White Collar fic Part 2
18th Century AU,Peter/Neal continued:
Continued from Part 1 here: http://daria234.livejournal.com/41495.html
The time in the countryside was passing like a blur to Nicolas Haldon. He had not meant to stay for so many weeks. He kept gathering information on Pierre, though little of it would be of use for schemes. Many days, he only thought about his wager with Kelleur occasionally, preferring instead to enjoy himself, and to enjoy the company.
He had learned much about Pierre in this time. For one thing, Pierre was constantly dragging him along as he engaged in various improvement projects in the area. It was a great bore. Sometimes, however, there was a problem that required a deft solution, a clever fix, and Nicolas was impressed to see Pierre’s acumen in those instances. He was also impressed that Pierre was eager to solicit Nicolas’ advice on these matters as well; the men were equal of mind, though opposite in demeanor, and Pierre seemed to delight in rather than resent those times when Nicolas’ intellect outshone his own.
He was learning other things about Pierre as well. The man, though rather rigid in his beliefs, was far from naïve, and Nicolas could see that the man could deal with less than honorable men with any number of approaches, especially when Pierre’s aunt sent him to handle some local dispute or tension. He was impressed with Pierre’s mind, even as he grew weary of Pierre insisting that Nicolas, deep in his heart, surely liked helping all of these fine gentlemen and ladies.
They continued their walks and their swims and their hours-long conversations, and Pierre never hesitated to embrace him with affection or to roughhouse with him as if they were foolish boys who didn’t yet know where all that closeness, all that congress of skin and muscle, could lead. There was an openness to this man that was, despite Nicolas’ every attempt to find evidence otherwise, entirely genuine. In Pierre was the strangest combination of honor and innocence with astuteness and pragmatism. Nicolas was finding him somewhat of a challenging riddle.
It was perhaps for this reason that Nicolas had let slip so many opportunities. He was often forward with Pierre, coming at him with double entendres, lascivious looks, friendly smacks on the rear that were promptly returned. There were times when he would say things that would make a Venetian courtesan blush, and Pierre was surely not dull enough to imagine Nicolas meant anything other than what he did, but Pierre was never embarrassed. He simply smiled as if he were certain that Nicolas was only saying these things for the pleasure of seeing Pierre look scandalized.
There were times, however, when Nicolas was quite sure that there was more than amusement in Pierre’s eyes. When they stared, darkened, at Nicolas' lips, at Nicolas' torso. Nicolas would step closer to him in those moments, angle his face up to his, sensing the fraught lines of desire that traversed between them.
But then Nicolas would step back, change the subject.
Nicolas still wasn’t sure why this kept happening. Though he commonly blamed the country air for making his wits dull.
And so as the time passed, he savored these many moments with Pierre. But there was another delightful surprise in the country, since Nicolas found that Pierre was not the only sharp-witted friend at the estate. Nicolas was also quite enchanted by the Duchesse, and she apparently by him. She had a directness to her, tempered by her experience.
When Nicolas had been there many weeks, as the Duchesse and Nicolas were alone in the game room playing cards, she said to him, “My nephew is a handsome man, isn’t he?”
“Indeed, Pierre is admirable in many ways,” Nicolas said sincerely.
“And do you plan to do anything about it?” she inquired, and a less sophisticated gentleman would not notice that she had brought up the topic of seduction at all.
“I would never wish to abuse your hospitality, your grace,” Nicolas answered.
“But that was not my inquiry.” Her smile was kind even as she was far from naïve.
“I… am not certain, I must admit. Pierre does not seem to be one to… take serious matters lightly.”
“Indeed he is not. And is that what you are seeking? Something light? Are you looking merely for a confection?”
“Pardon my profaneness, but I believe I wish the whole meal,” Nicolas admitted, embarrassed. Something about the woman brought out his honesty.
“Then you will pardon me for correcting you. But you seem to believe that a man of honor is the same as a monk, and I do not believe that to be the case. And so if your intentions are noble, I want to assure that I enjoy having you as a guest and would heartily welcome your presence for any length of time.”
“Thank you,” Nicolas said, sincerely, wondering if her words could even possibly mean what he believed they did.
She nodded graciously, his cue to allow her to enjoy her room alone, and he kissed her hand as he left. When he neared the door, she said, “And don’t forget to take your letter. It arrived today - it’s right there on the table.”
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Nicolas waited until he was alone in his room to read the letter. There was no return address, but he recognized Kelleur’s handwriting on the envelope.
