charcoals, and I could recognize him in them. Between the sketches and the painting, though, I had spent a great deal more time with Rosalie than with Aimery. It was more a portrait of her than she could have guessed. I knew I would have to repaint a great deal of the body. To cover the original mistakes, I would have to change the color of the sheets; it would not do to have a ghost image show against the white. I couldn't think about Rosalie and what an idiot I'd been with her, so I looked at the painting and thought about how to fix my peculiar mistake. It would not be impossible, only a lot of work. And why had I painted a woman's body, expecting to put a man's face on it -- the inverse of Michelangelo's odd women, those men with out-of-place breasts? I think it was partially that I had not been around Aimery a great deal, but partially that I was trying to paint him as a beautiful person, which he is, in his own right. But I had trouble thinking clearly, I suppose, and when I did not have the chance to look at him, I forgot what he really was and remembered a somewhat idealized, somewhat odd image of him, as if only a woman's body could be beautiful and desirable. The next night, there was a meeting. I had planned to attend it, leave early, and visit Rosalie. Instead, I arrived early and approached Aimery as soon as he came in. He had been walking with Jehan, and I gave them both a brief smile before I touched Aimery's shoulder and said, "Excuse me, Jehan -- Aimé, I need to speak to you." Aimery blinked and smiled. "Of course, Daniel." We sat at a table together. I could not immediately explain any of it. "What's on your mind?" he asked me softly. "Rosalie left." I shrugged. "Ah." He sat back in his chair. "With someone else?" "No. She was upset with me." I knew he would want to know as much as I was willing to tell him, which put me in a difficult situation. I had promised not to lie to him, but I wanted to surprise him with my present when it was finished. "Did she have a good reason to be upset with you?" He touched my arm lightly, and I gave him a weak smile -- only partially an act. "It was a misunderstanding, but she wouldn't let me explain." I shrugged again. "I suppose -- if she's going to be that upset over something that's not really a problem -- I'm better off without her." It was easier to say that, easier to think that when I was with him. The night before, I had felt utterly alone, failed, unable to do anything right. Aimery smiled again, which made it easy to smile back at him. "Better to have someone you can talk to, n'est-ce pas?" "Yes. Yes, it is. Aimery --" "Hm?" I looked at the table again. I felt as though I should be more upset over losing her, more willing to mourn her loss. To run from my newly empty bed to his would be cowardly. "I shouldn't ask." "Daniel." He touched my shoulder. "Look at me." His expression was uncharacteristically earnest. "I would be glad of your company, mon frère, and -- it needn't be anything but company. You know that." "Yes. It's just -- it was yesterday." He shrugged. "So you don't want to be alone. That's all right." I looked at him a moment and sighed. "You're terrible." He blinked at me. "I am?" "Yes. You're awful. As though I could say, 'No, Aimery, honestly I'd rather go home than be with you.'" I kept my voice level and my expression bland, but I saw him grin. "I'm not allowed to lie to you, so I can't turn you down tactfully." "Ah, is that it." He touched my cheek. "I don't know if the rules and regulations really prohibit tact." I smiled at him. "Maybe not. It would be difficult to judge, I'd think." "Quite. But we could ask, if you like -- ah, good evening, Julien." The meeting took place with little help from me, for I had little to say on the subject of inheritance rights and taxes, and even if I had wanted to contribute to the discussion, I couldn't pay attention for long intervals. Every now and then, Aimery would glance at me and give me a small, encouraging smile or touch my shoulder. At the end of the evening when everyone was departing, Christophe approached Aimery with a grin. "Aimé, I've found the loveliest place -- with the best girls --" Aimery shook his head. "Not tonight, Christophe." He blinked and looked at me. "Oh?" I shrugged. "Another time, then." "Another time," Aimery agreed. "I'll be thinking of you, chéri." Christophe turned and left. "If you'd wanted to go --" Aimery kissed my cheek. "I haven't seen you in months." I laughed. "You've seen me twice a week at least." "I haven't kissed you in months, then, my literal-minded brother." " -- not here." He shook his head. "Of course not. What do you take me for?" I gave him a brief smile. "Many things. Let's go." I had not intended to kiss him that evening, either in friendship or in desire, and I had thought that if