May. 25th, 2009 07:52 pm
Fic: Suite #4 in D Minor
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fox_confessorTitle: Suite #4 in D Minor
Author: Dani
Pairing: IM/DM
Ian carefully set down the tea tray and rearranged the spoons and cups, dusting the crumbs from the spilled packaged of half eaten biscuits. His hands shook slightly though he tried to settle them, to take deep breathes and deeper, calmer thoughts. He let the sounds from the street below distract him for a moment. Kids calling in play. Delicate heels clicking on the pavement. A bird, a sound Ian always found incongruous in the city but one for which he was suddenly, ridiculously happy.
“What do you think it is?” he asked, though quietly, too quietly, he thought, for his guest to hear.
“A skylark, maybe?” Ian turned, surprised to hear and see Dominic. “I don’t know a thing about birds,” he went on, sprawled on the low sofa, his hand over his eyes as if the light was too bright and even the distant and now silent sound of the bird too much.
“There’s a good deal you know, I’ve found. Too much for your own good. Or mine.” Ian returned to his task of tea and biscuits, of pouring and arranging plates and cups and spoons. “Sugar?”
“Just milk, please.”
“You look positively debauched, Dom. You look like you belong in my bed, not my couch,” Ian said, blushing slightly at the bold recklessness of the statement that made Dominic’s hand slid from over his eyes, landed onto the couch at his side, his grin at once feline and predatory.
“I’ve tried, remember? “
Ian nodded in agreement. Dominic had indeed tried on many occasions and Ian’s never quite believed him or his intentions. “You said you had news.”
“Would you have let me in the door if I had said I just wanted to see you?”
The cup in Ian’s hand rattled against the mismatched saucer as he stretched to hand it to Dominic. He kept his eyes on the chipped blue Delftware that had belonged to his grandmother. She had just this one saucer and treasured it, and now Ian did, too. “You did say just milk?”
Dominic didn’t answer but moved closer to where Ian sat perched on the wide bench beneath the window, his movements slow as he took the tea that Ian offered, stirred it delicately with a tarnished spoon as Ian added milk until the cloudy tea rose to the brim and spilled over, creating a small lake in the saucer that washed over the tip of Dominic’s thumb. Ian busied himself with his own cup, another chipped piece though this had belonged to his mother, not wanting to watch as Dominic licked his own finger clean and wished, for a moment, that he had the nerve to do it for him.
“You are welcome here,” he said, his words measured, precise—slightly forced, if the truth were willing to be told. He added a lump of sugar to his own cup, ignoring the tongs to drop it in with his fingers then reached for another though he knew it would be too sweet, and lemon as well. “As you well know. But I would have liked the news as well.”
“Next time then. It’s been weeks since I’ve talked to anyone you’d be interested in.”
“Liar.”
“No one you’d want to hear about, then. Though—“
“Don’t mention his name to me.”
“There you go.”
Dominic eased back into the chaise, sipping at his tea. Ian watched him for a moment, read the—was it jealousy, Ian wanted to know, to believe. Of course, it didn’t matter, really, if he wasn’t willing to act, to show that he had nothing of which to be jealous. Lost to his thoughts, Ian turned to listen at the window again, disappointed to hear no sound, as if the world were holding its collective breath. Why shouldn’t he act, when there was seemingly so willing a partner to be had? Why should he continue to pretend he’s someone he’s not? Why should he pretend to be naïve or shy or hesitant when he wants to be none of these things?
“I think it’s gone home.”
“Mmm?” Ian hums out his question.
“Your bird. I think it’s gone back to its nest.” It’s the soft clink of Dominic’s spoon against the saucer as Dominic sets his tea off to the side and settles more comfortably, his eyes on Ian, that brings Ian from his thoughts. “He’s gone back to his partner. A little love nest built for two, as it were. Such as you have here.”
