Log: On the second night of the Feast
Feb. 28th, 2014 12:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eskil_douglas[Summary: Eskil Douglas and Becquerel Curie stumble home from their night out celebrating the Feast. Sweetness and angst follows as they share Mr. Curie's bed. Backdated to the second day of the Feast.]
[Warnings: Fluff, not entirely safe for work, angst, some mentions of personal trauma, too much kissing]
One could debate if it is late night or early morning when Eskil Douglas and Becquerel Curie stumble towards Mr. Curie’s home after an evening of intense dancing, intense laughing and intense kissing topped off with good eating and drinking as well. It is safe to say though that they have celebrated the Feast thoroughly and are now in need of some rest lest they collapse of exhaustion. Luckily they are not too far from 2 Maiden Lane. and as long as their feet doesn’t give in just yet they should be able to make it there.
It’s not easy to determine who is leaning on who for support, but they are both giggly and tired and happy. Occasionally they pause on their way to Becquerel’s home to hold on to one another and exchange embraces. When they finally arrive at 2 Maiden Lane, they practically fall in through the door.
Becquerel helps Eskil out of his coat and slips out of his own, then tips his mask up so that it’s sitting on the crown of his head. Then he goes to put on some water to boil—after all that alcohol and food, it will be nice to have something herbal to warm him up and hydrate him. (And coffee for Eskil, should he desire it.)
Eskil would certainly like some coffee or else he might fall asleep on the spot, and that wouldn’t be very romantic. After having taken of his shoes and put on some slippers he follows Becquerel to the kitchen, yawning and stretching. “How can people, eh, party like this a whole week, or is it two weeks?” He grins and comes to stand close.
Becqui shakes his head as sets up the tea—in fact he has very little to do, as Holzknecht was good enough to set up most of a tea-service for two, anticipating that Becquerel and his gentleman friend would want such a thing upon returning from their adventures out on the town. All that remains is for the hot water to be poured over the tea-leaves in the one pot and the coffee-grounds in the other.
It varies in length, writes Becquerel, welcoming Eskil’s decision to stand close by opening his stance a little and brushing fingers down the lapel of his jacket. Then back to writing: Sometimes a week, sometimes two … whenever the Bazaar decides it should be over, it will end. It seems awfully hungry this year, though. He distracts himself by putting the chalk-board down on the counter and poking Eskil’s chin.
“Uhu,” he smiles and lets a hand rest on Becquerel’s waist, “but that still doesn’t answer how people manages to party for so long... is it, eh, the mushroom diet?”
Coffee, perhaps? The constant snacking as fuel? He presses his lips together. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Bazaar acts on the Feast to some extent, to fuel it. … or it could be the mushrooms, concedes Becquerel, who when he finishes writing props the chalk-board up against his nose.
“Mhm,” tired as he is he can’t help but yawn, which he covers with his free hand looking just slightly embarrassed. “Well, eh, whatever the reason, it’s fantastic... just like you, but not umm, as fantastic as you.” Eskil grins and frees himself from his mask which has left some red marks on the otherwise pale skin of his face where it’s been a bit too tight.
The naturalist removes his own mask. Seeing the marks on Eskil’s skin makes him click his tongue a little and reach to touch them, lightly. You flatter me too much, cabbage, he writes, with a grin and a blush. But at the same time you delight me. He puts his writing aside so that he can loop his arms over Eskil’s shoulder, linking his hands behind his neck.
Eskil blushes slightly but holds eye contact. “Too much? I, umm, would say that’s impossible. And as long as you are eh, delighted I am pleased.” He laughs quietly as he lets his own arms snake around Becquerel’s waist and urges the other man closer for a kiss. Once it’s over he gently breaks free from their embrace and starts to remove his jacket. “Too warm and stiff this, I should have packed something lighter.”
Covering the lower half of his face, the naturalist watches as Eskil removes the offending garment with no small amount of interest—then he takes off his own and takes Eskil’s as well to sling them over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. They can worry about hanging them up properly when they go to Becquerel’s room, to curl up together …
It’s quite something, seeing a man in shirtsleeves in his kitchen, and though he’s seen Eskil in shirtsleeves before it still feels intimate. You do delight me. I wish I could be more articulate about it, but it’s so very late. and I’m so very looking forward to curling up next to you. He grins broadly, but his face is still shy. It’s almost silly. I just love being held.
Eskil drinks in the sight of Becquerel in his shirtsleeves and he can’t help but blush just slightly at the thought of seeing him in further states of undress. “You are, eh, still the most articulate of the two of us I’d say.” Eskil grins, too tired to be selfconscious about the way he speaks. “And, eh, it’s not silly at all, and even if it was it, ah, wouldn’t stop me from wanting to hold you.” His smile is soft and tender and if it weren’t for the water that just started to boil he’d pull Becquerel close once again. Instead he picks up the kettle because now it’s time to prepare coffee! And tea, though he’ll leave that up to Becquerel.
Closely the naturalist watches Eskil prepare the coffee--even though he has a housekeeper now, he is determined to memorize this process. Very important stuff, after all. The tea is relatively easy: just hot water into the little teapot over the tea-leaves. He puts the lid back on, too, to keep the heat from escaping.
Shall we have our tea down the hall? he asks, pink in the cheeks--by "down the hall," he is referring to his own room, and it's still so new and strange that he can't bring himself to say the word "bedroom."
Eskil feels rather satisfied with having been able to prepare the coffee just right despite being ridiculously tired and quite distracted by his current company. It takes a moment before he connects ‘down the hall’ with Becquerel’s bedroom but once he does there’s another small blush. He clears his throat and grins shyly. “That, eh, sounds most practical, yes. And... my feet will be grateful for not having to umm, move from room to room.”
Grinning, Becquerel makes a few last adjustments to the tea-tray before hefting it to take it to the bedroom. He nods at the jackets and makes eye contact with Eskil, in an effort to suggest he pick the jackets up and follow. And with that Becquerel wanders off down the hall, making sure he’s never out of sight of Eskil so that the Swedish gentleman knows where he is going.
Eskil gets the cue and picks up their jackets and then proceeds to follow Becquerel down the hall, almost skipping along since he’s too excited to walk normally.
They pass a few other doors on their way, but eventually make it. Becquerel silently requests for Eskil to turn the door-handle, and once that’s taken care of he can set the tea-tray down. The bedroom is roomy, very tidy, and minimally decorated. Miniature mushroom-gardens in glass jars and terra cotta pots occupy the window-sill and the night-table. It smells of bergamot oil and wood and lavender. The wood panels on the walls warm up the space; the vanity mirror is covered with an orangey-red curtain; the bed is practically half cushions and looks very, very comfortable. Overall the bedroom, despite its minimalism, looks comfortable.
Becquerel sets the tea-tray down on a little desk to one side of the vanity, then reaches out to take the jackets, which, he indicates with a nod of his head, he is going to hang up for them.
“Thank you.” Eskil hands Becquerel the jackets before he looks around, quietly taking in the room. “It’s a very nice room, it, ah, fits you... somehow.” Any signs of occasional boldness the man has shown before seems to have vanished entirely and he stands exceptionally still, not knowing what to do next.
Noticing Eskil’s sudden shyness is easy for someone as watchful as Becquerel. Gently, in an encouraging way not intended to be forceful, Becquerel takes Eskil’s hand and tugs him over not to the bed, but to the desk where the tea-tray is. He pours two cups: one of coffee, one of tea, and passes the former to Eskil while leaning against the desk. He also gestures to the chair at the desk, if Eskil should like to sit.
Eskil takes both the coffee and the seat with a grateful smile which grows even warmer as he takes the first sip of coffee. “Ljuvligt.” He sighs, quite content now that he’s sitting down. “I don’t think I will ever understand, eh, Londoners aversion against coffee, nor their love for tea.”
Becquerel grins at him, pleased that he’s happy with the coffee, and leans forward to steal a quick kiss from Eskil’s lips before going back to sip his tea again. Then the writing: You don’t have to understand, Esse; you just have to be willing to accept it, writes Becquerel, with a grin. Some of these things are differences that you just have to live with.
“Mmm,” Eskil grins, all too happy to be kissed so sweetly even though it’s distracting him from his excellent cup of coffee, “but I do accept it. Just like I accept that it’s fashionable for women to wear trousers, which is both sensible and quite eh, nice of course, and that social conventions are entirely different. It’s fascinating and... therefore I’d like to understand it.”
The naturalist laughs—Well, those are questions of morality, less questions of preference, but they are all questions of what is considered to be “normal” down here. So I’m glad you’re thinking about it. He sips his tea and fakes a pout. But how could you not like Earl Grey? Bergamot-scented … This is possibly a reference to the fact that Becquerel himself tends to be bergamot-scented.
Eskil raises an eyebrow and grins. “I never said I don’t enjoy the smell, eh, now did I? But it tastes...” he shudders, “wrong.” He nods. “I much prefer coffee and kisses from a Bergamot-scented man than drinking tea,” and with that he takes another sip of coffee.
Becquerel giggles his silent giggle, the one where he covers his mouth with his fingers spread, where his chest shakes with the laugh. You turned that one around quite nicely, he writes, grinning. This way you get the bergamot scent and the kisses and the heart of a naturalist and it’s all very nice, isn’t it …
He reaches out to touch Eskil’s hair, then, running his fingers into it, slowly, like he’s learning the feeling for the first time, like he’s trying to memorize it.