he offered me caresses I could think on my recent loss and say truthfully that I would rather not. I had forgotten the sweet madness that overtook me when I was with him. He embraced me when we reached his flat, and that was enough to infect me with his buoyant joy. I could no more have refused him than I could have gone home alone. Afterward, I kissed him -- the hundredth kiss we shared that night, perhaps, for he was as glad to relearn the textures of my body as I was eager to remember the way he looked. "I missed you." "Did you?" He grinned at me. "You must have noticed." "I admit I had a vague impression of something like that." I nuzzled his shoulder. "I'm sure you did." We said nothing more for several minutes until the silence grew too heavy and he asked, softly, "Are you falling asleep?" "No, not yet. I was thinking -- I ought to do this properly, this time through." Aimery blinked. "How do you mean?" "I mean --" I could feel myself blushing. "I should learn how to make love to you. Really, not just -- not just what I would have to do for any of them." He kissed me at great length, winding his fingers into my hair. "You needn't," he said, breathlessly. "I wouldn't ask that of you if you didn't enjoy it." "I'm a pathetic lover if I can't do anything much for you, aren't I?" He shook his head. "You do a great deal for me." "As a brother. As a friend, maybe. Not as a lover." "As all of those things, Daniel." I frowned. "I just wish -- oh." Starting the sentence had given me the end of it in my mind, but I didn't like what I'd been about to say. "What?" I hid my face in his shoulder. "Nothing. It's petty." He touched my cheek, but I didn't look up. "What is it?" gently. "I wish that if Christophe or Jehan or Audric or somebody wanted your company, you'd say no because you'd rather be with me. I told you, it's petty." "Didn't I do that?" "Because you didn't want me to be heartbroken." I shrugged. "Because I love you." His voice was firm. "Not because I'm particularly -- anything at all as a lover, though." Aimery was quiet for a minute, running his fingers through my hair and searching for words. "You're never going to be the most skillful lover in Paris," he began. I interrupted him, keeping my tone light, "I know, Aimé. I could never hope to best you." "That's not what I mean. I mean I don't ask you to be, or expect you to be, and I never did." "Yes, but -- " I frowned at him. "But if I want someone to fuck, I'll find someone." He put a finger over my lips as though I had been about to protest. "If I want the best company I can find, then I'll talk to you." "That's what I mean, though." I kissed his finger. "I don't want you to want to go somewhere else just because I'm boring in bed." "You are not. Daniel --" "With you? In this?" I shook my head. "I know my limitations." "Then accept them. If I want to go somewhere else, if I want to be with someone else, it probably doesn't have anything to do with you, anymore than you found Rosalie because you were tired of me." "I suppose that's fair," I admitted, though it was somewhat unfair of him to mention Rosalie. "All right, then." He kissed me. I ran a hand down his chest. "So you want me to languish in ignorance and innocence, then?" "If that's what makes you happiest." "I don't know, anymore." After a moment, "I would be glad -- honored -- to teach you, if you wanted." I felt myself blush. "I don't know." "Consider it a standing offer, then." "All right." He fell asleep not long after this tentative proposition, and I would have done likewise if I hadn't been determined to stay awake in order to draw. I had no paper of my own, nor any charcoal, but once I had lit a candle, I found the former on his desk and the latter in the grate, grubby but sufficient. In the process of drawing him, I found the lines that I had blurred in my painting, the mistakes I had made that were not Aimé, and I relearned what he truly was. I also borrowed his pen and did a careful study of his face. That would be the hardest part of the painting; I had little practice painting anything but generically beautiful or handsome faces, and it would be a challenge to represent someone I knew in a recognizable manner. When I finished, I folded the ink drawing and put it at the bottom of the stack of my more malleable sketches, then washed my hands and went back to bed. I slept more soundly with him than I could remember having slept with Rosalie. With her, I always felt as though I was somewhat awake, even in dreams. With Aimery, I felt perfectly safe, enough to let myself be completely unconscious, in the state where I didn't remember any dreams I might have had. The following weeks were a struggle for me between feeling as though I ought to work on my painting and wanting to be with Aimery. I started to appreciate the nights when