a marriage of convenience: ii. the wedding
ii. the wedding
The wedding was quiet. Jon almost overslept but through the careful ministrations of his valet appeared on time, pale but well-dressed. The previous night had started at his club, but he'd soon tired of the way his friends behaved as if Jon were headed to a funeral, perhaps his own, the next day, and eagerly accepted an invitation to a new and already notorious gaming hell. The claret was fine and the play was deep, but Jon found the company not to his liking, especially when he had an unexpected run of luck and a few remarks were passed about his luck turning up a little too late to save him, and about whose money Jon would be playing with in the future. The remarks were oblique, however, and easy for Jon to ignore, especially with a glass in his hand. He'd been in no hurry to go home that night.
The wedding was small, at Jon's insistence. His attorney had reported that Tom's father had put up an argument, but Tom had unexpectedly weighed in on Jon's side and the matter was settled. Jon's friend stood up with him, and his old aunt and a few relatives attended, stiff-necked but exactingly polite. On Tom's side there was only a stuffy-looking middle-aged man in a faded black suit, introduced to Jon as a cousin, until Tom and his father arrived. Tom looked pale himself, though Jon was willing to wager not for the same reasons as Jon, and wore a suit that must have cost as much as Jon's horse, though Jon was pleased and surprised by its simplicity. Late last night he'd had visions of vulgar horrors, so he found himself relieved.
Then he saw Tom's father.
At a glance it was easy to see why Jon's people kept the two from meeting before. Jon was actually not so much shocked as fascinated by the man - could his jacket really be checked in cherry and yellow? He was not even aware he was staring until Tom stepped in front of his father, murmuring something as he guided him to a seat, and then glared over at Jon, pushing his hair out of his eyes as if he wanted to make sure Jon saw exactly how much he was hated. Jon actually took a step back, until William put a hand on his arm like he was afraid Jon was about to bolt. Tom didn't stop glaring as he stepped to the front of the church. Jon was not sure that was a good omen.
The service seemed to chasten Tom, or perhaps he found it hard to glare for that long, but he stared at the floor and mumbled his answers so softly that for a moment Jon thought he hadn't answered at all and leaned in closer. Tom looked up just then and flushed, not prettily but in dark red blotches across his cheeks and down into his collar, and spoke a little louder before he looked away. Jon answered firmly and confidently. It was at moments like this when breeding told, after all.
The wedding breakfast lasted approximately an epoch.
Tom neither ate nor spoke. Jon, who had not been raised in a barn, attempted to keep up his side of the conversation for the sake of appearances if nothing else, but he was not at his best this morning. After babbling on about something even he would have been hard pressed to explain five seconds after it left his lips, Jon couldn't blame Tom for ignoring him, though he was reminded of a story someone once told him about one of the old Gorgons who ran society. When forced by circumstance to sit next to a man she had sworn never to speak to again, she had repeated her multiplication tables over and over at him rather than be rude to her hostess by openly cutting him. Tom had apparently never heard this story because he stared at his plate in stony silence.
The situation was only saved by William, who, bless him, entertained them all like he was being paid to do it. He made a flowery toast to Tom, who responded with what Jon thought might be the shortest nod known to man. He flirted with Jon's aged aunt, possibly the only man to do so in the past fifty years, and was rewarded for his efforts by a rap on the fingers with her fan. He drew Tom's father out, which was perhaps not the wisest move but William was doing his best and Jon couldn't blame him. The most charitable explanation of the next half hour was that Tom's father must have been an abstemious man, certainly a virtue, and unused to the amount of champagne he had consumed on what was undeniably a celebratory occasion, his only son's marriage. As the stories grew louder and more descriptive, William looked as if he'd bitten his tongue off in an attempt to maintain his composure, Tom continued to watch his plate as if there were a chance it might run away, Jon's relatives sat even more stiffly as their eyes darted around the room as if in search of rescue, and Jon fought down an almost overwhelming urge to giggle at the absurdity of the whole scene. When Tom's father said, "Well, we old folks must leave these young ones to their amusements," and clapped Jon's aunt on the back as if the two of them were old cronies, Jon burst into a raucous laugh he belatedly turned into a coughing fit.