Eskil leans into the touch as much as possible. “Yes, I can be quite clever... though it’s rare. And it’s more than, eh, just nice.” He quickly finishes the rest of his coffee so he can put the cup away and reach for the naturalist who does indeed posses his heart.
Said naturalist sees the reaching, and he puts his own nearly empty teacup onto the tea-tray beside him to slide down into Esse’s lap. He does not speak, he does not write, he only pulls close and curls close up to the Surfacer, hands still in his hair, to reward him for his cleverness with another kiss.
Eskil’s embrace is firm, passionately holding on to Becquerel. During the kiss he makes a rather wanton sound, something between a growl and a moan, and as their lips part his eyes sparkle. “You...” it’s all he can think of to say.
Becquerel giggles again and reddens even more—he’s been blushing this whole time, of course, but somehow he manages to blush more. It’s also likely that now Eskil can feel him laughing. The naturalist pulls back and touches his own mouth. It’s funny, he writes, reaching back to the desk for the chalk-board—maybe “funny” is a bad word for it. But I like knowing that you like it, when I kiss you. I seem to have some sort of effect. And it’s like a secret. I don’t imagine anyone else has seen you like this. It’s like our secret ...
He touches Esse’s hair again where it has fallen in his face a little—he seems happy with the secret. It’s the best secret of all.
Seeing how Becquerel is currently sitting in his lap it should be quite obvious to him just how much of an effect he has on Eskil. Eskil can, of course, do nothing about it more than blush profoundly. “That... eh, yes... a secret,” Eskil stammers, utterly embarrassed.
The man in Eskil’s lap pulls back a moment to smooth back his own hair. Flushed and a little breathless himself, not to mention nervous, he is nonetheless grinning, clearly pleased, his eyes a little glazed over. The chalk-board hasn’t left his side. Sweet man, he writes, biting his lip, this is very strange to me. I’m still not used to it, and I know you’re not either. Are you—he pauses, thinking of how to ask it—are you alright, are you comfortable? Do you like this, I mean? It’s important to me that you should feel secure.
“I...” there’s a long pause where Eskil closes his eyes and tries to figure out how on earth he is supposed to reply. He is shaking a little from the tension, but he takes a very very deep breath and then exhales slowly, opening his eyes to look into Becquerel’s. “I’m... yes. It’s... but yes, I do, and I am, and I... feel safe eh, with you.”
The naturalist smooths his open hands down Eskil’s chest and leans in for another gentle kiss—this one is sweet and soft and caring rather than strictly passionate, and he backs out of it with a smile. Darling, would you feel safe enough to—and all he does here is lift his chin and eyes toward the bed, rather than write anything.
Mr. Douglas just nods, finding it hard to use words at the moment. He is smiling though, even if it’s a rather nervous smile.
Becqui extracts himself from Eskil's lap with some difficulty (it's warm there, after all, warm and comfortable) and the effect Eskil has been having on him becomes quickly apparent. Having successfully run this operation, he instinctively tries to salvage some dignity by straightening his shirt and waistcoat.
When he realizes the futility of trying to do this, he bursts out laughing, red in the face and so, so happy, and nervous, and delighted.
There’s something utterly deliberating about Becquerel’s response to it all and Eskil regains some of his own determination as he joins in the laughter. “Never knew I could feel this silly and this happy at once,” he admits as he stands up, grinning widely but shyly. “We, eh, should... lose some clothing? Wouldn’t want to eh, get our suits all wrinkly.” It’s an awkward attempt to joke, and not particularly funny, but it at least works as an indicator to show that Eskil is still on board with this whole... thing.
Becquerel laughs nervously and nods. He sets the chalk-board down on the end table so that it's within easy reach, then goes to a chest of drawers nearby to pull out a pair of night-shirts. He sets them down on the bed and looks at Eskil ... then steels himself visibly and starts removing his waistcoat, slowly and shyly.
Right, don’t think, just do, Eskil thinks to himself as he starts to work on the buttons of his waistcoat. Inebriation and nervousness makes him fumble, but he still manages to remove said waistcoat surprisingly quick and discards it carelessly so he can start unbuttoning his shirt. He doesn’t look at Becquerel, he doesn’t dare, fearing that he will lose his momentum if he does. His determination works well and very soon he is free from his shirt as well. That wasn’t so hard. Proud to have made such headway with undressing he looks up smiling softly. His state of shirtlessness reveals slender muscles and smooth pale skin almost glowing in the darkness.
Quite separately, then, and back-to-back, they disrobe their upper halves. Or at least, Becquerel gets as far as removing his waistcoat and overshirt and cravat. When he reaches his short-sleeved undershirt, he finds that his hands freeze on the closures. When Eskil looks up, he will find Becquerel paralyzed, eyes looking distantly at the place where the floor meets the wall, fingers frozen in place on his undershirt, wordless.
Eskil’s soft smile falters and turns into a worried frown at the sight of the other man’s apparent distress. Has he done something wrong? Has Becquerel changed his mind? He breathes in nervously. This can’t be good.
“Becquerel?” It’s no more than a whisper. He carefully moves toward him, hands twitching as he is unsure if he should try to touch the other man reassuringly or if that would only make this, whatever it is, worse.
Becquerel looks up at Eskil with an expression on his face that can only be described as help me. He reaches for the chalk-board with quivering fingers. I don't know that I've prepared you for what I look like under this, he writes, with a terrified look. There was a fire ...
He presses his lips together, thinking about what to say next. You're so smooth and clean and lovely, he writes, caught between terror and attraction, drinking in Eskil's appearance with hungry but frightened eyes.
Eskil lets out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding. It’s mortifying to see Becquerel look so helpless, but at least he himself haven’t done anything wrong. “Look at me, I mean my eyes,” he says gently, but it’s still a command. “You are beautiful, the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on. Nothing, nothing at all could stop me from thinking so, no matter what.” He’s surprised of how he managed to say all that without the stuttering and stammering, and glad for it since this is so very important. He takes one of Becquerel’s quivering hands in his own and gently places his other hand on Becquerel’s shoulder, giving it a very gentle squeeze. “You don’t need to hide from me. But you shouldn’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
Becquerel looks like he appreciates that reassuring hand on his shoulder: when Eskil touches him he is initially quite taut and tense, but slowly he relaxes. In that moment of eye contact he finds comfort.
Lightly he presses a shaky kiss to Eskil's shoulder. I do want this. I'm sure I'm ready, I must be. Then he reaches for the buttons on his undershirt with a look of profound contemplation. Louis has seen him bare, and it took work then, too; but they had time, they took it slow, and now with Eskil there is a promise of a different intimacy.
I was caught in a housefire, he writes as explanation. I lost my mother. I ... am quite badly scarred.
Then he begins to undo his undershirt, trying his very best to hold himself together as he begins to expose the badly ruined flesh of his shoulder and arm.
“I’m so sorry.” It sounds too little to Eskil, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He stays close but does not touch Becquerel as he begins to undress again, he doesn’t want to rush him. Once he sees the state of Becquerel’s damaged skin he doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t winch, he just looks at him with the tiniest hint of sadness mingled with the desire he feels. As Eskil expected it does nothing to deter him from wanting Becquerel, and he still thinks he is the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
Finally Becquerel manages to remove the undershirt. His entire left shoulder and almost the entire left arm are scarred terribly, and his left pectoral as well--his left nipple, in fact, is deformed badly, and the scar stands out starkly against the rest of his Neath-pale skin.
Carefully he takes Eskil's hand, still with a look of slight fear on, and places it on his shoulder just above the pectoral. Then he meets his eyes for a bare moment, as though to ask whether it's okay.
He lets his hand rest on Becquerel’s shoulder as he meets the other man’s gaze. All there is to see in his eyes are tenderness and there is a soft, shy smile on his lips. After a moment Eskil lets his hand slide down Becquerel’s arm and leans in to gently kiss the scarred shoulder, it’s a featherlight brush of his lips against Becquerel’s skin but a kiss nonetheless. “I adore you,” he says as he pulls back, ”eh, everything that is you.”
The naturalist touches his sweetheart's hair lightly and presses a feather-light kiss to his unscarred shoulder. I can't really feel anything very well the length of the scar, he writes; it feels a little numb. It's not that I don't want you to touch me there, but you should know.
You are so sweet, he finishes, before sinking a hand into Eskil's hair again.
“And you are brave.” Eskil melts, that hand in his hair and Becquerel being so... Becquerel, he can’t help but lean in for another kiss, a sweet but still hungry one.
But once it’s over Eskil takes a step back, looks down at his still dressed legs with a little frown and sighs. “Right... I think, eh, I’ll have to.” He bites his lip and looks up at the naturalist, looking frightfully nervous but incredibly determined at the same time. “These will have to come off,” gesturing to his trousers, “umm, quickly, before I, ah, lose my nerve... eh, excuse me while I...” and with that he takes another few steps back and turns his back at Becquerel. It’s quite astonishing, the speed with which he undresses, and it doesn’t take long before he’s stripped down to his underpants. He has the well toned legs of a runner and Eskil isn’t uncomfortable with his body per se but this situation is, apart from quite thrilling, new and confusing and he feels incredibly exposed, though he’s not sure if that is a bad thing or not. At that point he turns back, eyes down, blushing like he’s never blushed before, hands trying to cover the state of his arousal, but he is smiling ever so shyly.
