Prompt Post 2
Welcome to the second round of the_eagle_kink .
Please see the rules before posting.
Please check our delcious account before prompting.
Happy Kink, everyone.
~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
Please see the rules before posting.
Please check our delcious account before prompting.
Happy Kink, everyone.
~CLOSED TO NEW PROMPTS~
- MORE MOD NOTES: Alright guys I know this fandom is really into historical accuracy and all that jazz but here's the thing. This is a KINK MEME and therefore historical accuracy is not ( Read more... )
It being Tuesday morning, he realized speed was of the essence. The Medical Advisor's recommendations produced a slow, gentle decrease of symptoms-appropriate, perhaps, for lesser men, but St. John was made of steelier stuff. He had every confidence he could endure a full course of the necessary deprivations and treatments in a shortened time period and thus achieve at least partial success by Friday evening. And so, within a quarter hour of his conversation with the Captain, he had requested cool water to be brought up from the well, slipped out of morning dress and begun to take his first cold-water bath.
By Friday he had gone two nights without an instance of spermatorrhea, and suffered only one unsettling sleep-Wednesday afternoon he had dreamt of waking in a bed wreathed in flames only to find the Captain looming above with a pail of water, the Hottentot Venus grinning at him over one dusky shoulder as she shifted her hips back and forth, and feeling all his teeth shatter and crumble as he bit into a loaf of naan; a strange dream, to be sure, but more confusing than erotic-and felt increasingly confident that passion would soon yield entirely to discipline and self-denial.
As St. John dressed for the symphony he felt nearly eager to spend the evening with the Captain but wondered if he would simply end up embarrassing the man with his unfashionable ways. Evenings out were an opportunity to show off one's fancy dress-he, being plain, sweltered in great coat, kid gloves and country hat, now sadly déclassé as the practicality of a wide brim gave way to taller, showier head coverings. St. John refused to purchase something more up-to-date. Cpt. Aquilaine did look rather handsome in his gold braid, red coat and army shako, but assured the Reverend he would suit perfectly, concerts in Calcutta being rather more easygoing than in Cambridge.
The two men walked side by side to the concert hall-a concert hall in name only, as it also served as a Freemasonry lodge, amateur theater, and mess for Sepoys during the week-confining their remarks to the terrible discomforts of the weather, which had been threatening to break for weeks but so far merely hovered over the city, tormenting the inhabitants with a fog of humidity. Sitting for the concert itself was another type of torment for St. John as the audience crammed into the small space, crowding so closely together that he spent all of the Haydn in a great state of tension, his leg pressed tightly against Cpt. Aquilaine's. Perspiration trickled down under his collar, which he prayed was due only to the stuffiness of the room and not the way the Captain shifted back and forth, restless with the pleasure of the music. When it ended he turned to St. John, eyes dancing with merriment.
“I have never heard that piece before-have you? How strange and charming and playful!”
St. John nodded balefully, not looking up from the playbill in his hand. “Indeed, the Surprise Symphony is so named for a reason, my dear Captain.”
The wind taken somewhat out of his sails, Cpt. Aquilaine shrugged a little and turned once more to face the front. Still pressed shoulder to shoulder, they sat stiff and uncomfortable through the Beethoven, which was an odd compilation of military marches, Wellington's Victory, and a surprisingly good rendition of the Sonata Pathétique performed by the Brigadier-General's 12-year-old niece. St. John took advantage of the intermission to step outside, ostensibly to take some fresh air, while the Captain made small talk with fellow officers. Unfortunately, the muggy atmosphere was beginning to coalesce into drops of something unpleasantly in-between rain and fog; either would have been more bearable than what St. John encountered. He came back in, weaving his way through women in fancy dress desperately fanning themselves and gentlemen in top hats pretending they were not as affected by the warmth as their wives. Retrieving a coupe-glass of champagne from a passing waiter, he brought it back to Cpt. Aquilaine as a sort of apology cum peace offering.
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Cpt. Aquilaine accepted the champagne with delight. “No matter! I remembered you do not tolerate heat well and assumed that was the cause of your ill temper-but if every apology of yours comes with champagne you may be angry at me as often as you like.”
