Without Fear
fic index
warnings: not yet listed; read at your own risk
His general disconnection from reality makes Graham seem like the kind of guy who'd burn the proverbial soup, but as it turns out, he's actually a decent cook. Lyle and Neil find this out the second time Homer leaves the three of them alone in his house. This time, they have a whole night and day to themselves, and apparently Graham plans to spend it impressing them with his culinary artifice.
It's not difficult. This is the best meal they've tasted in years. Graham thrives on their obvious enjoyment; when Neil tries to pace himself in case of after-dinner sex, he finds his plate refilling itself surreptitiously every time he glances away. So be it. After that, he lets himself eat until he's full-- a wonderful concept. Even being the good little boy that he is, Neil usually doesn't get enough to eat. Lyle, being an incorrigible little shit, starves for his own frequent crimes or Neil's rare ones or, when neither of them has misbehaved in a while, for Ali's whims.
Dinner conversation with Graham is dizzying but fun, like Neil imagines a rollercoaster ride might be. Chance comments send him whirling cheerfully from topic to topic, hardly pausing for breath, until one of the twins says something interesting and Graham quiets down to listen. That happens more often than Neil would have thought.
"So," Lyle asks during one such lull, casually interrupting his brother. (Neil doesn't mind.) "The fuck do you do for a living, anyway?"
Graham smiles, abruptly shy. Neil is fascinated by Graham's shyness, by the way it appears at the oddest moments and then vanishes again without a trace. "I'm a teacher," he answers, addressing the words to his mostly empty plate. "Of a sort."
Neil leans across the corner of the table to kiss his cheek. "What sort?"
"The arts of the warrior," says Graham, solemn except for a barely perceptible twinkle. Neil looks at his brother to be sure they're both thinking the same thing, which is: that could be very useful. Then he turns his best smile on Graham.
"That's wonderful," he says honestly. "I'm sure you're an excellent teacher." Graham twinkles some more. Lyle sets his fork down on an empty plate and lets out a belch adimrably calculated to end the conversation. There's no need to push, after all. Graham seems trustworthy, and he probably wouldn't think anything of it if they asked for lessons outright, but there are some things you just don't take chances on.
"I'll take that as a compliment." Graham picks up Lyle's hand and kisses his fingertips, then does the same to Neil. "Shall we retire? I don't think any of us yearns to practice the arts of love after that meal," he says, confirming Neil's suspicion about what he'd planned for this evening, "but I believe we have unfinished business with Ovid's Metamorphoses."
Lyle snorts. "We're whores, not girlfriends. You don't have to romance us."
"No, but I want to, and you can't stop me." They can, of course, in any of a number of ways; that's the joke. Graham would never try to force them into anything-- not even something as inconsequential as literature-- and being the ridiculous, wonderful person he is, he makes fun of himself for it.
Neil pushes his chair back, stands, and wraps his arms around Graham's shoulders. "Personally," he announces, "I like being romanced." Graham hugs him back, kissing his stomach and leaning happily against him. Lyle makes faces at them both, but he's grinning.
Graham pushes his chair back and rises. The twins follow him to his favourite guest bedroom, where the book is already waiting for them on the bedside table. Neil snuggles in on Graham's left side, Lyle on his right, and they watch his graceful fingers turn each page with care as he reads. The sound of his voice is warm and soothing.
Lulled by unfamiliar comfort, Lyle falls asleep first. Neil glances at him and smiles at the picture he makes, cuddled down against Graham's chest. It's not such a bad idea. As he watches, Graham bends to kiss the top of Lyle's head, then closes the book and gives it to Neil to put away. He returns it to its customary place on the night-table, sheds his clothes, and curls up at Graham's side.
"Goodnight," Graham murmurs, kissing his cheek. He smiles again. To his surprise, it's only a few minutes later that his eyes drift shut. Neil can't remember the last time he fell asleep this fast.
◊
A soft, familiar whimper rouses him several hours later. Lyle has migrated to the middle of the bed and is trying to burrow under the blankets, thwarted by the fact that all the blankets are piled on top of Graham. Neil cradles his brother in his arms and tries to soothe him with gentle kisses before the disturbance can wake Graham, too.
No such luck. Lyle quiets down, his whimpers turning to mumbles turning to peaceful silence, but Neil can see the blanket-nest tumbling apart as Graham extracts himself from its cuddly recesses.
Graham's eyes are dark in the moonlight that trickles in the window. He doesn't say a word; of all the things he could possibly do, he picks up Neil's hand and kisses his fingertips one by one, then tugs the disarrayed blankets up over all three of them.
Puzzled, Neil wraps himself around his brother and tries to summon sleep. The presence of Graham, cuddled up to Lyle's other side with an arm draped across both twins, helps considerably.
◊
Neil is used to being the first one out of bed in the morning, but when he wakes up the second time, it's to a dim predawn glow from the window and an absence of Graham in the bed.
