[Tennis] Won't Go Home Without You
Title: Won't Go Home Without You
Pairing: Marcel Granollers/Marc López (implied past, adulterous Marcel Granollers/Tommy Robredo)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Created in a world of pure imagination: no money changed hands, no actuality implied, no offence intended.
A/N: Fourth in the Tangled series. I promise this puts them back together. ~3K
It was while they were checking into their hotel that Marcel began to panic about sleeping arrangements. The Trianon Palace was incredible, far grander than anything he had ever stayed in before (all right, maybe he'd slightly bought into Feli's 'it means more if it costs more' theory and booked the most extravagant hotel he could afford), and he could only afford one room. What if Marc thought that was too presumptuous? What if Marc didn't want to share, wanted time alone? Eaten up with self-doubt, Marcel shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot in the lift as he wracked his brains for a solution.
'I told you you should have gone before we got off the plane,' Marc teased.
'Mmm,' Marcel agreed distractedly, barely registering Marc's words, nor the affectionate way in which they were delivered.
The answer came to him as they opened their door and were greeted by an enormous, brocade chaise longue.
'Um, I'll sleep here,' Marcel mumbled nonchalantly, pretending that had been his plan all along. 'You can have the bed.'
Marc gave him a curious look, and went through to unpack.
Determined that Marc shouldn't have a chance to be bored, Marcel had crammed every single touristy thing he could into their four-day stay. Tonight was Bucket List Item 5 ('Cook with a famous chef!') but that was six hours away. In the meantime, there was exploring to do: Notre Dame, the Pompidou Centre, the Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur. When they paused to catch their breath over coffee and croissants at a patisserie Richard Gasquet had recommended, Marcel looked anxiously over at Marc, trying desperately to work out if he was enjoying himself.
'Are you OK? Is… is this OK?'
Marc grinned and nodded, which was reassuring, and Marcel smiled tentatively in response.
It never occurred to him that Marc might find his nervousness and uncharacteristic, proactive determination absurdly touching, nor that he might be enjoying those far more than the sights he was seeing.
With a quick look at his timetable, Marcel whisked them off to the next stop.
Dinner that night was a huge success. Admittedly, it wasn't technically cooking with a famous chef, but it was watching a famous chef cook, which was almost the same thing. The Chef's Table at Gordon Ramsay au Trianon was a tough booking to get (Marcel made a mental note to send Rafa a crate of Nutella for using his name to organise this at such short notice), but it was worth every penny. Marc was enthralled as he sat with a panoramic view of the kitchen, chef's hat perched precariously on his head as he watched the hubbub. He kept up a continuous, excited commentary of everything that was happening (and blushed as yet another sous-chef was berated with yet another stream of profanity).
'This is just brilliant, I'm learning so much. I can't wait to try some of it out.'
His face was flushed with excitement, his hat growing increasingly lopsided, and Marcel was utterly entranced.
'I-I hope you only mean the cooking, and not the swearing,' he stuttered.
They giggled like children as their vocabularies were expanded in ways of which neither of their mamas would approve. Marcel had no idea what they ate that night (although he remembered everything tasting exquisite), but he knew that he and Marc chatted together more easily than they had done in weeks. When they got back to the hotel, Marc hugged Marcel tightly, kissed his cheek and whispered 'thank you' in his ear.
Marcel hardly dared hope that it might be working.
Monday was dedicated to Bucket List Item 27 ('Follow the trail of the Da Vinci Code!'). Marcel laid the blame for this one firmly at the feet of Fernando Verdasco, but it was on Marc's list, so he had booked them on to the 'Explore the Da Vinci Code' tour of the Louvre.
And, actually, it turned out to be enormous fun. Particularly when, partway through the tour, they decided that they'd be far better off doing it themselves.
'Come on,' Marc pleaded, 'we can barely understand a word the guide says, and that lady with the glasses keeps shoving me out of the way.'
'All right then.'
Marcel would have agreed to do anything Marc asked him to if it got him a smile like that, and they snuck off into the depths of the museum to search for their own clues.