If it had been a real coughing fit Jon would have died for all the help he got from Tom. As he recovered himself Tom stopped glaring at his plate, which might have been a cause for celebration if he hadn't turned that glare on Jon. Jon stopped laughing very quickly.
After a long moment Tom stood up and said, "My father is - not well. I'd like to take him home."
"You don't have to do that," Jon said. "I'll send someone with him -"
"I'll go," William said easily. "I'll see him safe home."
"No," Tom said, sharply enough that Jon raised an eyebrow. Tom flushed a little and looked down before he said softly, "I'd like to go myself, I'd … I'd feel better."
Jon's only excuse was that he had started the day with a headache and then had more than his share of champagne - he had to do something, after all, it wasn't as if the sparkling conversation diverted his mind - and he'd only been married a few hours and he wasn't used to it. It took him a few minutes and a discreet poke in the back from William before he realized why Tom was still standing there, shifting a little on his feet like he was waiting for Jon's permission. Of course that was exactly what he was waiting for; Jon had forgotten that theoretically he could object to Tom leaving on what was after all his wedding day, that perhaps Tom expected him to object. Jon wasn't used to being married yet.
"Of course," he said, a little embarrassed. "Of course you should bring him back if you like, my carriage will take you. You won't want him going home to an empty house, I'm sure."
Tom looked at him with surprise. "No," he said. "No, I don't like to think of him alone there."
Jon remembered his manners enough to take his leave of Tom's father, which was quite a proceeding as the man was far gone, wishing Jon happiness and offering to buy him a new carriage and a new house and a few other things Jon couldn't quite make out. Tom didn't try to hurry him away, even though Jon's family was watching the scene with barely concealed disgust, and he only flushed and muttered, "Father," when Jon was admonished to take good care of Tom. When they finally left, Tom was careful and kind, guiding the old man past any potential obstacles like chairs and walls, making him laugh when he showed signs of maudlin clinging. Jon saw them to the carriage and helped the older man in himself. Before they departed Tom said without looking at Jon, "Thank you," and Jon nodded before the carriage door was shut.
The party, such as it was, died quickly after that. Jon's relatives fled the scene with congratulations that sounded more like condolences, and even William was eager to be off. "Come out for a drink," he said, "just a quick one."
"No," Jon said. "I'd better not."
"Of course, of course," William said. He hesitated a moment, then said, "The old man was funny though, wasn't he? I rather liked him. And I thought your aunt would die."
"Yes," Jon said.
"And you don't need to be ashamed, that's one good thing. I remember when Benton's father lost his fortune, he had to marry that merchant's son, you remember? Ugly as an old boot, and constantly telling stories at the top of his lungs about all the expensive things they owned, it was shocking. You don't have to worry about that, at any rate."
"No," Jon said.
"Right," William said. "Well, I'm off then, if you're sure you won't come along. I'll be at Blakes if you change your mind." He hesitated again at the door, then said, "You know, I really do think it's going to be all right," and then ran off before Jon could ask him what he meant.
Tom didn't return all afternoon. For a moment Jon worried about the old man, but he'd only been drunk, after all, and if one died of that easily Jon would have long since been a ghost. It occurred to him that Tom was trying to avoid him, which seemed rather unsporting. Jon was not perhaps overly excited about the event but he was here, after all, where he should have been on his wedding day. He was a little drunk and he was alone, but he was here.
After another hour Tom had still not returned and Jon had worked up a goodly amount of righteous indignation. It was unmannerly, and just not done, to be left alone on his wedding day. It was uncalled for. If Tom didn't have to be here, pacing restlessly and feeling awkward in his own house (well, not Tom's house - well, yes it was, now), then Jon didn't see why he had to be. When another quarter hour failed to produce Tom he put his jacket back on and went to meet William.