Drawing in a shaky breath, Becquerel looks the man over and nods, once, as if in approval, or perhaps to confirm that nervousness notwithstanding, Eskil looks fantastically attractive to him.
His fingers hesitate on the closures of his own trousers as he stands and turns his back to Eskil; then he drops them slowly and makes short work of his socks and garters. Covering his face with his hands, arms pulled in tight to his chest, he shuffles slowly around to face Eskil again. The nervousness isn't abating, but he manages to make eye contact, barely.
For the moment, he picks up his clothes and reaches for Eskil's and moves to hang them neatly--creases, after all, would be very telling.
Eskil keeps on smiling shyly as he watches Becquerel take care of their clothes, still nervous but no longer entirely uncomfortable in the situation and quite obviously less tense. He then looks at the nightshirts, but since he isn’t sure which one is meant for him he just waits patiently for Becquerel to point it out to him.
Becquerel finishes quickly with the clothes (—being a clotheshorse has rather increased his abilities in this area) and comes back, gazing openly at Eskil’s chest and tummy during the approach.
The nightshirts are exactly the same and the two men are the same height; as such, Becquerel feels quite comfortable pulling the closest one to him over his head. He considers doing up the closures at the neck, but reasons they’ll get undone in short order anyway, so he leaves them.
Seeing how there’s now only one nightshirt left Eskil takes it and starts pulling it over his head. Maybe it’s because he’s tired or maybe it’s because he’s still quite nervous, but whatever the cause he seems to struggle a bit which means he quietly mumbles a few choice words in his native tongue. But he manages, finally, to get the recalcitrant garment to behave. And he smiles triumphantly, hair mussled.
For a moment Becquerel considers helping the stuck Surfacer by tugging the garment down, but it looks like he has managed just fine on his own. All that having been done he makes a final turn of the room to turn off any extra lights beyond the one on the nightstand.
Then it’s back to Eskil in a room now mostly dark except for the glow of the one remaining lamp, and Becquerel feels brave enough—having taken a few moments to breathe and get a hold of himself—to take Eskil’s hand, tilt his head, and kiss him again, very very sweetly, softly, very slowly indeed.
Eskil reciprocates the kiss without hesitation and he finds Becquerel’s other hand which he guides to his chest, placing it over his heart that is beating ferociously. “Are we ready?” he asks as their lips part.
Becquerel rests his forehead against Eskil’s with his eyes shut, pressing his lips together to feel the ghost of the kiss there and commit it to memory. Then he nods. With a gentle kiss to Eskil’s forehead he slides in under the turned-down covers of the bed and makes sure the chalk-board is within easy reach on the nightstand.
The Surfacer follows in a heartbeat, happy to be off his feet that’s quite sore from all their dancing and even more happy (but nervous) to share the incredibly comfortable bed of his beloved Naturalist. He sighs contently as he settles in beside Becquerel.
The naturalist pulls the covers up and, not very shyly at all, snuggles up close to Eskil’s side, resting his hand on his chest. He takes a moment to get warm under the covers—the blankets are still cool from not having been rested in yet, and he shivers a little against Esse, trying to get warm.
Then he reaches for his chalk-board, which he sets on Eskil’s chest with a blush, and writes: Are you comfortable?
Eskil giggles a little at having the chalk-board placed on his chest. “Very comfy. And you?”
Becquerel giggles too, and Eskil might be able to feel it in his arm or his side, now that they’re almost flush against one another. He props his head up on one elbow, which he set on his pillow, and writes. I’m well. Better than before. I’m sorry if it was strange. He makes a little sighing sound—But when you touch me, be aware of it, that I can sometimes find my own scarring distressing. It’s not anything to do with you, I promise. You—here he touches Eskil’s hair again before finishing his sentence—are very beautiful to me.
He smiles softly as he looks up at Becquerel. “It was... I worried. I’ll be um, mindful and careful and if I do anything... that feels wrong to you, you will let me know, yes? You’d stop me? I couldn’t bare... making you uncomfortable.” He nods and there’s no mistaking the sincerity in his voice. “You are... so incredibly wonderful. Den vackraste i hela världen.”
A hand makes its way into Eskil’s hair again for a moment; the fingers make little circles on his scalp, and Becquerel watches Eskil’s face for his reaction—Eskil has the best reactions.
I will do my best to stop you if I’m uncomfortable, he writes when he’s finished; sometimes I freeze, and having no voice can make it hard to communicate a need. But I have hands and arms and a face to speak with, and I know in any case that you will be gentle and that we will go at a slow pace, and I shall always have the chalk-board nearby—all these things being in place, I think I shall be fine. He dares, then, to press a quick kiss to Eskil’s neck. And if you should be uncomfortable at any time, you’ll tell me, yes?
He does indeed have the best reactions, how could he not when Becquerel lavishes affection on his scalp and hair. And the kiss to his neck, that makes him gasp with delight.
“I will, I promise. I eh, think we will be alright? And... just as a, umm, what’s the word... precaution, the Swedish word for no is ‘nej’... though I very much doubt I’ll utter it here with you.”
Becquerel laughs a little—I think we will be comfortable enough that we won’t require it, you’re right, but in the case that we do, it will be imperative rather than a trifle. I do love it when you say things to me in Swedish, though I never know what it is you’re saying—it’s very sweet.
Having registered Eskil’s reaction to the neck-kiss, he puts the chalk down on the chalk-board and presses another kiss to his neck, just to see whether he can replicate the original reaction.
It works a charm and he even gets Eskil to make a little sound of desire originating from deep in his throat. There might still be a chalk-board on his chest, but Eskil still somehow manages to move closer without removing said chalk-board from it’s current location.
The naturalist seems pleased with this outcome, and nods with a silly expression on—like an official approving a document. He takes the chalk-board and chalk and sets them on the nightstand, then returns to refocus his efforts on Eskil’s neck. His hypothesis is that different places on said neck and different types of kisses will produce different reactions. As a scientist, it is his job to make as many observations as possible, and he begins his study with enthusiasm.
The chalk-board removed Eskil can, finally, move his arm freely and he lets his hand find Becquerel’s back and gently traces his spine. The kisses will grant Becquerel various gasps, moans, growls and other noises of delight until the poor Surfacer can’t take it anymore and tries to seek out the other man’s lips.
Becquerel happily obliges him, sliding fingers into his hair again and pressing himself a little closer as they kiss. Although they’re clothed, it’s quite clear through the layers of fabric what Becquerel is currently feeling—that is to say, he is aroused and excited and quite pleased to keep kissing Eskil as long as he likes.
During their very very long kiss Eskil wraps his other arm around Becquerel as well and he holds him in a firm but still gentle embrace. It should come as no surprise that Eskil is indeed just as excited and aroused as the other man. It’s not until Eskil realises that he’s forgotten to breathe that he pulls away from the kiss, gasping for air, giggling. “Sagolikt.”
**********
The two men fall asleep curled together, still clothed, quite exhausted both from the activities of the day and from further activities at bedtime. The lamplight has been lowered and the covers pulled up, and they drift off together into sleep, arms around one another, contented. Becquerel’s dreams do not recur, tonight, and he is grateful.
But after a few hours pass, Becquerel finds himself tossed out of sleep by the sound of a voice—Eskil’s voice, it turns out. He blinks and opens his eyes and listens.
The words spoken is foreign and quite obviously not meant for the Naturalist’s ears since the man speaking is still asleep. But even though they can’t be clearly understood, except perhaps for the many times repeated word ‘nej’, the tone of Eskil’s voice should make it clear that the conversation he’s quite unaware that he’s having is not a happy one, infact it sounds very much like Eskil is about to cry in despair.
Rather than sit by him and do nothing, Becquerel places a hand on Eskil’s chest and attempts to shake him gently—and if that doesn’t work, he’ll put his hand gently into Eskil’s hair and start rubbing circles on his scalp.
Eskil’s eyes snap open and for a brief moment the look on his face is that of shear terror and his whole body tenses up before his brain catches up with him and he realises that he is infact safe and warm and in the arms of Becquerel. He tries to smile but his lower lip trembles too much and his eyes begin to fill with tears. “I’m sorry...”
The naturalist doesn’t reach for his chalk quite yet; instead he just pulls Eskil close to him gently and firmly and holds him tightly. Lightly he presses a kiss into Eskil’s hair, not yet saying anything, waiting until Eskil feels ready enough to speak.
It takes a while for him get a grip on himself again and he sobs against Becquerel’s shoulder, but slowly he relaxes in the other man’s embrace. “Did I speak?” he asks, voice still quite unsteady. “I eh, do that sometimes, I should have told you.”
Becquerel nods in answer and reaches to turn the light of the lamp up so that they can see one another a little. As he’s reaching for the lamp, he also reaches for the chalk-board. You did. In Swedish, I’m afraid, so I didn’t understand a word, but … sad, he finishes, still too sleepy to really make big sentences.
Eskil blinks a few times as he tries to make out what Becquerel has written in the semi-darkness. “I... yes. It’s... I do it when I am stressed or, eh, sometimes when I dream. I can’t control it. I’m sorry I woke you up.”