When Marc gasped with excitement as he worked out another clue and took Marcel's hand as he hurried them off to find it, Marcel completely forgot he was supposed to be nervous and awkward. He followed along eagerly, breathless at the feel of Marc's hand tucked inside his own, feeling all kinds of normal and wonderful.
At the end of a day padded out with the touristy things they didn't have time for yesterday, Marc announced that he was exhausted.
'Can we skip dinner tonight? I'd rather just eat in and play cards, and talk. Just us.'
They ordered in crepes, which they shared and argued over (Marcel preferred the banana caramel ones; Marc insisted the chocolate hazelnut ones were best). Marc cheated horribly at piquet, they gently poked fun at French TV, and talked. A lot. About everything. Marcel didn't stop smiling all night.
'I've had such a good time this evening,' Marcel said happily, through a yawn he could no longer suppress.
Marc snorted. 'What? This is nothing special, we used to do this all the time.'
Marcel shrugged. 'I know,' he said simply, 'That's why it feels so good. It's-it's normal.'
Marc smiled gently at Marcel. 'You don't have to sleep on the sofa, you know,' he said.
Actually, Marcel didn't sleep at all. While the bed was huge and soft, he daren't fall asleep; terrified of what he might do in the depths of slumber. What if he dreamt everything was OK again and wrapped himself around Marc like a limpet, or got a particularly determined and thoroughly inappropriate erection and prodded Marc with it all night?
Instead, he watched Marc sleep and thought how lucky he was to have been given a second chance.
He was determined not to screw it up this time.
Lack of sleep meant that Marcel was all fingers and thumbs for Bucket List Item 14 ('Visit the Palace of Versailles!'). He had actually booked them on a Living History day, which involved dressing up as an eighteenth-century aristocrat-Marcel didn't tell Marc, but this also ticked an item from his own, secret bucket list ('Spend a day as the Scarlet Pimpernel').
He swore softly as he fumbled with his costume; why did everything have to be so difficult to fasten?
'Here, let me help you.' Marc stepped forward, fully dressed in knee breeches, frock coat and shiny, buckled shoes, and helped button Marcel's waistcoat.
Was it his imagination or did Marc linger over the task? Stand a little too close? Stare a little too hard at his thighs in their breeches? Aware he was overanalysing, he tried to relax and enjoy himself, but it wasn't easy.
'I could never be an aristocrat,' he confided to Marc. 'It feels too weird ordering people about, and if I ever lived anywhere this big I'd be forever getting lost!'
'I dunno,' Marc mused, strutting around confidently, 'I think I could get used to this.' He adjusted his powdered wig and sent a lackey to bring them some hot chocolate.
Marcel couldn't take his eyes off Marc's calves; he'd never realised tights could be so sexy.
Gradually the awkwardness between them eased, no match for the strength of their shared memories and experiences. Little by little it faded, pushed aside by the fond gestures, warm smiles and affectionate glances which began to creep back in.
That night, when Marcel leaned on the balcony of their hotel room, watching the sun set, Marc came out to join him. He rested his head on Marcel's shoulder, leaned in closer as Marcel put an arm around him, and they stood and watched the sunset together. Marcel felt Marc's heartbeat against his own, felt at peace.
He could hear Marc's breathing, feel the soft huffs of breath against his neck, and his arm tightened around Marc's shoulder.
'Hey,' Marc murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Marcel's jaw, 'I think it's time we went to bed, no?'
The finger trailing idly around Marcel's bellybutton made Marc's intentions perfectly clear. Marcel's breath caught in his throat and he nodded.
'Yes please,' he croaked.
When they tumbled into bed together, bodies falling easily back into their familiar rhythm, the awkwardness dissipated completely.
They slept late on Marc's birthday; there was no Bucket List item planned for that day. Marcel had wanted to do Item 11 ('Shower in a Waterfall!'), but hadn't been able to arrange it. Marc was happy to settle, however, for making a waterfall in their shower, instead. The day was at Marc's disposal: part of his present was that he got to choose what they did with it. Marcel harboured a vague hope that Marc would choose to spend the whole day in bed-he was particularly proud of how he'd left the day free, just in case-but Marc had other plans.