“Oh really, now, Dominic,” Ian heard himself say, heard laughter bubbling up at the ridiculousness of it, of so weak a pick-up line, if that is indeed what he meant by it. The turn to Dominic’s lips told him it was exactly what he meant and the laughter fell from Ian. Well, why not, he whispered to himself, and reached to press his thumb against the throbbing pulse in Dominic’s throat, feeling it flutter like a hummingbird’s wings. He moved his fingers to press his lips there, to press his nose against Dominic’s skin and breathe in the smell of him, the wild and riotous scent of romps through the Lancaster woods as a child, playing cops and robbers. Dominic felt young and fragile beneath Ian’s hands, like a memory filtered through the haze of age, and he wondered for a moment what it would be like to be old, to be wrinkled yet libidinous, to feel the ache of age eased against the heat of a young body, or to devote hours of discussion about his lumbago, like his Granddad had done, only to be teased onto more pleasant topics by someone with a quick tongue and quicker hands.
Ian cries out, a soft muffled sound of frustration and defeat, his hands closing on empty air before his eyes open, blinking against the sunlight streaming in through the open window. He pushes the blanket from his body, its weight frightening against legs he’s suddenly fears no longer work and stops just as suddenly when he sees the wrinkled and sun-spotted skin of his hands, gnarled by arthritis. From somewhere quite far away, he hears the sound of a bird and experiences another moment of falling between the waking world and his dreams.
“You’re awake.”
“Why did you let me sleep?” Ian knows he sounds angry, or at the very least irritated at feeling so old as to need naps in the middle of the day, but he can’t bite back the words. He’s grateful enough when Dominic ignores him, though and crosses the room, the tea tray held carefully in his hands. “I was dreaming.”
“About me, I hope.”
“I was young. Younger than you, I think.” Ian watches as Dominic tries to think of something comforting or witty to say, something that will ease over the awkward silence but there is nothing. “You were there, too. We were—well.”
He’s rewarded with Dominic’s smile, with the shadow between them lifted. Innuendo is a common ground on which they can both land safely and he flattens his hand against Dominic’s chest, bunching the thin cotton of his t shirt. Irritation, it says, and Dominic has certainly been that on occasion but thankfully not lately, not this winter when they’ve both needed the comfort of an odd companionship.
“I wish I had been, Ian. Young with you. Alive with you.”
“I’m not dead yet, my boy, despite what you read in the tabloids.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.” Ian leans back in his chair, pulling Dominic to lay against his chest. There’s room enough for them both, they’ve discovered, thanks to Dominic lean ability to stretch and put himself into impossible positions.
“Your tea will be cold.”
“It was you, Dom, in my dream, but not, as dreams go. I can’t remember. It’s all fading so quickly now.”
“Also how dreams go.” Dominic tips his head back to look at Ian and Ian feels himself being measured, tested against some yardstick of senility. There will be none of that, he wants to say, but can’t quite bite out the words when he knows that Dominic means only to be kind. Ian instead lets his fingers dig into Dominic’s chin, tipping it back even further, and kisses him hard, his anger disappearing into some other emotion completely when Dominic opens so gently for him. It’s greed that takes over then, for softness and youth, for daring and boldness. He kisses Dominic until he can pull away and enjoy the flush on Dominic’s cheeks, his breathlessness, his cherry red lips and his deep sea blue eyes when his lashes flutter open.
“Did I have my trousers on?” Dominic jokes in a way that makes him seem eager to hide the fact that Ian’s kisses frequently undo him so readily. “That’s how my dreams usually go.”
Ian presses his thumb against the throbbing pulse in Dominic’s throat, feeling it flutter like a hummingbird’s wings, the vein delicate beneath his fingers as he presses slightly to watch Dominic’s eyes go half mast and his lips part in anticipation, thinking back—remembering—to his dream and how beautifully the boy who was/wasn’t Dominic had opened beneath him. How new and precious it had all seemed, and was.
“So who was he, in your dream, if you weren’t dreaming about me.”
“Someone I knew a long time ago. Someone much like you, I think, though I can’t really remember his face too well anymore.”