Shall we sleep, and talk about it in the morning? Or would you like to talk about it now? Becquerel presses a kiss to Eskil’s temple, gentle as always.
“Let’s sleep, I’m too tired to make much sense of it now.” He lets out one last shuddering breath before he stills himself. “... and thank you... and, um, please wake me if I do it again?”
Becquerel nods, puts the chalk-board to the side again, and turns the lamp down again, then pulls Eskil into his arms to hold him.
Even though Eskil is more than tired, and despite Becquerel is holding him - for which he is extremely grateful, it takes quite some time before he’s able to get back to sleep and once he does it’s a light, worried slumber. Though he does at least remain quiet this time.
**********
The next time Becquerel is woken up, it’s morning (insofar as one can have a morning, in a place with no sun). The clock tells him it is still relatively early; distantly he hears the heavy padding of cat-feet in the house and a much lighter skittering above him. He also hears the soft sounds of the man sleeping next to him.
Lightly he kisses the back of Eskil’s neck—then behind his ear—then his temple, then his forehead, then the tip of his nose … as much of this as it takes, until the Swedish gentleman awakens.
Eskil wakes at the first kiss to his neck, but perhaps he can be forgiven for not making that obvious, he so does enjoy being kissed awake, more than he thought possible. Eventually he does open his eyes though and turns his head to smile softly at Becquerel. “Good morning, sweetheart.” He reaches out to gently stroke the man’s jaw-line. “How did you sleep?”
Becquerel doesn’t quite seem ready to speak just yet, so instead of writing anything he just grins and does a big nod and snuggles close. Here, it would seem, is Becquerel’s reason for wanting to wake up next to Eskil: he is a bit of a snuggler, and he’s content to curl up under the covers for warmth with Eskil as long as he can.
After a while of this, however, he will reach for the chalk-board. I slept better than I have in a while. Thank you.
Eskil welcomes the snuggling, he’s infact quite delighted by it. Once Becquerel sets to writing his reply to the question Eskil rubs at his eyes tiredly but with a silly little smile which grows into a warm happy grin as he reads what Becquerel has written. “Good... and eh, I didn’t, umm, disturb you too much with my sleep talking?”
Becquerel shakes his head against the pillow. I always wake up a few times in the night—it didn’t disturb me any more than usual. Besides, you more than made up for it by being very nice and warm and cute. He smiles a big smile. You are very handsome, have I told you that yet? Shall I say it again?
“I’m n...” he stops himself, if Becquerel thinks he is handsome it would be quite weird to disagree, “yes, please, if you’d like to.”
You are very handsome, Becquerel communicates, by erasing everything from the board except for those words. He draws several lines coming from “You are very” in various directions, then writes in various words in at the ends of the lines: “sweet,” “lovely,” “good,” “determined,” “beautiful,” “handsome!” (again), “fast at learning about kissing” … that’s all he can fit right now, with all the lines. He shows Eskil his handiwork, with a little grin.
Eskil chuckles a little, blushing, and points to the ‘fast at learning about kissing’. “I have a very very talented and gorgeous tutor... though, um, I haven’t had a lesson yet today.” He grins and gives Becquerel a quick peck. “I, eh, with further practise I might master the skill.”
Laughing, Becquerel reaches to slide his fingers into Eskil’s hair and pull him up for a relatively lengthy “lesson”, but he doesn’t let it go on too long, because he’s got something else in mind. You said we’d talk about the dream, and about other things—will you tell me?
The wide grin, that is the result of kissing lessons, falter. Eskil knew the question would come, and he did make a promise, and he does want to tell Becquerel, but it’s hard. He presses his lips together and nods. “Yes.”
Eskil leans back against the pillows and shuts his eyes. “I... just need a second to, umm, gather my thoughts. I don’t want to ramble... more than I already do.”
The naturalist brushes a kiss against Eskil’s forehead and backs up a little to leave him a little space. I don’t mind you rambling, but I understand.
Since Eskil doesn’t open his eyes he doesn’t see Becquerel’s reply, but he does take a deep breath before he begins to speak. “I don’t know where to start really. Perhaps... the dream... I dreamt about my brother... and... what might happen when I return back home.” He nods and finally opens his eyes again. He looks tired, and not from the lack of sleep, but the kind of tired that comes with having had to carry too much on one's shoulders for far too long. “I haven’t told you much about him, it’s not... he’s... we aren’t exactly like one would expect brothers to be like.” He sighs. “Infact, I do believe that if I weren’t useful to him...” he trails off with a frown on his face.
“He’s the one who sent me to London, he wanted me to... persuade Karin to let go of things that belong to her. I... never intended to even try to do that, but I was more than willing to travel here... to get away. But now... I’ve done something stupid. And I need to go back home and set things right. Though... I’m...” he shudders slightly,” well, I am afraid of what will come of it.”
What are you afraid of? asks Becquerel, sitting up in the bed with the pillow behind him and tugging at Eskil’s nightshirt to encourage him to sit up. Becquerel looks like he wants to put his arm around Eskil—he’s putting his arm out and gesturing.
He pulls himself up and lets Becquerel hold him. “The consequences... he.” Eskil scratches the back of his head. “Egon is hungry for power, and he would do most anything to get more of it. Since my father died there’s no one to hold him back and... he’s become worse. I have lied to him... so I could stay a bit longer. He’ll be angry... and seeing how I have failed... he might, um, dispose of me.”
Becquerel touches Eskil’s hair lightly as he speaks. He waits until Eskil is completely finished speaking, then waits a breath before starting to write. His brow is furrowed and he presses his lips together. That … he starts, mouth relaxing—his lips part. That is terrifying. He looks off into the distance for a moment. What will happen when you go back, then?
Up until now Eskil Douglas have managed to hold himself together, but now slow silent tears start falling from his eyes. “I don’t know,” there’s no strength at all in his voice, no determination, just hopelessness. “If only I knew... and could prepare myself.”
The naturalist doesn’t say the obvious thing—stay here, stay safe—because there is no evidence that Eskil would, in fact, be safer in the Neath than Above.
I know you are afraid, he writes, eventually; but you are an incredibly determined man and I trust in you. He presses his hand through Eskil’s hair again. Is there any convincing him, do you think?
“... maybe.” Eskil swallows hard in a futile attempt to stop the tears. “If I could... bribe him... or blackmail him.” He shakes his head in building frustration. “Damn him... den förbannade jävla fähunden! Damn him for standing in my way! I won’t be taken down this time, I won’t, he’ll see. I have something to fight for now and by God I will fight.” There’s desperation and anger in his words, but in there somewhere there’s also the resurfacing determination of a man who for the first time feels he has something to lose and won't give it up until utterly defeated.
Becquerel inhales slowly. He was concerned before—and although he sees Eskil’s determination and resolve, he is even more concerned now, in a way he can’t hope to explain.
He doesn’t rightly know what to say, but for the moment he just firms his hold around Eskil, grasping him tightly and kissing him hard on top of his head.
Eskil throws his arms around Becquerel and for a moment he just tries to calm his breathing. He is shaking, too many emotions at once making his mind run wild and his heart race.
Eventually he pulls back a little, a look of remorse and guilt on his face. “Becquerel... this isn’t fair to you. You had no idea...” what a mess I am “I am sorry.”
The naturalist shakes his head and smiles a small, sad sort of smile. You needn’t be, he writes. I can only hope that you don’t get hurt in the course of it--and I would like Karin to be safe as well. That is what I care about. And I would ask that you be honest with me, he continues; I need your honesty.
He nods, still feeling guilty, but Eskil manages a very small and worried looking smile as he looks into Becquerel’s eyes. “I will always be honest with you... and, eh, if there is anything I... forget. Um, if there’s something you’d like to know that you eh, feel I have... withheld... ask me, I will answer.” There’s a pause where Eskil takes hold of one of Becquerel’s hand and presses a kiss to his palm. “I’ll be leaving the 27th... will you come see me off?”
Becquerel smooths his hand down the side of Eskil’s face and presses a kiss to his top lip, then to his chin, then to his mouth. He takes his sweet time—at one point he slides his hand down under the collar of Eskil’s nightshirt just to rest it there, just to feel the heat of his skin there.
After this moment of gentleness he writes: I will. Are you spending the night before at Karin’s? You will need to pack, of course, and perhaps spend time with your cousin … but I should like to spend at least one more night with you. Of course there’s the début, too ... He bites his lip, considering a question, but then leaves it in favour of nuzzling Eskil’s hair.
It’s hard to stay worried and sad when Becquerel is so amazingly sweet, and caring, and handsome, and lovely, and oh God how Eskil wishes he could stay in this bed with this man for the rest of eternity.
“I think... I do have to spend that night at Karin’s but... eh, the guest bed is comfy and rather big... you could, perhaps, come and sleep together with me in it? I know Karin wouldn’t mind.” With a hand curled around Becquerel’s neck he gently pulls him close for a sweet and long kiss. “I’d like to spend as much time possible with you.”
That’s all the encouragement Becquerel needs. He turns over and snuggles right up to Eskil’s side so that he’s flush with Eskil’s side, then resumes the lip-lock, if Eskil approves—then he will thread his fingers into Eskil’s hair, pull the blankets up to their shoulders, and roll over on top of Eskil, giggling, so that they’re belly-to-belly. This he will contentedly maintain as long as Eskil is comfortable with it, and as long as they can hold out against the need to eat breakfast.