He wanted to go to the opera.
'Oh. Um, all right, I'll… see if I can get tickets!' Marcel tried not to let the panic show-he hadn't the first clue where to start looking, he knew nothing about opera.
'It's OK, nano, I'll do it,' Marc ruffled Marcel's hair fondly, and Marcel was overcome by an urgent need to push him back down on to the bed and show him-again-how sorry he was, how relieved he was, how thrilled he was.
When they came up for air, they compromised: Marc would buy the tickets, but on Marcel's card. He'd been remarkably insistent that he be the one to make the booking, though.
The minute they stepped through the doors of the Palais Garnier, Marcel felt lost. In fact, he'd felt lost from the moment Marc had declared they needed something to wear for the opera and taken him out shopping. He tugged nervously at his cravat-why on earth were they even wearing cravats?-and moved closer to Marc in the throng. Marc smiled reassuringly and Marcel had to admit that morning dress, no matter how uncomfortable or ridiculous he felt, suited Marc right down to the ground.
When the performance started, Marcel felt even more lost. He had no idea what was going on, he had no idea who anyone was, he had no idea how he'd ended up in such a fancy box at the Paris Opera.
'Look, Marc, there's a daybed thing back there! What on earth's that doing in a box at the Paris opera?'
Marc just winked and put his finger to his lips to shush Marcel.
Half an hour later he found out exactly why it was there.
'I read about it and wanted to know if it was true,' Marc murmured as he laid Marcel out on the chaise and unknotted his cravat. 'If operagoers got bored and horny, they could make their own entertainment here.' His fingers set about doing just that, rubbing firm circles around Marcel's groin.
'But-but, Marc! The opera! You wanted to see the opera!' Marcel tried to keep the squeak from his voice, but the things Marc's hands were doing were making that difficult.
Marc chuckled, 'You're so gullible. No, this was what I wanted for my birthday,' and he continued unfastening Marcel's clothing.
'Marc!' Marcel hissed, trying to push Marc away, 'We can't do that here, what if someone comes in?'
'They won't.' Marc sounded confident. 'I locked the door. And if you're going to wriggle like that I shall have to find a way to stop you.'
He pulled his cravat off with a flourish, and Marcel suddenly realised why he'd insisted on their wearing them.
The interval was interminable. Marc had breezily announced he was going to get a drink, and wandered off. Marcel writhed and twisted, but his bonds held firm. Half naked, half hard and tied to a chaise in a box at the Paris opera, Marcel began to regret his frequent promises that he'd do anything for Marc.
He wondered if this was his punishment. What if Marc didn't come back? What if he was stuck here until the performance ended, and he was discovered by the cleaners? The thought filled him with dread, and he squirmed harder within his bonds, desperate to escape.
'You can't keep still, even for a minute, can you?'
Marcel's relief at Marc's return was short-lived as he blithely ignored Marcel and retook his seat at the front of the box.
'Shhh,' he admonished with a stern look, 'people will hear you.'
It was only once the second act was underway that Marc left his seat, and his expression definitely now spelled trouble.
'Hello.'
His smile was wolfish, and Marcel couldn't help a shiver. 'Um, hi. Are… are you going to untie me? Please?'
Marc shook his head. 'Not yet. I want to ask you a few questions first.'
Marcel was pretty sure that questions usually involved words, but there didn't seem to be any of those forthcoming. Marc remained silent as his hands worked over Marcel's body, pushing his shirt from his shoulders and tugging his trousers down over his hips. Briefly, Marcel wondered if he should point out how ridiculously expensive those trousers (now bunched up like rags around his knees) had been, but one look at Marc's face told him now probably wasn't the time.
Forcing himself to remember to breathe, practically crackling with anticipation-he knew something was coming, he just didn't know what-Marcel waited as Marc's hands smoothed over his body. His eyes were dark, so dark, and he stared so intently that Marcel began to feel vaguely embarrassed. But then Marc's hands and mouth started working over his body, kissing and stroking and bringing him to fever pitch. He was achingly, painfully hard, and his vision started to go blurry around the edges.