“You’ll remember mine.”
“Always. Of that much I’m sure.”
Author: Dani
Pairing: IM/DM
Ian carefully set down the tea tray and rearranged the spoons and cups, dusting the crumbs from the spilled packaged of half eaten biscuits. His hands shook slightly though he tried to settle them, to take deep breathes and deeper, calmer thoughts. He let the sounds from the street below distract him for a moment. Kids calling in play. Delicate heels clicking on the pavement. A bird, a sound Ian always found incongruous in the city but one for which he was suddenly, ridiculously happy.
“What do you think it is?” he asked, though quietly, too quietly, he thought, for his guest to hear.
“A skylark, maybe?” Ian turned, surprised to hear and see Dominic. “I don’t know a thing about birds,” he went on, sprawled on the low sofa, his hand over his eyes as if the light was too bright and even the distant and now silent sound of the bird too much.
“There’s a good deal you know, I’ve found. Too much for your own good. Or mine.” Ian returned to his task of tea and biscuits, of pouring and arranging plates and cups and spoons. “Sugar?”
“Just milk, please.”
“You look positively debauched, Dom. You look like you belong in my bed, not my couch,” Ian said, blushing slightly at the bold recklessness of the statement that made Dominic’s hand slid from over his eyes, landed onto the couch at his side, his grin at once feline and predatory.
“I’ve tried, remember? “
Ian nodded in agreement. Dominic had indeed tried on many occasions and Ian’s never quite believed him or his intentions. “You said you had news.”
“Would you have let me in the door if I had said I just wanted to see you?”
The cup in Ian’s hand rattled against the mismatched saucer as he stretched to hand it to Dominic. He kept his eyes on the chipped blue Delftware that had belonged to his grandmother. She had just this one saucer and treasured it, and now Ian did, too. “You did say just milk?”
Dominic didn’t answer but moved closer to where Ian sat perched on the wide bench beneath the window, his movements slow as he took the tea that Ian offered, stirred it delicately with a tarnished spoon as Ian added milk until the cloudy tea rose to the brim and spilled over, creating a small lake in the saucer that washed over the tip of Dominic’s thumb. Ian busied himself with his own cup, another chipped piece though this had belonged to his mother, not wanting to watch as Dominic licked his own finger clean and wished, for a moment, that he had the nerve to do it for him.
“You are welcome here,” he said, his words measured, precise—slightly forced, if the truth were willing to be told. He added a lump of sugar to his own cup, ignoring the tongs to drop it in with his fingers then reached for another though he knew it would be too sweet, and lemon as well. “As you well know. But I would have liked the news as well.”
“Next time then. It’s been weeks since I’ve talked to anyone you’d be interested in.”
“Liar.”
“No one you’d want to hear about, then. Though—“
“Don’t mention his name to me.”
“There you go.”
Dominic eased back into the chaise, sipping at his tea. Ian watched him for a moment, read the—was it jealousy, Ian wanted to know, to believe. Of course, it didn’t matter, really, if he wasn’t willing to act, to show that he had nothing of which to be jealous. Lost to his thoughts, Ian turned to listen at the window again, disappointed to hear no sound, as if the world were holding its collective breath. Why shouldn’t he act, when there was seemingly so willing a partner to be had? Why should he continue to pretend he’s someone he’s not? Why should he pretend to be naïve or shy or hesitant when he wants to be none of these things?
“I think it’s gone home.”
“Mmm?” Ian hums out his question.
“Your bird. I think it’s gone back to its nest.” It’s the soft clink of Dominic’s spoon against the saucer as Dominic sets his tea off to the side and settles more comfortably, his eyes on Ian, that brings Ian from his thoughts. “He’s gone back to his partner. A little love nest built for two, as it were. Such as you have here.”