Jon's friends greeted him with an amused pity that made it immediately clear that William had regaled them with tales of the wedding. In his current mood he actually welcomed their sympathy, at least for a while. By the time they'd dined he felt his tragic story had provided sufficient entertainment for one night and suggested another trip to the new gaming house. There his luck continued to hold, to his own bemusement and to the continued dismay of the same man with whom he'd played the night before, whose comments had failed to amuse Jon then. The man was not well-known to Jon, though he'd seen him before, dark and annoyingly tall, lurking in the corners of ballrooms. William had told him it was whispered that the man made a profit by luring youngsters to gaming hells like this to be fleeced. Jon was prepared to believe it as the man slowly lost his temper as Jon won again and again. Finally, after yet another unbelievable play on Jon's part, the man said with a sneer, "I'm surprised to even see you here this evening. I'd think you'd have better things to do. After all, any horse out of Wentz's stable is sure to be a good ride."
For a moment Jon could do nothing but stare coldly as silence rippled around them through the large room. Then, before he could call the man out, William had a hand on his shoulder and whispered, "Not tonight, you don't want to do this tonight," and the proprietress's men were hustling the man out, none too gently. As conversation resumed Jon shook off the woman's apologies and went back to his own play to prove he thought nothing of some nobody's ill-natured remark, even though his mind was no longer on his game. Instead, his thoughts dwelt on that remark, on the mention of Wentz's name and Tom's indiscretion, whatever it was. He remembered suddenly the way Tom had looked at him the time they met before the wedding, his downcast eyelashes and the flush over his cheekbones, and the way Jon left wondering if Tom had truly been an innocent victim of Wentz's much-vaunted charm. He remembered, and he found himself wondering what exactly Tom might have learned in Wentz's school.
As soon as he could reasonably excuse himself he took his leave. When he stepped outside into the chilly air he realized two things: it was late, and he was drunk. The gaming parlor boasted all the ornaments of any elegant home except for a clock, and time flowed like water around the unheeding players, as did the wine. He elected to walk to clear his head, and by the time he arrived at his house he was more sober, though his mind still swam with thoughts of Tom. At the steps he shook his head and took a few deep breaths. He wouldn't do anything rash. He would merely look into Tom's room, where Tom was surely already asleep, and bid him good-night if by chance he wasn't. It was only polite, on their wedding-night.
Jon told himself this, and as he passed the hall table he plucked a lily from the arrangement there. At the top of the stairs he looked at it and then let it fall to the floor. His servants had found worse on the carpets after a late night, heaven knew.
The door to Tom's room stood slightly ajar. Tom had brought his own servant from his father's house; clearly the man was careless, and Jon thought to have his own valet speak to him. He slid through the doorway quietly, but Tom was not asleep in the big bed. Instead he was sitting in the window seat, a cup of tea on the table at his elbow and a book thrown down on the cushion as Tom looked out the open window. He'd changed for bed already, into a white nightshirt open at the throat. The sight of it surprised Jon, though he wasn't quite sure why. He had no great experience in anyone's boudoir, after all, but somehow he'd expected something more elaborate. It wasn't as if Tom's father would have spared expense on the trousseau. Jon didn't dislike it, though, as he looked at the golden skin of Tom's chest, at his naked calves and ankles, at Tom's bare foot swinging restlessly against the side of the seat.
Tom lifted a hand to his mouth and Jon was surprised again to see that he was smoking. He laughed a little, and Tom looked over suddenly and then sat up straighter. "Sorry," he said, and fumbled with the cigarette, looking for somewhere to put it out. He glanced at his teacup, which was clearly where he'd intended to put it out if he'd been alone, and in that moment, with his hair blown a little by the wind through the open window, he looked terribly young. Jon had thought of himself as quite old for a long time, but now he realized that Tom was much the same age as he, and not long out of the schoolroom. Jon was reminded of the way he used to sneak cigarettes at school, sitting in an open window and ashing in a glass, leaving the door open so he'd hear any approaching master's footsteps, though he always ended up forgetting to listen as he gazed out at the night and thought of all the things he'd do when he was finally free to leave.