Dear Nicolas,
I am writing to save your life and your reputation.
You see, I know you better than you know yourself. And seeing that you have been in that putrid little town for far too long, I can only assume that you are contemplating giving in to your weakness. Nothing could be more disastrous.
Do not be swayed by de Burceau. When he sees the man you are, he will despise you. He may try to have you executed, or just do it himself with that infamous blade of his. And he will certainly destroy your reputation, regardless of the threats we pose against him.
Do not forget our wager, Nicolas. Do not forget why you are there.
M.
Nicolas felt a pit in his stomach, a sharper iteration of the jabbing he felt in every encounter with Pierre. Something gnawing at him, never letting him quite forget that no matter how much he enjoyed Pierre’s company, he was there to betray them. This was the underpinning, the bass clef of his time with Pierre that made laced even the most pleasant excursions with conflict and dread.
Someday soon Pierre would hate him and Nicolas would be ripe for it.
It’s not that Nicolas had forgotten now that he was away from Paris. It’s that the uncertainty wasn’t as piercing in the country, without Kelleur to remind him of their sickening deal every day.
He felt a sudden impulse to return to the city. Alone. He gathered his things and left a brief note for the Duchesse on his dresser and went to borrow a horse from the stables. He did not bother with a carriage and headed toward the city, even though it was already the evening, taking the narrower, winding paths so he would be nearly certain not to be found even if Pierre tried to pursue. The horse wanted to go fast, and Nicolas let it, keeping his head down in the wind and hoping to gain distance.
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It was almost dark when Nicolas turned a corner to see Pierre waiting for him atop his steed, looking like an impassable Spartan force in the middle of the path. Nicolas slowed and stopped his horse as he gaped.
“How?” Nicolas asked.
“I know how you think. And I know these paths like the back of my hand. Now, my turn for a question. Why?”
“I left a note.”
“You left an excuse, undoubtedly false,” Pierre said as he dismounted. Nicolas dismounted too, against his better judgment.
“I need to return to the city.”
“Why?”
“Urgent business.”
“What?”
“I cannot answer your question, Pierre! Now please get out of the path.”
“Were you not enjoying yourself?”
“Of course I was.”
Pierre hesitated. “Was it because I was … forward?”
Nicolas paused, almost wanting to laugh if it weren’t all so wrong. Surely Pierre did not think his mild flirtations were overly forward, especially when Nicolas’ were so much more direct. “No. I can assure you, I would have refused you nothing.” He wasn’t sure why he was saying this; he must be the greatest fool to say this. “What I mean is, your friendship is the reason I stayed so long.”
“Then if we are friends, you must stay. Or you must tell me what your troubles are so that we can address them together.”
Nicolas closed his eyes. That sinking feeling in his gut again. “You are a true friend, Pierre. But…”
“It is nearly dark, Nicolas,” Pierre said, pleading almost, and the edge in his voice made Nicolas weak in his legs, “This is no time for a journey. Come back. You can leave in the morning if that is still your choice. Give me one night to convince you to stay. After everything, you cannot give me one more night?”
For all of Nicolas’ skill with words, for all of his brilliant trickery, he had no defenses against Pierre, the man’s sincerity like a weapon Nicolas was not able to parry. He felt as if he should vomit, as if he should run, as if he should knock Pierre over and steal his horse and never leave Paris again. Instead, somehow, he closed his eyes and nodded.
“Good,” Pierre said, eyes joyful. “Let us hurry home.”
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They arrive at the estate’s stables well after dark, tired and sweaty and with unanswered questions weighing on them both. Nicolas is expecting these questions to fly at him soon.
Instead, after they’ve put the horses in their stalls, Pierre grabs Nicolas by the hips and kisses him.
It is far, far better than Nicolas expects.
Pierre steps back, stares into Nicolas’ eyes as if to discover if Nicolas wants this from him.
Nicolas answers by grabbing the collar of Pierre’s shirt and pulling him back to him. He kisses Pierre harder, his tongue pressing into Pierre’s lips, then deeper, savoring Pierre’s mouth as he lets out a deep guttural moan.
Pierre practically drags Nicolas to a stack of fresh clean hay and they fall into it, laughing like schoolboys until Pierre pulls off Nicolas’ coat and starts to unbutton Nicolas’ waistcoat and shirt, slowly kissing his neck and jawline.