It was then that the questions started.
'Did Tommy do this?' Marc's tone was conversational; where his slick fingers were probing was anything but. Marcel swallowed hard and tried to focus.
'No.'
'Don't lie to me, Marcel, I know when you're lying.' There was steel in Marc's voice now. 'Did he?'
'Y-yes,' Marcel muttered. 'He did.' There was a pause for a few moments, filled with sound of soft grunts and the whisper of skin on skin.
'I see. And this? Did he do this?' These words were muffled as Marc now had his mouth full. He sucked hard on Marcel's cock, his tongue pressing, and Marcel's response was little more than an affirmative groan. Marc's mouth moved faster, reducing Marcel to an incoherent babble. He couldn't help a whimper when Marc sat up.
'What about this?' Marc was savage, now, pushing in roughly, fingernails biting into Marcel's hips.
'Yes-no-I don't know,' Marcel choked, too overwhelmed to think.
Marc's response was scornful. 'You don't know? Was he that shit you can't remember?'
'He-he did.' Marcel moaned as Marc moved faster, his fingers leaving livid marks in Marcel's skin. 'But… it didn't-oh God, it didn't feel like this.'
He meant it. Even like this, filled with anger and frustration, Marc felt amazing, so much better than Tommy had. He knew just what to do to make Marcel moan and lose himself completely, and he did it with consummate ease.
This seemed to satisfy whatever was driving Marc. Abruptly, he pulled out, leaving Marcel feeling empty and confused, but then he freed Marcel's hands and threw himself into his arms, kissing him frantically all over his face.
'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' he murmured between kisses, 'but I had to know. I had to.'
Marcel apologised too, repeating, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you, I love you,' as if, if he said it enough Marc would never forget.
'Shhh, I know.' Marc silenced him with a kiss, which grew increasingly desperate and longing. Marcel's fists bunched in Marc's clothing, impatiently shoving it aside; his hands and mouth roamed hungrily over every inch of Marc's body that he could reach, aching to touch and taste everything.
Panting for breath, Marc shoved his trousers down and prepared himself hurriedly. He knelt astride Marcel's hips, bracing himself with one palm flat on Marcel's chest, then lowered himself down slowly.
'Last question. This. Did he do this?' He rode Marcel tortuously slowly, jerking his own dick, eyes never leaving Marcel's.
'Jesus, no, no he didn't,' Marcel groaned, the thickness of arousal in his voice testament to the truth in his words.
Marc gave a satisfied smile and bent down to kiss Marcel, greedily and possessively.
As the opera built to its crescendo, so did they.
'I see you two are back to normal.' Feli rolled his eyes dramatically from the edge of the Montreal hotel swimming pool.
Marcel tried to stifle his giggles, but Marc's hand was still tiptoeing around the waistband of his shorts beneath the water.
'Shut up, López,' Marc grumbled. 'It's been a long flight, we needed a swim to cool off.'
'Shut up yourself, López,' Feli parroted. 'I've had enough of David and Tommy feeling each other up in public-in fact, I came out here to get away from it-I don't need to watch you two at it as well.' He sniffed disdainfully and headed for a sun lounger.
Marcel couldn't help it. At the mention of Tommy's name, he froze.
'Hey, it'll be OK,' Marc climbed into his arms, wrapping his legs around Marcel's waist. 'We sorted it out, remember? It's over.'
Marcel wasn't sure if it was his imagination, or if he really did see something in Marc's expression which suggested that, actually, this was far from over.
FIN
Notes:
Gordon Ramsay does have a restaurant at Versailles, at which you can book the Chef's Table.
There are umpteen Da Vinci Code tours; this is one of them. Like Marcel, I blame Fernando Verdasco.
The reason for Marc wanting to go to the Paris opera does come from a book, thusly (and I have been wanting to use that in a story since I read it!):'The box had character. Behind the seats, screened from the opposing boxes, was a wicked little goat-footed chaise where lovers might retire while the orchestra provided cadence from down below'
Thomas Harris, Hannibal Rising, p.123
Pairing: Marcel Granollers/Marc López (implied past, adulterous Marcel Granollers/Tommy Robredo)
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Created in a world of pure imagination: no money changed hands, no actuality implied, no offence intended.