St. John turned red and fiddled with his cravat; whether he blushed with pleasure that the Captain had remembered his day of feigning heat-stroke, or because he recalled too vividly the reasons why he had feigned the heat-stroke-he preferred not to inquire too closely, not wanting to tax his newfound self-discipline.
The Berlioz was-to put it tactfully-Berlioz. They discussed it on the walk back to the Club, enjoying the freshening airs as the clouds at last began to form a light rain; St. John was happy to find that the Captain could discuss music intelligently when he had at least a passing acquaintance with it.
“I was thinking you might enjoy the Grande Messe des Morts, it being a requiem-but I have to say, Reverend, I am not certain … well, it felt a bit excessive, even to me.”
“Excessive? Really, you are understating the case. They must have scrounged every tuba in the city, no matter how out of tune-and I assure you, the ones in the east corner were quite atonal-to say nothing of the sheer number of bassoons Calcutta apparently possesses.”
“I think we have seen them all now, every last one. But the choirs were reasonably good-at least, I think they were.”
“How on earth could you tell, Captain?” St. John smirked up at him.
“I will concede your point-the flock of tympanis did rather overwhelm them during the Dies Irae.”
“Flock, sir, is an excellent way to describe them. Did you see the violoncellos that kept knocking into each other during the Agnus Dei?”
Cpt. Aquilaine laughed. “Reverend, I cannot believe a man of your good character would notice such a thing. Were you not overwhelmed by the beauty of the requiem at that point?”
“Not in the slightest, no, although if you must know I did feel I should have been carried off to spiritual raptures by it.”
“Ah, yes. If you cannot experience the religious bliss, you can at least have the guilt from not experiencing it? That sounds frighteningly like my boyhood catechisms; I remember the Articles of Faith, a good deal about the headmaster's cane and very little else, I'm afraid.”
“I am not greatly surprised,” St. John shook his head in mock-horror, praying they would not dwell on the subject. “So much emphasis is laid on guilt and sin, with good reason, but it must be counter-balanced by grace and joy and salvation or mankind would worship God out of fear alone. God does not wish that.” He had not intended to give such a sober turn to their conversation, but neither did he regret doing so. How good it felt, talking openly with the Captain once more.
Cpt. Aquilaine fell silent for a full two minutes; when he spoke again he had also become serious. “But without guilt we would never seek forgiveness. You have often talked about the importance of forgiveness-how it is a vital, godly part of every Christian's duty. Do you still think that?”
St. John bit hard on the inside of his lip, grateful that his face was hidden in the fading light. He feared what might come next, what Cpt. Aquilaine might divulge-especially now that the Captain thought St. John had never held feelings for him-and with all his heart wanted to shift back to a more light-hearted subject. But he was a Reverend still, and duty was duty, and if the Captain wanted to make a confession he must listen and give absolution if possible. So he replied, forcing the words through clenched teeth, “confession of sin and desire for reform is nearly the cornerstone of Christian life.”
“Then will you listen to mine now, Reverend?” They continued walking without pause or hesitation through the rain, as if they were nothing more than two friends out for a late-evening stroll, but Cpt. Aquilaine whispered as if actually in a confessional booth.
St. John nodded and bade him continue with a gesture of his hand; he felt queasy in his stomach.
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St. John cut the Captain off before he could speak further. Clergyman he may have been, but he was also human, and listening to those first stammering words already strained him; he could not endure a full recounting of his friend's deeds. “If you are wanting to confess your affaire de coeur I can assure you I am already well aware of it. You know what the Scriptures say on the subject; you know that I have said I would always grant you forgiveness.” His voiced faded; he desperately wished to be alone. “You must ask God for forgiveness, not me. You already have mine.”
Cpt. Aquilaine turned to him, wide-eyed and upset. “Reverend-no! You must not misunderstand me! I-I must explain, yes. Let me try.” He ran fingers anxiously through his hair, now soaked through; shakoes were more ornament than genuine protection. “When Cpl. Fitzpatrick invited me to his estate, he mentioned the possibility of, well-oh, you will think so poorly of me.”
St. John grasped his coat sleeve and they halted in the middle of the street, all pretense of a formal, impartial confession vanished into the heavy tropical airs. “Please, Captain. Whatever you must say, say it quickly.” Cpt. Aquilaine had always been upfront in his relations; St. John could not understand why he seemed so ashamed of this dalliance in particular.