When Nicolas chest and stomach are bare, framed by the ivory-colored ruffles strewn messily on either side of his torso, Pierre sits up. He looks down admiringly, like he has never seen anything so beautiful. He smiles at Nicolas and it’s full of gratitude.
Nicolas tries to smile back. But that pit in his stomach again.
Pierre leans down to kiss his lips. It’s warm and forceful, it can be nothing but a claim. Nicolas opens up to it, drinks it. Pierre moves his lips to Nicolas’ ear then, sucking lightly and with a nibble, until he whispers, breath hot against his skin, “I adore you, Nicolas.” He moves back to kiss Nicolas’ lips again.
Nicolas turns away.
Pierre is confused, tries again.
Nicolas closes his eyes and waits for Pierre to back up.
When he does, he looks worried. “Have I done something wrong? Have I been too forceful?”
“No,” Nicolas says, eyeing the stable door, wanting to run. “Not at all.”
“What then?”
The pit in the gut. Telling Nicolas that this was his last chance to do the honorable thing, and at the moment he doesn’t even remember that he is a fool to care for such things.
He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then, finally, Nicolas says, “I’ve decided that some things are better left uncorrupted.” A film of bitterness clings to his voice, and he knows it won’t go unnoticed. He looks away from Pierre’s face.
For a moment, Pierre is confused. But then he gets that look of determination he sometimes has. He looks at Nicolas, then down to the bulge in Nicolas’ pants, and he seems to discern something.
“Oh,” Pierre said, with exaggerated disappointment. “I see you’re one of those.”
“One of what?”
“One of those whose ideas would shock everyone and whose actions would shock no one.”
Nicolas turns back to him, eyes narrowed. It is a cunning move, Nicolas knows. To insult Nicolas in this way. He would laugh if a man called him a coward, a criminal, a sexual deviant, a rogue. But to call the infamous Monsieur Haldon a prude… it is unthinkable. For once, Nicolas forgets that the measurement of a man’s worth is only a game; he has never heard anything so offensive to his pride.
He is, in a word, outraged.
His eyes darken and he pulls Pierre down to him with surprising force. Their next kiss is a clash, a battle instead of a seduction, and this time neither man succumbs to the other. Nicolas braces against the floor with one arm and rolls them over so Pierre is on his back, Nicolas astride him, his hindquarters hovering just over Pierre’s manhood.
Nicolas gives him a smirk as he grinds downward. “I hope that the country gentleman is not scandalized by a Parisian’s penchants.”
Pierre moans but manages a riposte. “I can assure you, we are not so innocent in the country as you believe,” he says as he gropes the bulge in Nicolas’ pants.
Nicolas lets out a breath and bites his lower lip, and this seems to make Pierre desire him more, brings out an animality in Pierre that Nicolas now realizes he has long been waiting to see.
Nicolas smiles and moves backward, deciding to make Pierre, for once, give chase. “Monsieur, now is the time. If you want me, you must take me.”
Pierre’s eyes turn dark. For a moment he is perfectly still.
Then Nicolas is thrown into the soft hay yet again, Pierre’s hands working roughly at the ties of Nicolas’ pants. In return, Nicolas pulls off Pierre’s coats, tears at his shirt until it lies ragged on his arms and shoulders. There is a speed to their movements, but it does not stop them from noticing the incidental pleasure, the chance to kiss here and bite there as they do their work. Nicolas almost comes to a halt when Pierre starts to suck at Nicolas birthmark, halfway up his inner thigh, just hard enough to be painful.
As Nicolas tenses, Pierre stops and looks up, sweating and beautiful and desperate to have him.
“Harder,” Nicolas orders, “Bruise me.”
Pierre grins in anticipation and licks his lips before sucking a bruise onto Nicolas’ thigh, with just enough teeth to make Nicolas tremble. He grips Pierre’s hair and tugs from the pain of it, but Pierre seems to think this is direction and he pulls Nicolas’ cock from his pants and begins to suck the tip.
Soon Pierre is licking hard circles around Nicolas’ cock, using his hand to twist the shaft one way as his tongue twists the head the other. Nicolas moans and he feels helpless somehow, and he wonders how it has come to this. He is the greatest rogue in Paris, he can usually plan his next scheme, silently recite an aria from memory, and think of his next witty comment while being sucked, and yet somehow, the anticipation, the release of months of fear and need, has overwhelmed him. There is nothing in his mind but the sight of Pierre’s lips on him and the sensations that threaten his sense.