Losing track of your customer is never a good idea, even when your customer would like to think he is your boyfriend, or possibly your handsome prince. He sits up and listens. There's some kind of music floating in gently from the hall. Locating his shirt and underwear from where he dropped them last night, he puts them on and follows the sound. It leads him to a room at the other end of the house, where Graham is standing shirtless on a bare wooden floor, fighting off imaginary enemies with a sword.
It's so utterly Graham that Neil has to smile. He doesn't laugh, though, because Graham's fluid, precise movements are too beautiful to laugh at. The music is slow, something orchestral; Neil doesn't recognize it, not that he expected to. It suits the mood perfectly. He can almost feel himself slowing down to match.
Although he knows Graham can see him, it's at least a minute before their eyes meet. Graham offers him the faintest of smiles, more a glint in his eyes than anything else, and turns away without breaking stride. To Neil's left, the east wall of the room is a line of wooden pillars with empty air between them, opening onto a covered walkway; the sun, just beginning to peek over the horizon, shines its first rays on Graham and lines his bare shoulders with gold.
The music quickens. Graham's sword flashes in the faint sunlight as he quickens with it, his movements still gentle at first, then faster and sharper until Neil's eyes almost can't follow him. Almost. The sword makes a noise as it cuts through the air that reminds Neil of ripping cloth.
Without warning, Graham stops. There is nothing to distinguish the last sweep of his sword from any that came before it, except that all the rest flowed into yet more movements and this one ended in perfect stillness. Unlike Graham, the music trails off slowly instead of halting all at once; when the last note fades from the air, Graham lowers his sword, and Neil remembers to breathe.
"Do you always do that?" he murmurs when he can trust his voice again. Graham smiles brilliantly at him.
"Every morning," he says brightly, sheathing the sword. "Though not always to waltz music. And not always with a sword."
"Waltz? Is that what that was?"
Graham carefully puts the sword away on a mostly empty rack and then bounces towards Neil with his usual demented cheer. All the magnificent grace has gone out of him, except that Neil thinks he can still see hints of it in the roll of a shoulder or the lift of an arm, if he looks hard enough. Graham's hands settle to either side of his face, and they share a warm, soft kiss.
"Yes," answers Graham when they break apart, although Neil had almost forgotten what the question was. "Jean Sibelius, Valse Triste. It's one of my favourites. Do you know how to dance?"
"No," he admits. Graham laughs and kisses his cheek.
"I'll teach you. Come on; let's make crepes and bring Lyle breakfast in bed."
His generous enthusiasm is as contagious as ever. "That sounds wonderful," says Neil. He slides an arm around Graham's waist as Graham wraps an arm around his shoulders, and they cuddle their way back down the hall.
warnings: not yet listed; read at your own risk
His general disconnection from reality makes Graham seem like the kind of guy who'd burn the proverbial soup, but as it turns out, he's actually a decent cook. Lyle and Neil find this out the second time Homer leaves the three of them alone in his house. This time, they have a whole night and day to themselves, and apparently Graham plans to spend it impressing them with his culinary artifice.
It's not difficult. This is the best meal they've tasted in years. Graham thrives on their obvious enjoyment; when Neil tries to pace himself in case of after-dinner sex, he finds his plate refilling itself surreptitiously every time he glances away. So be it. After that, he lets himself eat until he's full-- a wonderful concept. Even being the good little boy that he is, Neil usually doesn't get enough to eat. Lyle, being an incorrigible little shit, starves for his own frequent crimes or Neil's rare ones or, when neither of them has misbehaved in a while, for Ali's whims.
Dinner conversation with Graham is dizzying but fun, like Neil imagines a rollercoaster ride might be. Chance comments send him whirling cheerfully from topic to topic, hardly pausing for breath, until one of the twins says something interesting and Graham quiets down to listen. That happens more often than Neil would have thought.
"So," Lyle asks during one such lull, casually interrupting his brother. (Neil doesn't mind.) "The fuck do you do for a living, anyway?"
Graham smiles, abruptly shy. Neil is fascinated by Graham's shyness, by the way it appears at the oddest moments and then vanishes again without a trace. "I'm a teacher," he answers, addressing the words to his mostly empty plate. "Of a sort."
Neil leans across the corner of the table to kiss his cheek. "What sort?"
"The arts of the warrior," says Graham, solemn except for a barely perceptible twinkle. Neil looks at his brother to be sure they're both thinking the same thing, which is: that could be very useful. Then he turns his best smile on Graham.
"That's wonderful," he says honestly. "I'm sure you're an excellent teacher." Graham twinkles some more. Lyle sets his fork down on an empty plate and lets out a belch adimrably calculated to end the conversation. There's no need to push, after all. Graham seems trustworthy, and he probably wouldn't think anything of it if they asked for lessons outright, but there are some things you just don't take chances on.
"I'll take that as a compliment." Graham picks up Lyle's hand and kisses his fingertips, then does the same to Neil. "Shall we retire? I don't think any of us yearns to practice the arts of love after that meal," he says, confirming Neil's suspicion about what he'd planned for this evening, "but I believe we have unfinished business with Ovid's Metamorphoses."
Lyle snorts. "We're whores, not girlfriends. You don't have to romance us."
