Smile Returns
I am reposting 'Smile' for the viewing pleasure of the general 1776 fandom communities, for what it's worth. It is a Dickinson/Adams piece that I hope you all enjoy (for those who did not read it the first time it made an appearance). So...without further ado, I give you
Fingers drag over the smooth planes of his face, cleanshaven now and always, and Adams wonders at the sensation, trying both to forget and to memorize the soft caresses laid against his cheek, his wrist, his bared chest, his abdomen, and the elegant hand coming to rest over the bulge in his breeches.
Softer still are the lips that press themselves firmly against his, refusing to yield, reminding him that time is of the essence.
He growls, a low, animalistic sound meant to voice his displeasure at minutes departed and arguments diverted. As per usual, they've gotten absolutely nowhere when left alone to their own devices.
Dickinson laughs, and Adams feels the upward quirking of lips against his own, a smile not meant for the eyes, but for the soul. It's best not to know what it looks like, best not to have the image of Dickinson's eyes, shining pleasantly with a potent mixture of mirth and passion, of his lips slightly parted in an altogether tempting manner, smile growing by the minute, in his mind, as it will only stopper his will and hinder his cause.
Come tomorrow, they will each be seated at their respective tables, set on either side of the invisible but incontrovertible line that has separated them from the very beginning, that shall likely continue to do so until death, or an unexpected deference, parts them for all time.
Adams has no reason to believe that it will be the latter. They're both far too stubborn for that, but somehow, Dickinson has had it planned out all along; a strong start and a graceful finish, a graceful retreat and an honorable departure. He will know what men are capable of fighting for when pressed and denied the freedom that is their god given right, and he will know what glory feels like. He will die fighting for the very cause in which his part-time lover so fervently believed.
Adams stirs that night, feeling somehow cheated, and pulls his own hands away from his body, ceasing the tracing of familiar patterns across his flesh. When a great shudder runs its course and a sudden fit of coughing takes him in its grasp, leaving him gasping for breath, Abigail's arms come around him from behind, anchoring him to the world of the living.
Several minutes pass before he drifts off to sleep once more, this time held close in the arms of his dearest friend and loving wife, forgetting the smile that he'd never seen, and the man who would never show it to him.
Fingers drag over the smooth planes of his face, cleanshaven now and always, and Adams wonders at the sensation, trying both to forget and to memorize the soft caresses laid against his cheek, his wrist, his bared chest, his abdomen, and the elegant hand coming to rest over the bulge in his breeches.
Softer still are the lips that press themselves firmly against his, refusing to yield, reminding him that time is of the essence.
He growls, a low, animalistic sound meant to voice his displeasure at minutes departed and arguments diverted. As per usual, they've gotten absolutely nowhere when left alone to their own devices.
Dickinson laughs, and Adams feels the upward quirking of lips against his own, a smile not meant for the eyes, but for the soul. It's best not to know what it looks like, best not to have the image of Dickinson's eyes, shining pleasantly with a potent mixture of mirth and passion, of his lips slightly parted in an altogether tempting manner, smile growing by the minute, in his mind, as it will only stopper his will and hinder his cause.
Come tomorrow, they will each be seated at their respective tables, set on either side of the invisible but incontrovertible line that has separated them from the very beginning, that shall likely continue to do so until death, or an unexpected deference, parts them for all time.
Adams has no reason to believe that it will be the latter. They're both far too stubborn for that, but somehow, Dickinson has had it planned out all along; a strong start and a graceful finish, a graceful retreat and an honorable departure. He will know what men are capable of fighting for when pressed and denied the freedom that is their god given right, and he will know what glory feels like. He will die fighting for the very cause in which his part-time lover so fervently believed.
Adams stirs that night, feeling somehow cheated, and pulls his own hands away from his body, ceasing the tracing of familiar patterns across his flesh. When a great shudder runs its course and a sudden fit of coughing takes him in its grasp, leaving him gasping for breath, Abigail's arms come around him from behind, anchoring him to the world of the living.
Several minutes pass before he drifts off to sleep once more, this time held close in the arms of his dearest friend and loving wife, forgetting the smile that he'd never seen, and the man who would never show it to him.