A/N: Fourth in the Tangled series. I promise this puts them back together. ~3K
It was while they were checking into their hotel that Marcel began to panic about sleeping arrangements. The Trianon Palace was incredible, far grander than anything he had ever stayed in before (all right, maybe he'd slightly bought into Feli's 'it means more if it costs more' theory and booked the most extravagant hotel he could afford), and he could only afford one room. What if Marc thought that was too presumptuous? What if Marc didn't want to share, wanted time alone? Eaten up with self-doubt, Marcel shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot in the lift as he wracked his brains for a solution.
'I told you you should have gone before we got off the plane,' Marc teased.
'Mmm,' Marcel agreed distractedly, barely registering Marc's words, nor the affectionate way in which they were delivered.
The answer came to him as they opened their door and were greeted by an enormous, brocade chaise longue.
'Um, I'll sleep here,' Marcel mumbled nonchalantly, pretending that had been his plan all along. 'You can have the bed.'
Marc gave him a curious look, and went through to unpack.
Determined that Marc shouldn't have a chance to be bored, Marcel had crammed every single touristy thing he could into their four-day stay. Tonight was Bucket List Item 5 ('Cook with a famous chef!') but that was six hours away. In the meantime, there was exploring to do: Notre Dame, the Pompidou Centre, the Eiffel Tower, Sacre Coeur. When they paused to catch their breath over coffee and croissants at a patisserie Richard Gasquet had recommended, Marcel looked anxiously over at Marc, trying desperately to work out if he was enjoying himself.
'Are you OK? Is… is this OK?'
Marc grinned and nodded, which was reassuring, and Marcel smiled tentatively in response.
It never occurred to him that Marc might find his nervousness and uncharacteristic, proactive determination absurdly touching, nor that he might be enjoying those far more than the sights he was seeing.
With a quick look at his timetable, Marcel whisked them off to the next stop.
Dinner that night was a huge success. Admittedly, it wasn't technically cooking with a famous chef, but it was watching a famous chef cook, which was almost the same thing. The Chef's Table at Gordon Ramsay au Trianon was a tough booking to get (Marcel made a mental note to send Rafa a crate of Nutella for using his name to organise this at such short notice), but it was worth every penny. Marc was enthralled as he sat with a panoramic view of the kitchen, chef's hat perched precariously on his head as he watched the hubbub. He kept up a continuous, excited commentary of everything that was happening (and blushed as yet another sous-chef was berated with yet another stream of profanity).
'This is just brilliant, I'm learning so much. I can't wait to try some of it out.'
His face was flushed with excitement, his hat growing increasingly lopsided, and Marcel was utterly entranced.
'I-I hope you only mean the cooking, and not the swearing,' he stuttered.
They giggled like children as their vocabularies were expanded in ways of which neither of their mamas would approve. Marcel had no idea what they ate that night (although he remembered everything tasting exquisite), but he knew that he and Marc chatted together more easily than they had done in weeks. When they got back to the hotel, Marc hugged Marcel tightly, kissed his cheek and whispered 'thank you' in his ear.
Marcel hardly dared hope that it might be working.
Monday was dedicated to Bucket List Item 27 ('Follow the trail of the Da Vinci Code!'). Marcel laid the blame for this one firmly at the feet of Fernando Verdasco, but it was on Marc's list, so he had booked them on to the 'Explore the Da Vinci Code' tour of the Louvre.
And, actually, it turned out to be enormous fun. Particularly when, partway through the tour, they decided that they'd be far better off doing it themselves.
'Come on,' Marc pleaded, 'we can barely understand a word the guide says, and that lady with the glasses keeps shoving me out of the way.'
'All right then.'
Marcel would have agreed to do anything Marc asked him to if it got him a smile like that, and they snuck off into the depths of the museum to search for their own clues.