It was not supposed to go this way, he thinks. Nicolas was supposed to leave Pierre breathless and overcome, dazed with the sensations of it all. Instead…
He realizes that Pierre is pulling Nicolas’ pants off, and so he helps. He kisses Pierre roughly again, attempting to wrest control of this congress, control of himself.
Pierre licks his fingers and reaches behind Nicolas and slides one in. Nicolas buries his face in the crook of Pierre’s neck and sucks his own bruise to mark the other man.
Pierre presses a second finger at the rim of Nicolas’ entrance. He hesitates, the second finger caressing the entrance until Nicolas bites down on Pierre’s shoulder and with a cry from both of them, the second finger slips in. They stay like that for a long while, Pierre moving his fingers inside of Nicolas as they kiss each other everywhere they can reach without pulling apart, as their free hands grip and rub and tease. Finally, Pierre pulls his fingers out.
Nicolas expects a third finger at least, and maybe more. But Pierre’s hands are on his chest, suddenly gentle, pushing him slowly back and then raising Nicolas legs up and apart to put them on Pierre’s shoulders.
Nicolas honestly has no idea what is going on.
He sees Pierre’s face move downward, is thrilled Pierre is going to suck him again.
Instead, he feels Pierre’s tongue at his entrance, its soft wetness, its lushness pressing into him.
For a second all Nicolas can think is that it’s an utter embarrassment that a man from the country has a lewder repertoire than he does.
He is more than slightly impressed.
Then the tongue pushes in, the tongue is ravishing Nicolas, and Nicolas can think of nothing else at all. It pushes in and out, a torture of soft, supple motion, and then Pierre pushes a finger alongside his tongue, filling him up, pressing at his spot again and again. Nicolas hears himself moaning, hears words such as “please” leave his lips, and in a brief moment of cogency, he wonders if he has lost himself completely.
The tension builds as Pierre’s tongue penetrates him, as Pierre’s hand strokes Nicolas’ cock slowly, too slowly, controlling it utterly. Just before Nicolas is sure he can wait no longer, Pierre stops, moves away, and Nicolas groans with the absence.
But then Pierre moves up to Nicolas’ face, kisses him on the lips, his tongue going deep into his mouth. Nicolas can taste himself on Pierre’s tongue, can taste the desire, the appetite Pierre has for him, and Nicolas nearly shudders from how deliciously filthy it is.
Pierre steps back then and lines himself up to enter Nicolas, pinning one of Nicolas’ legs to his chest. He breaches him and pushes inward, a single slow plunge, and Nicolas feels all of him, feels the fullness pushing at him in every direction.
Soon, Pierre starts to move, sliding in and out, looking at Nicolas’ face the entire time. The physical sensations are overwhelming but not painful. But Pierre’s stare is too much, it makes it all seem wrong somehow, and he turns his head to look at the stable wall. He tries to concentrate on his body, on the fullness and motion, and somehow in the intensity of his focus he forgets to shield his emotions, he forgets to fix the mask to his face.
He is a fool to forget.
Pierre stops, and Nicolas realizes at once that he has been betrayed by his own weakness.
“Nicolas. Are you --”
“I was enjoying myself until you stopped,” Nicolas answers, trying and failing to match his verbal bravado with a smile.
“Are you - you look - forgive me, my dear Nicolas, but are you afraid?”
Nicolas stares up at Pierre’s piercing gaze, at Pierre’s lips, thinned with worry. He knows that the answer to this question is no. The answer is always no. The answer is a bon mot, an insult, a deflect, but always, always a form of no.
“Yes,” Nicolas gasps and the terror of it takes his breath away.
“Of me?”
“No. No. Of course not.”
Pierre sighs and runs a hand, slow and soft, up and down Nicolas’ chest. As if he could soothe a heart with a light hum. “Tell me,” he whispers, the perfect balance of an order and a plea.
This would be the time for improvisation. This would be the time for a brilliant story to materialize in Nicolas’ head.
Instead he retreats. Like a true coward, like a child, like a man who knows nothing.
He covers his face with his hand.
It is practically an admission of guilt and he knows it.
What is happening to him?
A tug, then, Pierre’s hands forcing Nicolas’ hand away, stripping away Nicolas’ protection from Pierre’s eyes. It is the closest thing to violence Nicolas has felt at Pierre’s hands.