he was otherwise occupied because they forced me to go home and be productive. I toyed with the idea of inviting him home with me, but he was not Rosalie. He would have insisted on looking at the canvas, and I could not have thought of any reason to refuse him. I didn't want him to know it existed until the right time. His habits were irregular and unpredictable, especially when I had to balance them against the necessity of waiting for the last work to dry. There were nights when I could have gone with him because the scarlet I'd chosen to replace the white sheets was drying around a critical area, but he'd have plans. They were not as bad as the nights when I had been toying with getting a detail just so and he would give me that smile and I would swear under my breath and tell him I was too tired to be good company and I preferred to go home. Thanks to the difficulties of coordinating two impossible things, I didn't spend more than a night a week with him, much as I would have liked to have spent every night by his side. We both forgot his kind offer of instruction, or pretended we had, for I had other things on my mind. I was having a torrid, engaging affair with a painting. It wasn't finished until the second week of December. I spent two fruitless evenings looking at it and dabbing at it on nights when I had to turn Aimery down. When I stopped, irritated with myself, I realized that if I spent any more time on it, I would ruin it. I shook my head, composed a brief note, and went to sleep, wishing I had gone with him after all. Having it framed was another struggle. I didn't want to admit to having painted what was finally, clearly, a naked man. I discussed it with some of my colleagues -- in the context of having painted an intimate picture of my mistress -- and they gave me conflicting advice. I listened to one of them and had it framed by one of the artists who made his living doing bland scenes of Paris and selling them to whomever he could find to buy them. He didn't ask who had painted the canvas, and I didn't tell him. My impatience got the better of me once it was all done. On the seventeenth of December, Aimery left the café with Jehan. I had heard them planning to go to the latter's flat. I went home, wrapped the painting carefully, and carried it and the accompanying note to Aimery's home. The concierge gave my bundle a curious look when I told her it was a present for Monsieur Courfeyrac and could she please let me in to his flat so that I could surprise him. She hovered in the doorway while I leaned it against his desk and set the note in the middle of the book he'd left open. "I hope he likes it, m'sieur," she said, and I nodded. "I hope he does, too." "What is it?" "Only a portrait." "Ah." She gave me a long look, then shrugged. I looked over the scene. It was hardly a Christmas tree, that overburdened desk burgeoning with papers, but then my note was hardly a special card. It said, "I found this in one of those painters' stalls and it reminded me of you, a little. Merry Christmas -- Daniel." Aimery came knocking on my door the next evening only a few moments after I got home from work. "I know you're home, the concierge told me." My stomach twisted a little. I was afraid he had hated it, that after all my work he'd believe the note I left -- which was why I'd left it, in case I had so overestimated my own skill that I would rather disown the canvas than admit to it. "Come in." He was grinning. "I found your present." He shut the door behind himself. "Oh, did you?" I kept my expression bland for the moment between saying that and having the wind knocked out of me. He embraced me and kissed me all at once, half-knocking me off my feet into bed, though I was only too glad to fall into bed with him. "Where on earth do you expect me to put that?" He kissed me again before I could answer. I smiled. "Your bedroom seems a perfectly logical place." He shook his head. "And when Pontmercy finds himself in dire straits again, what do I tell him?" I frowned, uncomfortable with the idea of anyone who wouldn't appreciate the painting looking at it. "I don't know. Tell him you had an artistic mistress." He shook his head again, slowly, and touched my cheek as gently as though he were learning the lines in order to paint my portrait. "Anyone who knows me well will know I've never had a girl around long enough to do something like that for me." "I'm sorry. I thought --" He put his hand over my mouth. "It's splendid. I love it. I love you. God, Daniel, you're amazing." "I am not." "You are entirely wonderful." He kissed me lightly. "Would you like to see what I've done with your handiwork?" "I suppose." I shrugged, though I wanted to know exactly where he'd put it almost as badly as what he thought of it. "We ought to go to the meeting." "Damn the