Tom had not yet figured out what to do with his cigarette, and so Jon crossed the room and took it from his hand. Tom stilled when Jon touched him, looking up at him like he wasn't sure what Jon would do, but Jon just lifted it to his own lips and took a puff, then put it out in the teacup. Tom was still looking at him and Jon meant to tell him that he didn't care if Tom smoked, that he didn't have to hide it. He meant to tell him that it was late and Tom should get some sleep. He meant to tell him good-night. He did none of those things.
Instead he pushed a hand into Tom's hair and leaned down to kiss him.
Again Tom stilled when Jon touched him, his mouth open a little under Jon's. A cigarette hadn't been the only thing Tom snuck tonight. There must have been something other than tea in his teacup because Tom tasted of whiskey and smoke, of things Jon had dreamed about when he was younger without knowing their names, all the secret things he had longed for as he looked out his schoolroom window into the night. Tom's face was turned up to Jon's, his eyes closed, his lashes dark shadows against his cheeks. When Jon's tongue slid into his mouth Tom made a small noise, like Jon had surprised him again, and the sound of it made Jon dizzy. He wanted to make Tom sound like that again and again.
Suddenly Tom lifted up on his knees on the window seat, pushing himself into Jon's arms, his fingers grasping Jon's shoulder. Suddenly Tom was kissing him back. Jon had kissed ten people in his life, and with none of them had Jon been the first, but like any gentleman Jon knew what to expect on his wedding night. He knew to expect shyness, even fear, and to meet it with kindness, to be patient, to be prepared to wait quite a long time for his urgency to be returned. Jon had never been anyone's first, and from the way Tom kissed him he thought suddenly that of course, of course, he wasn't Tom's. He'd known that, he reminded himself, from the start he'd known, and he was even glad of it, he reminded himself, because it meant he had Tom like this, he had Tom's mouth hard and demanding on his, he had Tom's body warm through his shirt under Jon's hand. He was glad of it because it meant he didn't have to be patient, to be gentle. He was glad of it because it meant he could run his palms down Tom's back as Tom arched into his hands. He could push Tom's shirt up over his waist and drop his mouth to Tom's throat as he curved a hand around the inside of Tom's thigh, the bare skin smooth there and so warm. As his hand moved higher Tom cried out again like Jon had surprised him, though Jon knew that wasn't true, knew Tom wasn't surprised, wasn't surprised by any of this. Jon was glad of it, though, glad, he was nothing but glad as he broke away and urged Tom toward the bed. He was glad he didn't have to wait.
On the bed Tom lay on his back and looked up at Jon, his eyes wide and his breath quick and heavy. He grabbed the hem of his nightshirt and pulled it up over his head, struggling a little to get it off, and then let it fall onto the floor. Tom's face was flushed, and now Jon could see echoes of that flush spreading down Tom's throat, over his stomach, along the tops of his thighs. Jon bent down to brush the back of his fingers against Tom's skin where it was flushed, to see if it was as warm as it looked, if it was even warmer than the rest of him, and Tom licked his lips and then bit them. Jon put one finger then to Tom's mouth, pressing at the center until he felt Tom's tongue, then dragged it slowly down Tom's body. Tom lifted his head a little so he could watch Jon's hand on him, like he didn't know what Jon would do. When Jon's fingers circled around his cock Tom gasped open-mouthed, like he was surprised, thrilled and so surprised. Jon wanted to tell him that he didn't have to pretend, Jon knew he wasn't surprised and he was glad, he was glad, but instead he put his hand over Tom's hip. Tom turned over easily when Jon pushed but then he lay flat on his stomach. "Come on," Jon whispered, squeezing his hip again, but Tom just shifted on the bed and looked back over his shoulder at Jon, teasing, Jon thought. For a moment Jon just stood there and enjoyed the sight of him, his long legs spread open, the curve of his neck as he looked back at Jon, his small restless movements against the sheets. When Tom still didn't move Jon slapped his ass lightly and said, "Come on, get up," and then Tom rolled back onto his elbows and knees.