[Warnings: Fluff, not entirely safe for work, angst, some mentions of personal trauma, too much kissing]
One could debate if it is late night or early morning when Eskil Douglas and Becquerel Curie stumble towards Mr. Curie’s home after an evening of intense dancing, intense laughing and intense kissing topped off with good eating and drinking as well. It is safe to say though that they have celebrated the Feast thoroughly and are now in need of some rest lest they collapse of exhaustion. Luckily they are not too far from 2 Maiden Lane. and as long as their feet doesn’t give in just yet they should be able to make it there.
It’s not easy to determine who is leaning on who for support, but they are both giggly and tired and happy. Occasionally they pause on their way to Becquerel’s home to hold on to one another and exchange embraces. When they finally arrive at 2 Maiden Lane, they practically fall in through the door.
Becquerel helps Eskil out of his coat and slips out of his own, then tips his mask up so that it’s sitting on the crown of his head. Then he goes to put on some water to boil—after all that alcohol and food, it will be nice to have something herbal to warm him up and hydrate him. (And coffee for Eskil, should he desire it.)
Eskil would certainly like some coffee or else he might fall asleep on the spot, and that wouldn’t be very romantic. After having taken of his shoes and put on some slippers he follows Becquerel to the kitchen, yawning and stretching. “How can people, eh, party like this a whole week, or is it two weeks?” He grins and comes to stand close.
Becqui shakes his head as sets up the tea—in fact he has very little to do, as Holzknecht was good enough to set up most of a tea-service for two, anticipating that Becquerel and his gentleman friend would want such a thing upon returning from their adventures out on the town. All that remains is for the hot water to be poured over the tea-leaves in the one pot and the coffee-grounds in the other.
It varies in length, writes Becquerel, welcoming Eskil’s decision to stand close by opening his stance a little and brushing fingers down the lapel of his jacket. Then back to writing: Sometimes a week, sometimes two … whenever the Bazaar decides it should be over, it will end. It seems awfully hungry this year, though. He distracts himself by putting the chalk-board down on the counter and poking Eskil’s chin.
“Uhu,” he smiles and lets a hand rest on Becquerel’s waist, “but that still doesn’t answer how people manages to party for so long... is it, eh, the mushroom diet?”
Coffee, perhaps? The constant snacking as fuel? He presses his lips together. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Bazaar acts on the Feast to some extent, to fuel it. … or it could be the mushrooms, concedes Becquerel, who when he finishes writing props the chalk-board up against his nose.
“Mhm,” tired as he is he can’t help but yawn, which he covers with his free hand looking just slightly embarrassed. “Well, eh, whatever the reason, it’s fantastic... just like you, but not umm, as fantastic as you.” Eskil grins and frees himself from his mask which has left some red marks on the otherwise pale skin of his face where it’s been a bit too tight.
The naturalist removes his own mask. Seeing the marks on Eskil’s skin makes him click his tongue a little and reach to touch them, lightly. You flatter me too much, cabbage, he writes, with a grin and a blush. But at the same time you delight me. He puts his writing aside so that he can loop his arms over Eskil’s shoulder, linking his hands behind his neck.
Eskil blushes slightly but holds eye contact. “Too much? I, umm, would say that’s impossible. And as long as you are eh, delighted I am pleased.” He laughs quietly as he lets his own arms snake around Becquerel’s waist and urges the other man closer for a kiss. Once it’s over he gently breaks free from their embrace and starts to remove his jacket. “Too warm and stiff this, I should have packed something lighter.”
Covering the lower half of his face, the naturalist watches as Eskil removes the offending garment with no small amount of interest—then he takes off his own and takes Eskil’s as well to sling them over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. They can worry about hanging them up properly when they go to Becquerel’s room, to curl up together …
It’s quite something, seeing a man in shirtsleeves in his kitchen, and though he’s seen Eskil in shirtsleeves before it still feels intimate. You do delight me. I wish I could be more articulate about it, but it’s so very late. and I’m so very looking forward to curling up next to you. He grins broadly, but his face is still shy. It’s almost silly. I just love being held.
Eskil drinks in the sight of Becquerel in his shirtsleeves and he can’t help but blush just slightly at the thought of seeing him in further states of undress. “You are, eh, still the most articulate of the two of us I’d say.” Eskil grins, too tired to be selfconscious about the way he speaks. “And, eh, it’s not silly at all, and even if it was it, ah, wouldn’t stop me from wanting to hold you.” His smile is soft and tender and if it weren’t for the water that just started to boil he’d pull Becquerel close once again. Instead he picks up the kettle because now it’s time to prepare coffee! And tea, though he’ll leave that up to Becquerel.
Closely the naturalist watches Eskil prepare the coffee--even though he has a housekeeper now, he is determined to memorize this process. Very important stuff, after all. The tea is relatively easy: just hot water into the little teapot over the tea-leaves. He puts the lid back on, too, to keep the heat from escaping.
Shall we have our tea down the hall? he asks, pink in the cheeks--by "down the hall," he is referring to his own room, and it's still so new and strange that he can't bring himself to say the word "bedroom."
Eskil feels rather satisfied with having been able to prepare the coffee just right despite being ridiculously tired and quite distracted by his current company. It takes a moment before he connects ‘down the hall’ with Becquerel’s bedroom but once he does there’s another small blush. He clears his throat and grins shyly. “That, eh, sounds most practical, yes. And... my feet will be grateful for not having to umm, move from room to room.”
Grinning, Becquerel makes a few last adjustments to the tea-tray before hefting it to take it to the bedroom. He nods at the jackets and makes eye contact with Eskil, in an effort to suggest he pick the jackets up and follow. And with that Becquerel wanders off down the hall, making sure he’s never out of sight of Eskil so that the Swedish gentleman knows where he is going.
Eskil gets the cue and picks up their jackets and then proceeds to follow Becquerel down the hall, almost skipping along since he’s too excited to walk normally.
They pass a few other doors on their way, but eventually make it. Becquerel silently requests for Eskil to turn the door-handle, and once that’s taken care of he can set the tea-tray down. The bedroom is roomy, very tidy, and minimally decorated. Miniature mushroom-gardens in glass jars and terra cotta pots occupy the window-sill and the night-table. It smells of bergamot oil and wood and lavender. The wood panels on the walls warm up the space; the vanity mirror is covered with an orangey-red curtain; the bed is practically half cushions and looks very, very comfortable. Overall the bedroom, despite its minimalism, looks comfortable.
Becquerel sets the tea-tray down on a little desk to one side of the vanity, then reaches out to take the jackets, which, he indicates with a nod of his head, he is going to hang up for them.
“Thank you.” Eskil hands Becquerel the jackets before he looks around, quietly taking in the room. “It’s a very nice room, it, ah, fits you... somehow.” Any signs of occasional boldness the man has shown before seems to have vanished entirely and he stands exceptionally still, not knowing what to do next.
Noticing Eskil’s sudden shyness is easy for someone as watchful as Becquerel. Gently, in an encouraging way not intended to be forceful, Becquerel takes Eskil’s hand and tugs him over not to the bed, but to the desk where the tea-tray is. He pours two cups: one of coffee, one of tea, and passes the former to Eskil while leaning against the desk. He also gestures to the chair at the desk, if Eskil should like to sit.
Eskil takes both the coffee and the seat with a grateful smile which grows even warmer as he takes the first sip of coffee. “Ljuvligt.” He sighs, quite content now that he’s sitting down. “I don’t think I will ever understand, eh, Londoners aversion against coffee, nor their love for tea.”
Becquerel grins at him, pleased that he’s happy with the coffee, and leans forward to steal a quick kiss from Eskil’s lips before going back to sip his tea again. Then the writing: You don’t have to understand, Esse; you just have to be willing to accept it, writes Becquerel, with a grin. Some of these things are differences that you just have to live with.
“Mmm,” Eskil grins, all too happy to be kissed so sweetly even though it’s distracting him from his excellent cup of coffee, “but I do accept it. Just like I accept that it’s fashionable for women to wear trousers, which is both sensible and quite eh, nice of course, and that social conventions are entirely different. It’s fascinating and... therefore I’d like to understand it.”
The naturalist laughs—Well, those are questions of morality, less questions of preference, but they are all questions of what is considered to be “normal” down here. So I’m glad you’re thinking about it. He sips his tea and fakes a pout. But how could you not like Earl Grey? Bergamot-scented … This is possibly a reference to the fact that Becquerel himself tends to be bergamot-scented.
Eskil raises an eyebrow and grins. “I never said I don’t enjoy the smell, eh, now did I? But it tastes...” he shudders, “wrong.” He nods. “I much prefer coffee and kisses from a Bergamot-scented man than drinking tea,” and with that he takes another sip of coffee.
Becquerel giggles his silent giggle, the one where he covers his mouth with his fingers spread, where his chest shakes with the laugh. You turned that one around quite nicely, he writes, grinning. This way you get the bergamot scent and the kisses and the heart of a naturalist and it’s all very nice, isn’t it …
He reaches out to touch Eskil’s hair, then, running his fingers into it, slowly, like he’s learning the feeling for the first time, like he’s trying to memorize it.