His friend spoke as if the words were being torn from him by force. “Plac-Cpl. Fitzpatrick is second cousin to the Governor-General, Lord Auckland. He invited me over in order to, as he said, discuss the possibility of contacting the Governor about finding me a better position, perhaps in the cavalry where my leg might be less of a hindrance. Of course I knew what he really was about; he and I had been on fairly, that is-intimate terms at University and I suspected, correctly, that he hoped for a renewal of such terms. I was not inclined to renew, as it were, but neither would he intercede with Lord Auckland if I said so outright. It would offend him and easy as kiss-my-hand-all hope of the cavalry gone.”
The Rev. St. John stood dumb and mute, fingers still clutched around a fistful of red coat, the words not inclined to renew echoing in his ears. Cpt. Aquilaine continued, staring at the street.
“I could not afford to offend him, and you know-it cannot be a terrible thing, I hope you agree-I am not much good at dissembling. I am a wretched liar. But if I refused and could not give good reason then all would be lost. And I did refuse him, completely. But I … oh dear.”
St. John shook his head slowly, coolly, staring the Captain in the eye as the last of the evening faded into night. “You are a wretched liar indeed, Cpt. Aquilaine. And you are lying to me, even now. I have seen you with him! In the howdah, when he had his arm around you and played with your hair and, and-and you stand here and ask for my forgiveness and tell me you did nothing with him? Nothing at all?” His voice rose unaccountably.
“Nothing past that, Reverend, on my honor! That was merely playfulness-I swear to you it went no further.”
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“Captain, you came to me that first night at the estate, and you asked if I would grant you forgiveness, if you ever did something that warranted it. I did not understand then what you were about, only that you were in distress and I wanted you to be comforted. So I said I would always give pardon, for anything. When I saw you and Cpl. Fitzpatrick in the howdah I understood. You had made your intentions clear to me once, with all your talk of Greeks, and I made mine clear as well. You accepted that, moved on, and found a more amenable companion in Cpl. Fitzpatrick. Furthermore, you knew that I as a Reverend could not approve of-of fornication, especially not fornication for so crass a reason as the Corporal offered, and you feared for our friendship. Thus you asked my forgiveness, and I gave it to you. Is that not all perfectly correct?”
Cpt. Aquilaine stared at him, bewildered. “Not at all, Reverend. Not at any point. What are you about?”
His words rang true; this struck St. John as strongly as not inclined to renew. “You did not-not-truly not have any sorts of relations with Cpl. Fitzpatrick? But then what then are you so ashamed of? That you had considered such a deed? Considering is not the same as doing.”
“Because I could not risk offense and give him no reason at all. As I told you. And hence-I need your forgiveness!” He could scarcely choke out the words.
“For what, Captain? Speak plainly.” They halted again. Cpt. Aquilaine looked wretched; St. John could not have been more confounded or more afraid-a queer, trembling sort of happiness was breaking over him and he felt powerless to stop it.
Cpt. Aquilaine clutched at his cane, his face now wholly in shadow. “I told him I could not renew our acquaintance as such because I was already occupied-a prior commitment; I told Cpl. Fitzpatrick I was already on intimate terms with you.”
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This story is going to be the END of me, I cannot even. I wait and wait and wait for Fridays and then i squeal and clutch my chest through every update and them I am HORRIBLY SAD WHEN IT'S ALL OVER. This story is my new fandom. I have never been so freaking invested in fic, holy shit.
UGH IS IT FRIDAY AGAIN YET.
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*launches snagging expedition*
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From the beginning dream sequence to the Captain's last statement, just. WOW. WOWOWOW. Jaw on my desk, I can't even pick it up. This part is gloriously hot and tense and beautifully written.
Trembling with anticipation until next Friday~
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We have St.John's point of view and, the way Aquilaine's actions are depicted, we, the readers, understand he is completely in love with the reverend, or should I say " quite transfixed"!
And yet, poor St.John doesn't see it! He doesn't even acknowledge how he himslf cares so much about the Captain.
Poor, poor Reverend! His interpretation of events is skewed by his fears and obsessions. He is obnubilated by the rules he thinks he must follow.
It's going to be the most intense experience when they finally go "carnal" together.
I enjoy your descriptions of 19th century India.
Can't wait for the continuation.
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