meeting. Come home with me." He tangled his fingers in my hair and kissed me again. "All right, you've convinced me." He had hung it in his bedroom, as I suggested, but behind the door so that it was not immediately apparent when one first walked into the room. "This way," he explained, "if it's someone who probably wouldn't want to see it, I can leave the door open -- or at least, I can leave it open until we've put out the light, and then close it." "Ingenious." I crossed my arms and admired it in its new home, framed in light wood and surrounded by the dingy plaster of the walls. He embraced me from behind and murmured, "Yes, you are." I turned and hugged him. "If you don't like it, say so." "I like it very much, mon frère, and I'm not the only one who does." He smiled at me. "You wouldn't worry so if you'd seen Jehan's face. He laughed and started suggesting names for it -- Endymion, Ganymede, that sort of thing -- all the while teasing me about being careful who I allow into my bed if people are going to do things like that." I chuckled. "I hadn't named it, actually, except for the obvious name." "Which is -- ?" "Mon Aimé, of course." He laughed. "Of course. Oh, and it's only fair to warn you that Christophe wants a copy." "He -- oh, dear." Aimery kissed me again. "Don't worry, chéri. I told them that I expected the artist would be very busy in the next few months -- at the very least." "Oh?" His lips twitched with a suppressed grin. "Christophe only wants a copy. Audric's going to want this to be the first in a series." I blushed and looked away. "Oh." "Daniel," softly, "I'm teasing you." "I see that." "Don't be upset." I kissed his cheek. "I'm not. I'm -- I don't know. Embarrassed, probably." "Shh, don't fret. I'll tell Audric you're too busy, too." I blinked. "What exactly are you planning, then?" He shrugged. "I thought you were saying something about wanting to spend more time with me -- or have you grown tired of me after looking at that for however long it took you?" "Aimery --" I embraced him. "I could never grow tired of you." "I've never given you much of a chance, now, have I?" His voice was light, but he wouldn't say that sort of thing unless he was upset. "Mon frère, don't worry." I kissed his cheek lightly. "Je t'aime." "I know, and I love you, but -- ah, you've outdone me." I smiled. "Ah, I've finally found a way to best you at something, then?" He gave me a brief smile. "Yes, and you did it with such panache. I'd thought you'd found some other girl, the way you kept turning away from me." "No. Nothing like that, beloved, not at all." "I see that. Now." He waved a hand at the painting. "All right." I hesitated a moment. "Would you -- " "Would I what?" gently. I had to look away from him to ask the question. I fixed my gaze on the wall and said, "Would you like to go to bed with me, now that I'm not too busy to, to learn something? I mean --" He interrupted me with a kiss. "I would be glad to. Don't you know that?" I shrugged. "I can't imagine it'll be all that pleasant for either of us at first." "I can be patient." "Really? Ah, that's a feat I'd like to see." Aimery ran his fingers through my hair. "I'll have to demonstrate, then." He grinned at me. "Je t'aime, mon frère." I smiled back. "Je t'aime aussi. But you must have known that." "Yes. I did know that." "Good." It began then, though it was too cold to do much without the benefit of sheets. I could not have left him; he wouldn't have allowed it for any but the most pressing of reasons. He grinned at me and built up the fire, saying, "It wouldn't do to pause, really, and we don't want frostbite." That gave me the opportunity to kiss him when he was done and tangle my fingers in his hair. "As though I could be cold in your arms." "Flattery, mon frère --" I kissed him again. "What, are you having second thoughts?" "Second thoughts? I've had a hundred thoughts since we got here, and all of them about you." I laughed. "Fair enough." He touched my cheek lightly. "Why, would you rather not?" For a moment, I considered this question. I wanted to make certain that I told him the truth. "I want this. I think." "All right. If you change your mind --" "You'll know as soon as I do." "Good." We kissed again, long and lingering, and wrestled with the labyrinthine buttons on each other's clothing all the while. He had more practice than I in undressing another man; he had my shirt open well before I'd bested his. I shivered and broke the kiss. "Perhaps we should take this somewhere a little warmer." "We could do that. It's easier to get your pants off this way, though," and he demonstrated. "Aimery, it's freezing in here." He gave me a smile that would have been innocent in another context. "Is it?" "Yes." I unbuttoned his pants. "Let's go to bed. Please." "If you're going to be impatient, this