When Marc gasped with excitement as he worked out another clue and took Marcel's hand as he hurried them off to find it, Marcel completely forgot he was supposed to be nervous and awkward. He followed along eagerly, breathless at the feel of Marc's hand tucked inside his own, feeling all kinds of normal and wonderful.
At the end of a day padded out with the touristy things they didn't have time for yesterday, Marc announced that he was exhausted.
'Can we skip dinner tonight? I'd rather just eat in and play cards, and talk. Just us.'
They ordered in crepes, which they shared and argued over (Marcel preferred the banana caramel ones; Marc insisted the chocolate hazelnut ones were best). Marc cheated horribly at piquet, they gently poked fun at French TV, and talked. A lot. About everything. Marcel didn't stop smiling all night.
'I've had such a good time this evening,' Marcel said happily, through a yawn he could no longer suppress.
Marc snorted. 'What? This is nothing special, we used to do this all the time.'
Marcel shrugged. 'I know,' he said simply, 'That's why it feels so good. It's-it's normal.'
Marc smiled gently at Marcel. 'You don't have to sleep on the sofa, you know,' he said.
Actually, Marcel didn't sleep at all. While the bed was huge and soft, he daren't fall asleep; terrified of what he might do in the depths of slumber. What if he dreamt everything was OK again and wrapped himself around Marc like a limpet, or got a particularly determined and thoroughly inappropriate erection and prodded Marc with it all night?
Instead, he watched Marc sleep and thought how lucky he was to have been given a second chance.
He was determined not to screw it up this time.
Lack of sleep meant that Marcel was all fingers and thumbs for Bucket List Item 14 ('Visit the Palace of Versailles!'). He had actually booked them on a Living History day, which involved dressing up as an eighteenth-century aristocrat-Marcel didn't tell Marc, but this also ticked an item from his own, secret bucket list ('Spend a day as the Scarlet Pimpernel').
He swore softly as he fumbled with his costume; why did everything have to be so difficult to fasten?
'Here, let me help you.' Marc stepped forward, fully dressed in knee breeches, frock coat and shiny, buckled shoes, and helped button Marcel's waistcoat.
Was it his imagination or did Marc linger over the task? Stand a little too close? Stare a little too hard at his thighs in their breeches? Aware he was overanalysing, he tried to relax and enjoy himself, but it wasn't easy.
'I could never be an aristocrat,' he confided to Marc. 'It feels too weird ordering people about, and if I ever lived anywhere this big I'd be forever getting lost!'
'I dunno,' Marc mused, strutting around confidently, 'I think I could get used to this.' He adjusted his powdered wig and sent a lackey to bring them some hot chocolate.
Marcel couldn't take his eyes off Marc's calves; he'd never realised tights could be so sexy.
Gradually the awkwardness between them eased, no match for the strength of their shared memories and experiences. Little by little it faded, pushed aside by the fond gestures, warm smiles and affectionate glances which began to creep back in.
That night, when Marcel leaned on the balcony of their hotel room, watching the sun set, Marc came out to join him. He rested his head on Marcel's shoulder, leaned in closer as Marcel put an arm around him, and they stood and watched the sunset together. Marcel felt Marc's heartbeat against his own, felt at peace.
He could hear Marc's breathing, feel the soft huffs of breath against his neck, and his arm tightened around Marc's shoulder.
'Hey,' Marc murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Marcel's jaw, 'I think it's time we went to bed, no?'
The finger trailing idly around Marcel's bellybutton made Marc's intentions perfectly clear. Marcel's breath caught in his throat and he nodded.
'Yes please,' he croaked.
When they tumbled into bed together, bodies falling easily back into their familiar rhythm, the awkwardness dissipated completely.
They slept late on Marc's birthday; there was no Bucket List item planned for that day. Marcel had wanted to do Item 11 ('Shower in a Waterfall!'), but hadn't been able to arrange it. Marc was happy to settle, however, for making a waterfall in their shower, instead. The day was at Marc's disposal: part of his present was that he got to choose what they did with it. Marcel harboured a vague hope that Marc would choose to spend the whole day in bed-he was particularly proud of how he'd left the day free, just in case-but Marc had other plans.