Eskil leans into the touch as much as possible. “Yes, I can be quite clever... though it’s rare. And it’s more than, eh, just nice.” He quickly finishes the rest of his coffee so he can put the cup away and reach for the naturalist who does indeed posses his heart.
Said naturalist sees the reaching, and he puts his own nearly empty teacup onto the tea-tray beside him to slide down into Esse’s lap. He does not speak, he does not write, he only pulls close and curls close up to the Surfacer, hands still in his hair, to reward him for his cleverness with another kiss.
Eskil’s embrace is firm, passionately holding on to Becquerel. During the kiss he makes a rather wanton sound, something between a growl and a moan, and as their lips part his eyes sparkle. “You...” it’s all he can think of to say.
Becquerel giggles again and reddens even more—he’s been blushing this whole time, of course, but somehow he manages to blush more. It’s also likely that now Eskil can feel him laughing. The naturalist pulls back and touches his own mouth. It’s funny, he writes, reaching back to the desk for the chalk-board—maybe “funny” is a bad word for it. But I like knowing that you like it, when I kiss you. I seem to have some sort of effect. And it’s like a secret. I don’t imagine anyone else has seen you like this. It’s like our secret ...
He touches Esse’s hair again where it has fallen in his face a little—he seems happy with the secret. It’s the best secret of all.
Seeing how Becquerel is currently sitting in his lap it should be quite obvious to him just how much of an effect he has on Eskil. Eskil can, of course, do nothing about it more than blush profoundly. “That... eh, yes... a secret,” Eskil stammers, utterly embarrassed.
The man in Eskil’s lap pulls back a moment to smooth back his own hair. Flushed and a little breathless himself, not to mention nervous, he is nonetheless grinning, clearly pleased, his eyes a little glazed over. The chalk-board hasn’t left his side. Sweet man, he writes, biting his lip, this is very strange to me. I’m still not used to it, and I know you’re not either. Are you—he pauses, thinking of how to ask it—are you alright, are you comfortable? Do you like this, I mean? It’s important to me that you should feel secure.
“I...” there’s a long pause where Eskil closes his eyes and tries to figure out how on earth he is supposed to reply. He is shaking a little from the tension, but he takes a very very deep breath and then exhales slowly, opening his eyes to look into Becquerel’s. “I’m... yes. It’s... but yes, I do, and I am, and I... feel safe eh, with you.”
The naturalist smooths his open hands down Eskil’s chest and leans in for another gentle kiss—this one is sweet and soft and caring rather than strictly passionate, and he backs out of it with a smile. Darling, would you feel safe enough to—and all he does here is lift his chin and eyes toward the bed, rather than write anything.
Mr. Douglas just nods, finding it hard to use words at the moment. He is smiling though, even if it’s a rather nervous smile.
Becqui extracts himself from Eskil's lap with some difficulty (it's warm there, after all, warm and comfortable) and the effect Eskil has been having on him becomes quickly apparent. Having successfully run this operation, he instinctively tries to salvage some dignity by straightening his shirt and waistcoat.
When he realizes the futility of trying to do this, he bursts out laughing, red in the face and so, so happy, and nervous, and delighted.
There’s something utterly deliberating about Becquerel’s response to it all and Eskil regains some of his own determination as he joins in the laughter. “Never knew I could feel this silly and this happy at once,” he admits as he stands up, grinning widely but shyly. “We, eh, should... lose some clothing? Wouldn’t want to eh, get our suits all wrinkly.” It’s an awkward attempt to joke, and not particularly funny, but it at least works as an indicator to show that Eskil is still on board with this whole... thing.
Becquerel laughs nervously and nods. He sets the chalk-board down on the end table so that it's within easy reach, then goes to a chest of drawers nearby to pull out a pair of night-shirts. He sets them down on the bed and looks at Eskil ... then steels himself visibly and starts removing his waistcoat, slowly and shyly.
Right, don’t think, just do, Eskil thinks to himself as he starts to work on the buttons of his waistcoat. Inebriation and nervousness makes him fumble, but he still manages to remove said waistcoat surprisingly quick and discards it carelessly so he can start unbuttoning his shirt. He doesn’t look at Becquerel, he doesn’t dare, fearing that he will lose his momentum if he does. His determination works well and very soon he is free from his shirt as well. That wasn’t so hard. Proud to have made such headway with undressing he looks up smiling softly. His state of shirtlessness reveals slender muscles and smooth pale skin almost glowing in the darkness.
Quite separately, then, and back-to-back, they disrobe their upper halves. Or at least, Becquerel gets as far as removing his waistcoat and overshirt and cravat. When he reaches his short-sleeved undershirt, he finds that his hands freeze on the closures. When Eskil looks up, he will find Becquerel paralyzed, eyes looking distantly at the place where the floor meets the wall, fingers frozen in place on his undershirt, wordless.
Eskil’s soft smile falters and turns into a worried frown at the sight of the other man’s apparent distress. Has he done something wrong? Has Becquerel changed his mind? He breathes in nervously. This can’t be good.
“Becquerel?” It’s no more than a whisper. He carefully moves toward him, hands twitching as he is unsure if he should try to touch the other man reassuringly or if that would only make this, whatever it is, worse.
Becquerel looks up at Eskil with an expression on his face that can only be described as help me. He reaches for the chalk-board with quivering fingers. I don't know that I've prepared you for what I look like under this, he writes, with a terrified look. There was a fire ...
He presses his lips together, thinking about what to say next. You're so smooth and clean and lovely, he writes, caught between terror and attraction, drinking in Eskil's appearance with hungry but frightened eyes.
Eskil lets out a breath he didn’t even realise he was holding. It’s mortifying to see Becquerel look so helpless, but at least he himself haven’t done anything wrong. “Look at me, I mean my eyes,” he says gently, but it’s still a command. “You are beautiful, the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on. Nothing, nothing at all could stop me from thinking so, no matter what.” He’s surprised of how he managed to say all that without the stuttering and stammering, and glad for it since this is so very important. He takes one of Becquerel’s quivering hands in his own and gently places his other hand on Becquerel’s shoulder, giving it a very gentle squeeze. “You don’t need to hide from me. But you shouldn’t do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
Becquerel looks like he appreciates that reassuring hand on his shoulder: when Eskil touches him he is initially quite taut and tense, but slowly he relaxes. In that moment of eye contact he finds comfort.
Lightly he presses a shaky kiss to Eskil's shoulder. I do want this. I'm sure I'm ready, I must be. Then he reaches for the buttons on his undershirt with a look of profound contemplation. Louis has seen him bare, and it took work then, too; but they had time, they took it slow, and now with Eskil there is a promise of a different intimacy.
I was caught in a housefire, he writes as explanation. I lost my mother. I ... am quite badly scarred.
Then he begins to undo his undershirt, trying his very best to hold himself together as he begins to expose the badly ruined flesh of his shoulder and arm.
“I’m so sorry.” It sounds too little to Eskil, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He stays close but does not touch Becquerel as he begins to undress again, he doesn’t want to rush him. Once he sees the state of Becquerel’s damaged skin he doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t winch, he just looks at him with the tiniest hint of sadness mingled with the desire he feels. As Eskil expected it does nothing to deter him from wanting Becquerel, and he still thinks he is the most beautiful man he’s ever seen.
Finally Becquerel manages to remove the undershirt. His entire left shoulder and almost the entire left arm are scarred terribly, and his left pectoral as well--his left nipple, in fact, is deformed badly, and the scar stands out starkly against the rest of his Neath-pale skin.
Carefully he takes Eskil's hand, still with a look of slight fear on, and places it on his shoulder just above the pectoral. Then he meets his eyes for a bare moment, as though to ask whether it's okay.
He lets his hand rest on Becquerel’s shoulder as he meets the other man’s gaze. All there is to see in his eyes are tenderness and there is a soft, shy smile on his lips. After a moment Eskil lets his hand slide down Becquerel’s arm and leans in to gently kiss the scarred shoulder, it’s a featherlight brush of his lips against Becquerel’s skin but a kiss nonetheless. “I adore you,” he says as he pulls back, ”eh, everything that is you.”
The naturalist touches his sweetheart's hair lightly and presses a feather-light kiss to his unscarred shoulder. I can't really feel anything very well the length of the scar, he writes; it feels a little numb. It's not that I don't want you to touch me there, but you should know.
You are so sweet, he finishes, before sinking a hand into Eskil's hair again.
“And you are brave.” Eskil melts, that hand in his hair and Becquerel being so... Becquerel, he can’t help but lean in for another kiss, a sweet but still hungry one.
But once it’s over Eskil takes a step back, looks down at his still dressed legs with a little frown and sighs. “Right... I think, eh, I’ll have to.” He bites his lip and looks up at the naturalist, looking frightfully nervous but incredibly determined at the same time. “These will have to come off,” gesturing to his trousers, “umm, quickly, before I, ah, lose my nerve... eh, excuse me while I...” and with that he takes another few steps back and turns his back at Becquerel. It’s quite astonishing, the speed with which he undresses, and it doesn’t take long before he’s stripped down to his underpants. He has the well toned legs of a runner and Eskil isn’t uncomfortable with his body per se but this situation is, apart from quite thrilling, new and confusing and he feels incredibly exposed, though he’s not sure if that is a bad thing or not. At that point he turns back, eyes down, blushing like he’s never blushed before, hands trying to cover the state of his arousal, but he is smiling ever so shyly.