"No, but I want to, and you can't stop me." They can, of course, in any of a number of ways; that's the joke. Graham would never try to force them into anything-- not even something as inconsequential as literature-- and being the ridiculous, wonderful person he is, he makes fun of himself for it.
Neil pushes his chair back, stands, and wraps his arms around Graham's shoulders. "Personally," he announces, "I like being romanced." Graham hugs him back, kissing his stomach and leaning happily against him. Lyle makes faces at them both, but he's grinning.
Graham pushes his chair back and rises. The twins follow him to his favourite guest bedroom, where the book is already waiting for them on the bedside table. Neil snuggles in on Graham's left side, Lyle on his right, and they watch his graceful fingers turn each page with care as he reads. The sound of his voice is warm and soothing.
Lulled by unfamiliar comfort, Lyle falls asleep first. Neil glances at him and smiles at the picture he makes, cuddled down against Graham's chest. It's not such a bad idea. As he watches, Graham bends to kiss the top of Lyle's head, then closes the book and gives it to Neil to put away. He returns it to its customary place on the night-table, sheds his clothes, and curls up at Graham's side.
"Goodnight," Graham murmurs, kissing his cheek. He smiles again. To his surprise, it's only a few minutes later that his eyes drift shut. Neil can't remember the last time he fell asleep this fast.
◊
A soft, familiar whimper rouses him several hours later. Lyle has migrated to the middle of the bed and is trying to burrow under the blankets, thwarted by the fact that all the blankets are piled on top of Graham. Neil cradles his brother in his arms and tries to soothe him with gentle kisses before the disturbance can wake Graham, too.
No such luck. Lyle quiets down, his whimpers turning to mumbles turning to peaceful silence, but Neil can see the blanket-nest tumbling apart as Graham extracts himself from its cuddly recesses.
Graham's eyes are dark in the moonlight that trickles in the window. He doesn't say a word; of all the things he could possibly do, he picks up Neil's hand and kisses his fingertips one by one, then tugs the disarrayed blankets up over all three of them.
Puzzled, Neil wraps himself around his brother and tries to summon sleep. The presence of Graham, cuddled up to Lyle's other side with an arm draped across both twins, helps considerably.
◊
Neil is used to being the first one out of bed in the morning, but when he wakes up the second time, it's to a dim predawn glow from the window and an absence of Graham in the bed.
Losing track of your customer is never a good idea, even when your customer would like to think he is your boyfriend, or possibly your handsome prince. He sits up and listens. There's some kind of music floating in gently from the hall. Locating his shirt and underwear from where he dropped them last night, he puts them on and follows the sound. It leads him to a room at the other end of the house, where Graham is standing shirtless on a bare wooden floor, fighting off imaginary enemies with a sword.
It's so utterly Graham that Neil has to smile. He doesn't laugh, though, because Graham's fluid, precise movements are too beautiful to laugh at. The music is slow, something orchestral; Neil doesn't recognize it, not that he expected to. It suits the mood perfectly. He can almost feel himself slowing down to match.
Although he knows Graham can see him, it's at least a minute before their eyes meet. Graham offers him the faintest of smiles, more a glint in his eyes than anything else, and turns away without breaking stride. To Neil's left, the east wall of the room is a line of wooden pillars with empty air between them, opening onto a covered walkway; the sun, just beginning to peek over the horizon, shines its first rays on Graham and lines his bare shoulders with gold.
The music quickens. Graham's sword flashes in the faint sunlight as he quickens with it, his movements still gentle at first, then faster and sharper until Neil's eyes almost can't follow him. Almost. The sword makes a noise as it cuts through the air that reminds Neil of ripping cloth.
Without warning, Graham stops. There is nothing to distinguish the last sweep of his sword from any that came before it, except that all the rest flowed into yet more movements and this one ended in perfect stillness. Unlike Graham, the music trails off slowly instead of halting all at once; when the last note fades from the air, Graham lowers his sword, and Neil remembers to breathe.
"Do you always do that?" he murmurs when he can trust his voice again. Graham smiles brilliantly at him.
"Every morning," he says brightly, sheathing the sword. "Though not always to waltz music. And not always with a sword."
"Waltz? Is that what that was?"
Graham carefully puts the sword away on a mostly empty rack and then bounces towards Neil with his usual demented cheer. All the magnificent grace has gone out of him, except that Neil thinks he can still see hints of it in the roll of a shoulder or the lift of an arm, if he looks hard enough. Graham's hands settle to either side of his face, and they share a warm, soft kiss.
"Yes," answers Graham when they break apart, although Neil had almost forgotten what the question was. "Jean Sibelius, Valse Triste. It's one of my favourites. Do you know how to dance?"
"No," he admits. Graham laughs and kisses his cheek.
"I'll teach you. Come on; let's make crepes and bring Lyle breakfast in bed."
His generous enthusiasm is as contagious as ever. "That sounds wonderful," says Neil. He slides an arm around Graham's waist as Graham wraps an arm around his shoulders, and they cuddle their way back down the hall.