He wanted to go to the opera.
'Oh. Um, all right, I'll… see if I can get tickets!' Marcel tried not to let the panic show-he hadn't the first clue where to start looking, he knew nothing about opera.
'It's OK, nano, I'll do it,' Marc ruffled Marcel's hair fondly, and Marcel was overcome by an urgent need to push him back down on to the bed and show him-again-how sorry he was, how relieved he was, how thrilled he was.
When they came up for air, they compromised: Marc would buy the tickets, but on Marcel's card. He'd been remarkably insistent that he be the one to make the booking, though.
The minute they stepped through the doors of the Palais Garnier, Marcel felt lost. In fact, he'd felt lost from the moment Marc had declared they needed something to wear for the opera and taken him out shopping. He tugged nervously at his cravat-why on earth were they even wearing cravats?-and moved closer to Marc in the throng. Marc smiled reassuringly and Marcel had to admit that morning dress, no matter how uncomfortable or ridiculous he felt, suited Marc right down to the ground.
When the performance started, Marcel felt even more lost. He had no idea what was going on, he had no idea who anyone was, he had no idea how he'd ended up in such a fancy box at the Paris Opera.
'Look, Marc, there's a daybed thing back there! What on earth's that doing in a box at the Paris opera?'
Marc just winked and put his finger to his lips to shush Marcel.
Half an hour later he found out exactly why it was there.
'I read about it and wanted to know if it was true,' Marc murmured as he laid Marcel out on the chaise and unknotted his cravat. 'If operagoers got bored and horny, they could make their own entertainment here.' His fingers set about doing just that, rubbing firm circles around Marcel's groin.
'But-but, Marc! The opera! You wanted to see the opera!' Marcel tried to keep the squeak from his voice, but the things Marc's hands were doing were making that difficult.
Marc chuckled, 'You're so gullible. No, this was what I wanted for my birthday,' and he continued unfastening Marcel's clothing.
'Marc!' Marcel hissed, trying to push Marc away, 'We can't do that here, what if someone comes in?'
'They won't.' Marc sounded confident. 'I locked the door. And if you're going to wriggle like that I shall have to find a way to stop you.'
He pulled his cravat off with a flourish, and Marcel suddenly realised why he'd insisted on their wearing them.
The interval was interminable. Marc had breezily announced he was going to get a drink, and wandered off. Marcel writhed and twisted, but his bonds held firm. Half naked, half hard and tied to a chaise in a box at the Paris opera, Marcel began to regret his frequent promises that he'd do anything for Marc.
He wondered if this was his punishment. What if Marc didn't come back? What if he was stuck here until the performance ended, and he was discovered by the cleaners? The thought filled him with dread, and he squirmed harder within his bonds, desperate to escape.
'You can't keep still, even for a minute, can you?'
Marcel's relief at Marc's return was short-lived as he blithely ignored Marcel and retook his seat at the front of the box.
'Shhh,' he admonished with a stern look, 'people will hear you.'
It was only once the second act was underway that Marc left his seat, and his expression definitely now spelled trouble.
'Hello.'
His smile was wolfish, and Marcel couldn't help a shiver. 'Um, hi. Are… are you going to untie me? Please?'
Marc shook his head. 'Not yet. I want to ask you a few questions first.'
Marcel was pretty sure that questions usually involved words, but there didn't seem to be any of those forthcoming. Marc remained silent as his hands worked over Marcel's body, pushing his shirt from his shoulders and tugging his trousers down over his hips. Briefly, Marcel wondered if he should point out how ridiculously expensive those trousers (now bunched up like rags around his knees) had been, but one look at Marc's face told him now probably wasn't the time.
Forcing himself to remember to breathe, practically crackling with anticipation-he knew something was coming, he just didn't know what-Marcel waited as Marc's hands smoothed over his body. His eyes were dark, so dark, and he stared so intently that Marcel began to feel vaguely embarrassed. But then Marc's hands and mouth started working over his body, kissing and stroking and bringing him to fever pitch. He was achingly, painfully hard, and his vision started to go blurry around the edges.