Drawing in a shaky breath, Becquerel looks the man over and nods, once, as if in approval, or perhaps to confirm that nervousness notwithstanding, Eskil looks fantastically attractive to him.
His fingers hesitate on the closures of his own trousers as he stands and turns his back to Eskil; then he drops them slowly and makes short work of his socks and garters. Covering his face with his hands, arms pulled in tight to his chest, he shuffles slowly around to face Eskil again. The nervousness isn't abating, but he manages to make eye contact, barely.
For the moment, he picks up his clothes and reaches for Eskil's and moves to hang them neatly--creases, after all, would be very telling.
Eskil keeps on smiling shyly as he watches Becquerel take care of their clothes, still nervous but no longer entirely uncomfortable in the situation and quite obviously less tense. He then looks at the nightshirts, but since he isn’t sure which one is meant for him he just waits patiently for Becquerel to point it out to him.
Becquerel finishes quickly with the clothes (—being a clotheshorse has rather increased his abilities in this area) and comes back, gazing openly at Eskil’s chest and tummy during the approach.
The nightshirts are exactly the same and the two men are the same height; as such, Becquerel feels quite comfortable pulling the closest one to him over his head. He considers doing up the closures at the neck, but reasons they’ll get undone in short order anyway, so he leaves them.
Seeing how there’s now only one nightshirt left Eskil takes it and starts pulling it over his head. Maybe it’s because he’s tired or maybe it’s because he’s still quite nervous, but whatever the cause he seems to struggle a bit which means he quietly mumbles a few choice words in his native tongue. But he manages, finally, to get the recalcitrant garment to behave. And he smiles triumphantly, hair mussled.
For a moment Becquerel considers helping the stuck Surfacer by tugging the garment down, but it looks like he has managed just fine on his own. All that having been done he makes a final turn of the room to turn off any extra lights beyond the one on the nightstand.
Then it’s back to Eskil in a room now mostly dark except for the glow of the one remaining lamp, and Becquerel feels brave enough—having taken a few moments to breathe and get a hold of himself—to take Eskil’s hand, tilt his head, and kiss him again, very very sweetly, softly, very slowly indeed.
Eskil reciprocates the kiss without hesitation and he finds Becquerel’s other hand which he guides to his chest, placing it over his heart that is beating ferociously. “Are we ready?” he asks as their lips part.
Becquerel rests his forehead against Eskil’s with his eyes shut, pressing his lips together to feel the ghost of the kiss there and commit it to memory. Then he nods. With a gentle kiss to Eskil’s forehead he slides in under the turned-down covers of the bed and makes sure the chalk-board is within easy reach on the nightstand.
The Surfacer follows in a heartbeat, happy to be off his feet that’s quite sore from all their dancing and even more happy (but nervous) to share the incredibly comfortable bed of his beloved Naturalist. He sighs contently as he settles in beside Becquerel.
The naturalist pulls the covers up and, not very shyly at all, snuggles up close to Eskil’s side, resting his hand on his chest. He takes a moment to get warm under the covers—the blankets are still cool from not having been rested in yet, and he shivers a little against Esse, trying to get warm.
Then he reaches for his chalk-board, which he sets on Eskil’s chest with a blush, and writes: Are you comfortable?
Eskil giggles a little at having the chalk-board placed on his chest. “Very comfy. And you?”
Becquerel giggles too, and Eskil might be able to feel it in his arm or his side, now that they’re almost flush against one another. He props his head up on one elbow, which he set on his pillow, and writes. I’m well. Better than before. I’m sorry if it was strange. He makes a little sighing sound—But when you touch me, be aware of it, that I can sometimes find my own scarring distressing. It’s not anything to do with you, I promise. You—here he touches Eskil’s hair again before finishing his sentence—are very beautiful to me.
He smiles softly as he looks up at Becquerel. “It was... I worried. I’ll be um, mindful and careful and if I do anything... that feels wrong to you, you will let me know, yes? You’d stop me? I couldn’t bare... making you uncomfortable.” He nods and there’s no mistaking the sincerity in his voice. “You are... so incredibly wonderful. Den vackraste i hela världen.”
A hand makes its way into Eskil’s hair again for a moment; the fingers make little circles on his scalp, and Becquerel watches Eskil’s face for his reaction—Eskil has the best reactions.
I will do my best to stop you if I’m uncomfortable, he writes when he’s finished; sometimes I freeze, and having no voice can make it hard to communicate a need. But I have hands and arms and a face to speak with, and I know in any case that you will be gentle and that we will go at a slow pace, and I shall always have the chalk-board nearby—all these things being in place, I think I shall be fine. He dares, then, to press a quick kiss to Eskil’s neck. And if you should be uncomfortable at any time, you’ll tell me, yes?
He does indeed have the best reactions, how could he not when Becquerel lavishes affection on his scalp and hair. And the kiss to his neck, that makes him gasp with delight.
“I will, I promise. I eh, think we will be alright? And... just as a, umm, what’s the word... precaution, the Swedish word for no is ‘nej’... though I very much doubt I’ll utter it here with you.”
Becquerel laughs a little—I think we will be comfortable enough that we won’t require it, you’re right, but in the case that we do, it will be imperative rather than a trifle. I do love it when you say things to me in Swedish, though I never know what it is you’re saying—it’s very sweet.
Having registered Eskil’s reaction to the neck-kiss, he puts the chalk down on the chalk-board and presses another kiss to his neck, just to see whether he can replicate the original reaction.
It works a charm and he even gets Eskil to make a little sound of desire originating from deep in his throat. There might still be a chalk-board on his chest, but Eskil still somehow manages to move closer without removing said chalk-board from it’s current location.
The naturalist seems pleased with this outcome, and nods with a silly expression on—like an official approving a document. He takes the chalk-board and chalk and sets them on the nightstand, then returns to refocus his efforts on Eskil’s neck. His hypothesis is that different places on said neck and different types of kisses will produce different reactions. As a scientist, it is his job to make as many observations as possible, and he begins his study with enthusiasm.
The chalk-board removed Eskil can, finally, move his arm freely and he lets his hand find Becquerel’s back and gently traces his spine. The kisses will grant Becquerel various gasps, moans, growls and other noises of delight until the poor Surfacer can’t take it anymore and tries to seek out the other man’s lips.
Becquerel happily obliges him, sliding fingers into his hair again and pressing himself a little closer as they kiss. Although they’re clothed, it’s quite clear through the layers of fabric what Becquerel is currently feeling—that is to say, he is aroused and excited and quite pleased to keep kissing Eskil as long as he likes.
During their very very long kiss Eskil wraps his other arm around Becquerel as well and he holds him in a firm but still gentle embrace. It should come as no surprise that Eskil is indeed just as excited and aroused as the other man. It’s not until Eskil realises that he’s forgotten to breathe that he pulls away from the kiss, gasping for air, giggling. “Sagolikt.”
**********
The two men fall asleep curled together, still clothed, quite exhausted both from the activities of the day and from further activities at bedtime. The lamplight has been lowered and the covers pulled up, and they drift off together into sleep, arms around one another, contented. Becquerel’s dreams do not recur, tonight, and he is grateful.
But after a few hours pass, Becquerel finds himself tossed out of sleep by the sound of a voice—Eskil’s voice, it turns out. He blinks and opens his eyes and listens.
The words spoken is foreign and quite obviously not meant for the Naturalist’s ears since the man speaking is still asleep. But even though they can’t be clearly understood, except perhaps for the many times repeated word ‘nej’, the tone of Eskil’s voice should make it clear that the conversation he’s quite unaware that he’s having is not a happy one, infact it sounds very much like Eskil is about to cry in despair.
Rather than sit by him and do nothing, Becquerel places a hand on Eskil’s chest and attempts to shake him gently—and if that doesn’t work, he’ll put his hand gently into Eskil’s hair and start rubbing circles on his scalp.
Eskil’s eyes snap open and for a brief moment the look on his face is that of shear terror and his whole body tenses up before his brain catches up with him and he realises that he is infact safe and warm and in the arms of Becquerel. He tries to smile but his lower lip trembles too much and his eyes begin to fill with tears. “I’m sorry...”
The naturalist doesn’t reach for his chalk quite yet; instead he just pulls Eskil close to him gently and firmly and holds him tightly. Lightly he presses a kiss into Eskil’s hair, not yet saying anything, waiting until Eskil feels ready enough to speak.
It takes a while for him get a grip on himself again and he sobs against Becquerel’s shoulder, but slowly he relaxes in the other man’s embrace. “Did I speak?” he asks, voice still quite unsteady. “I eh, do that sometimes, I should have told you.”
Becquerel nods in answer and reaches to turn the light of the lamp up so that they can see one another a little. As he’s reaching for the lamp, he also reaches for the chalk-board. You did. In Swedish, I’m afraid, so I didn’t understand a word, but … sad, he finishes, still too sleepy to really make big sentences.
Eskil blinks a few times as he tries to make out what Becquerel has written in the semi-darkness. “I... yes. It’s... I do it when I am stressed or, eh, sometimes when I dream. I can’t control it. I’m sorry I woke you up.”
Shall we sleep, and talk about it in the morning? Or would you like to talk about it now? Becquerel presses a kiss to Eskil’s temple, gentle as always.