will be difficult." He wagged a finger at me and I laughed. "I'm not impatient, I'm cold. Hurry up." We shed our pants and got into bed. We still had our shirts on, unbuttoned but warmer than thoroughly bare arms. I hissed when I felt his legs against mine. "You're like ice." "Only in spots." He shifted a little and embraced me to prove that his torso was quite warm. "Yes, but the cold spots are colder than the warm spots are warm." He shook his head. "Would you have me get dressed again?" I pulled him close. "No. I'm sorry." "Daniel --" "Yes?" "The first rule of this is that you're not to apologize unless you've actually hurt me. All right?" I blinked. "All right." "And when I say hurt, I mean hurt. Not frustrated, not impatient, not a little bit uncomfortable. Hurt." "I heard you." He kissed me, but afterward he returned to the same question. "Promise me you won't apologize over nothing." "I never do." "Promise." I shook my head a little. "Are you always like this with new lovers?" "Only if it matters. Please." "I promise." We sealed the promise with another kiss. Aimery smiled at me brightly and began trailing kisses down my collarbone. "Je t'aime." "And I love you. What did you have in mind, just now?" "If you're prepared, I thought you might want your first lesson." I shrugged. "All right." His grin widened. "All right, he says. Do you think it'll be that bad?" "I don't know, Aimé." He blinked. "You don't have to." I frowned. "I want to." "You don't sound as though you do." I shrugged again. "How am I supposed to sound, then?" He shook his head. "I don't know. It's not torture." "I know -- I know. Just -- get on with it." "Chéri. What kind of teacher would I be if I just got on with it?" To demonstrate his capacity for thorough attention, he carefully bathed a small patch of skin just below my solar plexus. I closed my eyes. "I don't know. What were you going to teach me?" "All manner of things, if you wanted to learn them." "Right now?" "No." He ran a hand down my chest. "I was going to give you a demonstration." "Of -- oh." Part of me wanted to object that I had intended to change this balance between us so that it would not always entail me asking him for pleasure, and part remembered all too well what he was offering. I compromised. "I've seen you do that before, you know." Aimery laughed. "I know, but you weren't paying attention." I spluttered. "What are you talking about? Of course I was." "All right, then, tell me what I should do." I felt myself blush. "I -- you just -- how am I supposed to describe a thing like that?" "If you can't describe it," he said, his tone as bland as if he were not fondling me, "you can't do it, so I'll have to demonstrate." "I'm sorry." He poked me in the thigh. "Daniel, don't." "I -- all right." "As though I mind, beloved. In any case, as I was saying, you'll have to pay attention." I took a deep breath. "All right. I think. Probably." He chuckled and patted my thigh companionably. "If you get too distracted, I'll stop." "Won't that -- um -- ruin the timing?" "Timing, mon frère, is by way of being the easy part. Now. Are you ready?" I bit my lip hard, looking for some clarity of mind in the pain. "Yes." Aimery grinned at me again, then ducked under the covers. I gasped. "Not fair." He paused and kissed my thigh. "No? What did I just do?" "I don't know, I couldn't see you." "If it were dark in here --" "If it were dark in here, I wouldn't be able to see you, but it's not and I can't say that kind of thing, especially if I can't see it." He pushed back the covers. "Tell me if you get cold, then. And pay attention." "I am," I protested, and if it sounded impatient, I am sure he knew why. What followed was an excruciatingly long, painstaking lesson. It felt as though it went on for hours, though it couldn't have been anywhere near that long. He would do something unspeakable, then stop and ask me what it was in a diabolically calm voice while I tried to remember what a word was, what the words I wanted were, and how to put them into a sentence. Near the end of it, even though in some part of my mind I knew what it was he was doing, I couldn't explain, and I might not have been able to if he hadn't been driving me out of my mind. When my patience finally ended, I told him, "If you don't -- don't let this finish -- I'm -- going to kill you. Really," and that made him laugh, but it also convinced him to stop torturing me. I didn't feel as though I had a single muscle or bone in my body after that. He pulled up the covers and embraced me, but it was several minutes before I could return the embrace. "Are you quite all right?" If he had sounded any more smug or solicitous, I might have had to push him out of bed. As it was, I couldn't have moved enough to thump him. "'m fine." "Good." He ran his fingers through my