It was then that the questions started.
'Did Tommy do this?' Marc's tone was conversational; where his slick fingers were probing was anything but. Marcel swallowed hard and tried to focus.
'No.'
'Don't lie to me, Marcel, I know when you're lying.' There was steel in Marc's voice now. 'Did he?'
'Y-yes,' Marcel muttered. 'He did.' There was a pause for a few moments, filled with sound of soft grunts and the whisper of skin on skin.
'I see. And this? Did he do this?' These words were muffled as Marc now had his mouth full. He sucked hard on Marcel's cock, his tongue pressing, and Marcel's response was little more than an affirmative groan. Marc's mouth moved faster, reducing Marcel to an incoherent babble. He couldn't help a whimper when Marc sat up.
'What about this?' Marc was savage, now, pushing in roughly, fingernails biting into Marcel's hips.
'Yes-no-I don't know,' Marcel choked, too overwhelmed to think.
Marc's response was scornful. 'You don't know? Was he that shit you can't remember?'
'He-he did.' Marcel moaned as Marc moved faster, his fingers leaving livid marks in Marcel's skin. 'But… it didn't-oh God, it didn't feel like this.'
He meant it. Even like this, filled with anger and frustration, Marc felt amazing, so much better than Tommy had. He knew just what to do to make Marcel moan and lose himself completely, and he did it with consummate ease.
This seemed to satisfy whatever was driving Marc. Abruptly, he pulled out, leaving Marcel feeling empty and confused, but then he freed Marcel's hands and threw himself into his arms, kissing him frantically all over his face.
'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' he murmured between kisses, 'but I had to know. I had to.'
Marcel apologised too, repeating, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you, I love you,' as if, if he said it enough Marc would never forget.
'Shhh, I know.' Marc silenced him with a kiss, which grew increasingly desperate and longing. Marcel's fists bunched in Marc's clothing, impatiently shoving it aside; his hands and mouth roamed hungrily over every inch of Marc's body that he could reach, aching to touch and taste everything.
Panting for breath, Marc shoved his trousers down and prepared himself hurriedly. He knelt astride Marcel's hips, bracing himself with one palm flat on Marcel's chest, then lowered himself down slowly.
'Last question. This. Did he do this?' He rode Marcel tortuously slowly, jerking his own dick, eyes never leaving Marcel's.
'Jesus, no, no he didn't,' Marcel groaned, the thickness of arousal in his voice testament to the truth in his words.
Marc gave a satisfied smile and bent down to kiss Marcel, greedily and possessively.
As the opera built to its crescendo, so did they.
'I see you two are back to normal.' Feli rolled his eyes dramatically from the edge of the Montreal hotel swimming pool.
Marcel tried to stifle his giggles, but Marc's hand was still tiptoeing around the waistband of his shorts beneath the water.
'Shut up, López,' Marc grumbled. 'It's been a long flight, we needed a swim to cool off.'
'Shut up yourself, López,' Feli parroted. 'I've had enough of David and Tommy feeling each other up in public-in fact, I came out here to get away from it-I don't need to watch you two at it as well.' He sniffed disdainfully and headed for a sun lounger.
Marcel couldn't help it. At the mention of Tommy's name, he froze.
'Hey, it'll be OK,' Marc climbed into his arms, wrapping his legs around Marcel's waist. 'We sorted it out, remember? It's over.'
Marcel wasn't sure if it was his imagination, or if he really did see something in Marc's expression which suggested that, actually, this was far from over.
FIN
Notes:
Gordon Ramsay does have a restaurant at Versailles, at which you can book the Chef's Table.
There are umpteen Da Vinci Code tours; this is one of them. Like Marcel, I blame Fernando Verdasco.
The reason for Marc wanting to go to the Paris opera does come from a book, thusly (and I have been wanting to use that in a story since I read it!):'The box had character. Behind the seats, screened from the opposing boxes, was a wicked little goat-footed chaise where lovers might retire while the orchestra provided cadence from down below'
Thomas Harris, Hannibal Rising, p.123