“Oh really, now, Dominic,” Ian heard himself say, heard laughter bubbling up at the ridiculousness of it, of so weak a pick-up line, if that is indeed what he meant by it. The turn to Dominic’s lips told him it was exactly what he meant and the laughter fell from Ian. Well, why not, he whispered to himself, and reached to press his thumb against the throbbing pulse in Dominic’s throat, feeling it flutter like a hummingbird’s wings. He moved his fingers to press his lips there, to press his nose against Dominic’s skin and breathe in the smell of him, the wild and riotous scent of romps through the Lancaster woods as a child, playing cops and robbers. Dominic felt young and fragile beneath Ian’s hands, like a memory filtered through the haze of age, and he wondered for a moment what it would be like to be old, to be wrinkled yet libidinous, to feel the ache of age eased against the heat of a young body, or to devote hours of discussion about his lumbago, like his Granddad had done, only to be teased onto more pleasant topics by someone with a quick tongue and quicker hands.
Ian cries out, a soft muffled sound of frustration and defeat, his hands closing on empty air before his eyes open, blinking against the sunlight streaming in through the open window. He pushes the blanket from his body, its weight frightening against legs he’s suddenly fears no longer work and stops just as suddenly when he sees the wrinkled and sun-spotted skin of his hands, gnarled by arthritis. From somewhere quite far away, he hears the sound of a bird and experiences another moment of falling between the waking world and his dreams.
“You’re awake.”
“Why did you let me sleep?” Ian knows he sounds angry, or at the very least irritated at feeling so old as to need naps in the middle of the day, but he can’t bite back the words. He’s grateful enough when Dominic ignores him, though and crosses the room, the tea tray held carefully in his hands. “I was dreaming.”
“About me, I hope.”
“I was young. Younger than you, I think.” Ian watches as Dominic tries to think of something comforting or witty to say, something that will ease over the awkward silence but there is nothing. “You were there, too. We were—well.”
He’s rewarded with Dominic’s smile, with the shadow between them lifted. Innuendo is a common ground on which they can both land safely and he flattens his hand against Dominic’s chest, bunching the thin cotton of his t shirt. Irritation, it says, and Dominic has certainly been that on occasion but thankfully not lately, not this winter when they’ve both needed the comfort of an odd companionship.
“I wish I had been, Ian. Young with you. Alive with you.”
“I’m not dead yet, my boy, despite what you read in the tabloids.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.” Ian leans back in his chair, pulling Dominic to lay against his chest. There’s room enough for them both, they’ve discovered, thanks to Dominic lean ability to stretch and put himself into impossible positions.
“Your tea will be cold.”
“It was you, Dom, in my dream, but not, as dreams go. I can’t remember. It’s all fading so quickly now.”
“Also how dreams go.” Dominic tips his head back to look at Ian and Ian feels himself being measured, tested against some yardstick of senility. There will be none of that, he wants to say, but can’t quite bite out the words when he knows that Dominic means only to be kind. Ian instead lets his fingers dig into Dominic’s chin, tipping it back even further, and kisses him hard, his anger disappearing into some other emotion completely when Dominic opens so gently for him. It’s greed that takes over then, for softness and youth, for daring and boldness. He kisses Dominic until he can pull away and enjoy the flush on Dominic’s cheeks, his breathlessness, his cherry red lips and his deep sea blue eyes when his lashes flutter open.
“Did I have my trousers on?” Dominic jokes in a way that makes him seem eager to hide the fact that Ian’s kisses frequently undo him so readily. “That’s how my dreams usually go.”
Ian presses his thumb against the throbbing pulse in Dominic’s throat, feeling it flutter like a hummingbird’s wings, the vein delicate beneath his fingers as he presses slightly to watch Dominic’s eyes go half mast and his lips part in anticipation, thinking back—remembering—to his dream and how beautifully the boy who was/wasn’t Dominic had opened beneath him. How new and precious it had all seemed, and was.
“So who was he, in your dream, if you weren’t dreaming about me.”
“Someone I knew a long time ago. Someone much like you, I think, though I can’t really remember his face too well anymore.”
“You’ll remember mine.”
“Always. Of that much I’m sure.”
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