In a drawer in the nightstand Tom had everything Jon needed, of course, and Jon didn't have a moment to be anything but glad of it. Tom watched him over his shoulder as Jon took off his shirt and opened his pants, as he dipped his fingers in the small expensive pot of oil. Tom hadn't moved from his knees, although he shivered a little in the cool air from the open window. When Jon slipped a finger into him Tom dropped his head to the bed, pillowing it on his forearms. Jon could hear him breathing heavily but he didn't make any other sound. He didn't make any other sound when Jon pushed into him, one hand on Tom's hip, but he lifted his head suddenly and then let it fall back. "All right?" Jon said softly, and Tom nodded without lifting his head back up.
Tom was quiet as Jon fucked him, gasping every time Jon pushed in. He only moved when Jon touched him, but wherever Jon touched him Tom arched into it, like he wanted Jon to touch him more, like he wanted Jon to touch him everywhere. When Jon came Tom let out a long shuddering breath and then quieted again. Tom was still shivering so Jon pulled the sheet up over him tenderly. "All right?" he said again, and Tom rolled over onto his side and then nodded.
Jon lay on his back for a while and then reached over to the nightstand where he'd spotted Tom's cigarettes earlier. He leaned over to hold the cigarette to Tom's mouth but Tom rolled over a little further, pushing his face into the pillow as he shook his head. As he lay back down Jon kissed Tom's shoulder and Tom said, "Could you -" and then, "No, it's okay." When Jon put a hand over his hip Tom stiffened and then slowly, deliberately relaxed.
"What's wrong?" Jon said, and Tom's breath hitched and he stiffened again.
Suddenly Jon felt a fool. He looked at Tom next to him, his head turned away to keep his face hidden from Jon, his breath still fast and short, his body held tense like he wasn't sure where Jon might touch him next. He'd thought all along there had been only two choices. He'd thought at first that Tom had made a stupid, indiscreet mistake, but even though Tom had spoken barely twenty words to him it was evident he wasn't stupid. Then he'd thought that perhaps Tom had been not stupid but reckless, rebellious, taking what he wanted the way Wentz did, but without the breeding and bearing Wentz had to carry it off without making himself cheap. But despite his upbringing Tom was neither cheap nor vulgar, Jon could see that now if he hadn't before. As Tom rolled over onto his back carefully, his eyes shaded by his lashes, his lips as he smiled tentatively a dark red where they'd been almost bitten through, Jon cursed himself for the worst kind of fool for not having seen the truth before.
"Nothing," Tom said. "I'm fine, I just - I didn't, I don't know. I didn't know it would be like that, when we - I didn't know it would be like that, with you."
As Tom smiled up at him bravely, Jon was flooded with sympathy for him and loathing for himself. Of course Tom hadn't known it would be like that with Jon - how could he have? Tom hadn't had many options and he couldn't have known what it would be like with Jon, he must have thought he'd be able to stand it, he must have told himself that given the circumstances he didn't have a choice. Jon was sure Tom would make himself stand it. Tom would live up to his side of the bargain, he was willing to wager, but Jon would make it easier for him. He stood up and buttoned his pants, then picked his shirt up from the floor.
"Where are you going?" Tom asked from the bed.
"I'm going to my room," Jon said. When Tom started to sit up he said kindly, "Don't worry. I won't bother you again."
In his own room Jon had a drink and called himself a fool again, this time not for his blindness but for his unwarranted feeling of disappointment. After all, he should have been glad he'd married someone who was neither stupid nor a whore. There had been shame in lowering his standards, even under great duress, for someone of no character. But it was clear to him now that whatever Tom had done, it hadn't been because he was shallow or a slut. At least Jon didn't have to be ashamed of him. He should have been glad, really, that Tom had done what he'd done for love.
Considered in that light, Jon told himself, there was no shame in having a husband who was in love with Pete Wentz.
[iii. the marriage]