“Let’s sleep, I’m too tired to make much sense of it now.” He lets out one last shuddering breath before he stills himself. “... and thank you... and, um, please wake me if I do it again?”
Becquerel nods, puts the chalk-board to the side again, and turns the lamp down again, then pulls Eskil into his arms to hold him.
Even though Eskil is more than tired, and despite Becquerel is holding him - for which he is extremely grateful, it takes quite some time before he’s able to get back to sleep and once he does it’s a light, worried slumber. Though he does at least remain quiet this time.
**********
The next time Becquerel is woken up, it’s morning (insofar as one can have a morning, in a place with no sun). The clock tells him it is still relatively early; distantly he hears the heavy padding of cat-feet in the house and a much lighter skittering above him. He also hears the soft sounds of the man sleeping next to him.
Lightly he kisses the back of Eskil’s neck—then behind his ear—then his temple, then his forehead, then the tip of his nose … as much of this as it takes, until the Swedish gentleman awakens.
Eskil wakes at the first kiss to his neck, but perhaps he can be forgiven for not making that obvious, he so does enjoy being kissed awake, more than he thought possible. Eventually he does open his eyes though and turns his head to smile softly at Becquerel. “Good morning, sweetheart.” He reaches out to gently stroke the man’s jaw-line. “How did you sleep?”
Becquerel doesn’t quite seem ready to speak just yet, so instead of writing anything he just grins and does a big nod and snuggles close. Here, it would seem, is Becquerel’s reason for wanting to wake up next to Eskil: he is a bit of a snuggler, and he’s content to curl up under the covers for warmth with Eskil as long as he can.
After a while of this, however, he will reach for the chalk-board. I slept better than I have in a while. Thank you.
Eskil welcomes the snuggling, he’s infact quite delighted by it. Once Becquerel sets to writing his reply to the question Eskil rubs at his eyes tiredly but with a silly little smile which grows into a warm happy grin as he reads what Becquerel has written. “Good... and eh, I didn’t, umm, disturb you too much with my sleep talking?”
Becquerel shakes his head against the pillow. I always wake up a few times in the night—it didn’t disturb me any more than usual. Besides, you more than made up for it by being very nice and warm and cute. He smiles a big smile. You are very handsome, have I told you that yet? Shall I say it again?
“I’m n...” he stops himself, if Becquerel thinks he is handsome it would be quite weird to disagree, “yes, please, if you’d like to.”
You are very handsome, Becquerel communicates, by erasing everything from the board except for those words. He draws several lines coming from “You are very” in various directions, then writes in various words in at the ends of the lines: “sweet,” “lovely,” “good,” “determined,” “beautiful,” “handsome!” (again), “fast at learning about kissing” … that’s all he can fit right now, with all the lines. He shows Eskil his handiwork, with a little grin.
Eskil chuckles a little, blushing, and points to the ‘fast at learning about kissing’. “I have a very very talented and gorgeous tutor... though, um, I haven’t had a lesson yet today.” He grins and gives Becquerel a quick peck. “I, eh, with further practise I might master the skill.”
Laughing, Becquerel reaches to slide his fingers into Eskil’s hair and pull him up for a relatively lengthy “lesson”, but he doesn’t let it go on too long, because he’s got something else in mind. You said we’d talk about the dream, and about other things—will you tell me?
The wide grin, that is the result of kissing lessons, falter. Eskil knew the question would come, and he did make a promise, and he does want to tell Becquerel, but it’s hard. He presses his lips together and nods. “Yes.”
Eskil leans back against the pillows and shuts his eyes. “I... just need a second to, umm, gather my thoughts. I don’t want to ramble... more than I already do.”
The naturalist brushes a kiss against Eskil’s forehead and backs up a little to leave him a little space. I don’t mind you rambling, but I understand.
Since Eskil doesn’t open his eyes he doesn’t see Becquerel’s reply, but he does take a deep breath before he begins to speak. “I don’t know where to start really. Perhaps... the dream... I dreamt about my brother... and... what might happen when I return back home.” He nods and finally opens his eyes again. He looks tired, and not from the lack of sleep, but the kind of tired that comes with having had to carry too much on one's shoulders for far too long. “I haven’t told you much about him, it’s not... he’s... we aren’t exactly like one would expect brothers to be like.” He sighs. “Infact, I do believe that if I weren’t useful to him...” he trails off with a frown on his face.
“He’s the one who sent me to London, he wanted me to... persuade Karin to let go of things that belong to her. I... never intended to even try to do that, but I was more than willing to travel here... to get away. But now... I’ve done something stupid. And I need to go back home and set things right. Though... I’m...” he shudders slightly,” well, I am afraid of what will come of it.”
What are you afraid of? asks Becquerel, sitting up in the bed with the pillow behind him and tugging at Eskil’s nightshirt to encourage him to sit up. Becquerel looks like he wants to put his arm around Eskil—he’s putting his arm out and gesturing.
He pulls himself up and lets Becquerel hold him. “The consequences... he.” Eskil scratches the back of his head. “Egon is hungry for power, and he would do most anything to get more of it. Since my father died there’s no one to hold him back and... he’s become worse. I have lied to him... so I could stay a bit longer. He’ll be angry... and seeing how I have failed... he might, um, dispose of me.”
Becquerel touches Eskil’s hair lightly as he speaks. He waits until Eskil is completely finished speaking, then waits a breath before starting to write. His brow is furrowed and he presses his lips together. That … he starts, mouth relaxing—his lips part. That is terrifying. He looks off into the distance for a moment. What will happen when you go back, then?
Up until now Eskil Douglas have managed to hold himself together, but now slow silent tears start falling from his eyes. “I don’t know,” there’s no strength at all in his voice, no determination, just hopelessness. “If only I knew... and could prepare myself.”
The naturalist doesn’t say the obvious thing—stay here, stay safe—because there is no evidence that Eskil would, in fact, be safer in the Neath than Above.
I know you are afraid, he writes, eventually; but you are an incredibly determined man and I trust in you. He presses his hand through Eskil’s hair again. Is there any convincing him, do you think?
“... maybe.” Eskil swallows hard in a futile attempt to stop the tears. “If I could... bribe him... or blackmail him.” He shakes his head in building frustration. “Damn him... den förbannade jävla fähunden! Damn him for standing in my way! I won’t be taken down this time, I won’t, he’ll see. I have something to fight for now and by God I will fight.” There’s desperation and anger in his words, but in there somewhere there’s also the resurfacing determination of a man who for the first time feels he has something to lose and won't give it up until utterly defeated.
Becquerel inhales slowly. He was concerned before—and although he sees Eskil’s determination and resolve, he is even more concerned now, in a way he can’t hope to explain.
He doesn’t rightly know what to say, but for the moment he just firms his hold around Eskil, grasping him tightly and kissing him hard on top of his head.
Eskil throws his arms around Becquerel and for a moment he just tries to calm his breathing. He is shaking, too many emotions at once making his mind run wild and his heart race.
Eventually he pulls back a little, a look of remorse and guilt on his face. “Becquerel... this isn’t fair to you. You had no idea...” what a mess I am “I am sorry.”
The naturalist shakes his head and smiles a small, sad sort of smile. You needn’t be, he writes. I can only hope that you don’t get hurt in the course of it--and I would like Karin to be safe as well. That is what I care about. And I would ask that you be honest with me, he continues; I need your honesty.
He nods, still feeling guilty, but Eskil manages a very small and worried looking smile as he looks into Becquerel’s eyes. “I will always be honest with you... and, eh, if there is anything I... forget. Um, if there’s something you’d like to know that you eh, feel I have... withheld... ask me, I will answer.” There’s a pause where Eskil takes hold of one of Becquerel’s hand and presses a kiss to his palm. “I’ll be leaving the 27th... will you come see me off?”
Becquerel smooths his hand down the side of Eskil’s face and presses a kiss to his top lip, then to his chin, then to his mouth. He takes his sweet time—at one point he slides his hand down under the collar of Eskil’s nightshirt just to rest it there, just to feel the heat of his skin there.
After this moment of gentleness he writes: I will. Are you spending the night before at Karin’s? You will need to pack, of course, and perhaps spend time with your cousin … but I should like to spend at least one more night with you. Of course there’s the début, too ... He bites his lip, considering a question, but then leaves it in favour of nuzzling Eskil’s hair.
It’s hard to stay worried and sad when Becquerel is so amazingly sweet, and caring, and handsome, and lovely, and oh God how Eskil wishes he could stay in this bed with this man for the rest of eternity.
“I think... I do have to spend that night at Karin’s but... eh, the guest bed is comfy and rather big... you could, perhaps, come and sleep together with me in it? I know Karin wouldn’t mind.” With a hand curled around Becquerel’s neck he gently pulls him close for a sweet and long kiss. “I’d like to spend as much time possible with you.”
That’s all the encouragement Becquerel needs. He turns over and snuggles right up to Eskil’s side so that he’s flush with Eskil’s side, then resumes the lip-lock, if Eskil approves—then he will thread his fingers into Eskil’s hair, pull the blankets up to their shoulders, and roll over on top of Eskil, giggling, so that they’re belly-to-belly. This he will contentedly maintain as long as Eskil is comfortable with it, and as long as they can hold out against the need to eat breakfast.