hair. "Will you recover?" "Yes." He grinned at me. "Good." "I'm going to -- to --" I shook my head very slightly. "Take your revenge?" he suggested and kissed me. I shifted in his arms and realized how impatient he must have been. We kissed until I ran out of breath and had to end it. "I -- yes. I'll try to take my revenge." "All right." He took one of the pillows from the head of the bed and tucked it under his hips as he turned onto his back. "You don't have to, you know." "Your first rule, Aimery?" "Yes?" "Don't remind me that I'm here of my own free will. I know." "Very well, I won't." That called for another extended kiss. I started feeling as though I was avoiding the matter at hand. "Well --" I wrestled the blankets into something approximating the right position and, after a little bit of contortionism, settled myself between his legs somewhat comfortably. "Well?" I shrugged and reached for one of his hands. He smiled and squeezed my fingers. "Relax, chéri." "With that display to live up to?" "Bah." He stroked my hair lightly. "That wasn't much of anything." "You don't think so?" "Compared to -- no." I shook my head. "If I could do half so well --" "You'd have to have had half as much practice, at least." "Is that a gentle hint?" I made myself smile at him. "A very gentle one." "All right." I nuzzled his hip and made him laugh. "I can do this." "If you want to." "I want to. And I can. I can do this." I took a deep breath, and then another while I tried to remember how he'd begun. "You can," he said softly, and he was going to say something else, but I managed to surprise him by beginning. It was much more difficult than he'd made it look. I had trouble remembering the right way to do anything, remembering to be careful of my teeth, remembering to breathe, and remembering that there was a lot of things I didn't know and couldn't describe. After the first few minutes, my jaw started to ache, and I stopped. "How on earth did you manage to go on so long?" I asked. He sighed. "God, Daniel, if you knew how you look --" His tone surprised me. I glanced at his face; his expression was tender and desperate at the same time. "You should probably stop." "If you're sure." "That's another lesson." "Ah." I lay beside him and arranged the covers over us again before I kissed him and started caressing him. "You know, Aimé --" " -- what?" "This is going to take a lot of practice." He laughed, though his breath caught in the middle and it turned into a moan. "Will it?" "Diligent effort, regular rehearsals -- and a lot of expert advice." He tangled his fingers in my hair. "Kiss me." I obliged him gladly. He arched into my hand and cried out, then relaxed and kissed my cheek. I said, "I'm sorry." "Stop that." He poked me again. "Yes, but I should have done better than that." "Did I look like I wasn't having fun?" "No." "Did I, in fact, look as though you hurt me?" I sighed. "No, but --" "You'll be better next time. And the time after that. And the time after that." "I'm not so sure. I don't think I learned anything. I just wasted your time." "Inattention!" I blinked. "What?" "If you'd been paying attention, you'd have noticed how much I enjoyed that whole thing." He freed a hand from the blankets to touch my lips. "Listening to you gasping and searching for words -- seeing you like that --" "Really, Aimery, I don't know how much I'm going to remember." "Then I'll just have to show you again," complacently, "until you get it right." I shook my head. "I wanted to get it right this time." He frowned. "You did." "I didn't. I didn't do almost anything I wouldn't have done last month." "What's wrong with that?" "It's dull." "Daniel, I was anything but bored, and you are far from dull." I sighed. "But I should have done better." "Absolutely not. You'd have killed me." "Aimery --" I laughed against my better judgement. "You exaggerate." "Not as much as you might think. Kiss me again, mon frère." "You know," I said a while later, after we had rebuilt the fire, cleaned up a bit, and found warmer clothes to sleep in, "I believe I'm exhausted." "I'm not at all surprised." "Are you not exhausted, then?" "I didn't say that." "All right." I embraced him. "I think I'm madly in love with you." "Are you," he said, in tones of idle curiosity. "It certainly seems that way." "I love you, too." He yawned. I bit my tongue. He was falling asleep faster than I was. It wasn't the right time to explain that that was not exactly what I meant; that I meant it more in the way I had meant it when I said it to Rosalie: the sort of love that implies a degree of possession, of fidelity, of mutual responsibility. It was masochistic idiocy to feel that way about Aimé, but I could not have borne to hear him tell me so at that hour of the night.
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