Pierre is still inside of him, his hands holding down Nicolas’ hands, and his gaze, his terrible gaze, is boring into him, full of concern, full of desire, full of things that shouldn’t affect Nicolas, things that shouldn’t mean anything at all.
Pierre is looking at Nicolas like nothing in the world has ever meant more to him.
Nicolas has seen this look before. It usually means a success. It means that Nicolas has won a victory.
Today it means his collapse.
“I have lied to you, Pierre.” He has never admitted this to anyone. Never admitted fear, never admitted guilt.
Pierre looks pained. “About - about wanting us to - no. No. I do not believe you.”
“I befriended you in order to ruin you Pierre.” Nicolas has nothing, no mind, no wit. What kind of fool reveals such a secret to a man holding him down, a man who could do anything to him?
It is a long moment as Pierre contemplates this. Nicolas tries desperately not to wince at what is coming.
It is a question. “And tonight? Is this to ruin me?”
Nicolas laughs at the question, at the absurdity of it, but somehow it comes out as moan. “No.” This night is to ruin me, Nicolas thinks.
“What is your grievance with me?” Pierre asks. He looks lost, Nicolas realizes. He cannot imagine that Nicolas would destroy him for a bit of fun.
“It was a wager,” Nicolas chokes out, his eyes wet, against his will. It feels like every word he speaks, every act of his body, is against his will. He catches his breath, a shaky breath hiding a near-sob, and he moves to pull away from Pierre.
Pierre holds him there.
Nicolas looks up, expecting to see rage. Instead, Pierre … is stunned. Pierre never thought such a thing possible. But Nicolas sees him thinking, sees him looking at Nicolas and making a decision. Sees the astonishment on his face slowly turn to resolve.
His voice is not angry but there is a tremble to it. “You will cancel the wager, Nicolas. I will help you if you cannot. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Nicolas feels as if he is falling.
“And you will answer truthfully: do you want to stay with me?”
“…Yes.” Nicolas’ voice breaks. He is certain this is a torture before Pierre has his revenge.
“Swear it. Swear on your honor.”
“Surely that would mean nothing to you,” Nicolas says, thinking himself mocked.
Pierre’s face is all sincerity. “If you swear on your honor, Nicolas, I will believe you.”
Nicolas gapes at him. He does not understand this, does not understand how he can constantly be surprised by an honest man. But he assents. “I vow on my honor that I have never wanted anything more than to be with you. For our friendship to outlast what I have done to you.”
He swallows, waiting, as Pierre gazes down at him, trying to read Nicolas’ expression. Finally, Pierre places his thumb gently on Nicolas’ lip, caressing it. He moves his hand up to the side of Nicolas head and weaves his fingers lightly through Nicolas’ sweat-drenched hair. And he smiles.
“Then the past is the past, my dear friend,” he says, and Nicolas can see the strength behind it, the hope and certainty in Pierre’s eyes.
Nicolas lets out a noise. Someone looking upon them might even think it crying. If Nicolas were watching someone else lose themselves so absurdly to something so petty, so trivial, as forgiveness, he would surely laugh, make a joke at their expense.
But Pierre leans down to kiss him, softly. He starts to pull out but Nicolas grabs his arm.
“Continue,” Nicolas says, “Please.” He is panting still.
Pierre looks moved, filled with emotion at such a simple request. But he carefully - so carefully - moves again, slowly continuing until he is at his previous rhythm. He never stops looking at Nicolas’ face and Nicolas can’t bear to deny him the sight.
Eventually he moves faster, his hips moving in circular motions, then in swift jerks, until he comes inside of Nicolas, the heat of it a salve.
After, he pulls at Nicolas’ cock until he comes as well, spilling onto his own stomach.
Nicolas feels spent, lost, blissful, destroyed. He is barely able to piece together his good sense when he loses it yet again as he sees Pierre lick Nicolas’ white off of his stomach. He licks his cock clean as well and then lays kisses down Nicolas’ thigh, soft and excruciating on his overly sensitive skin. And Nicolas watches, rapt, as Pierre lets the come spill from his mouth to Nicolas’ inner thigh, right atop the bruise he had left earlier in the night.
“You are indeed full of surprises,” Nicolas manages to say.
Pierre laughs, unashamed of his appetites. “I wouldn’t want you to become bored,” he teases, voice full of kindness.
“Never.” He smiles weakly at Pierre, and Pierre takes him in his arms. They lie together in a sweaty heap, blissful and exhausted. As they drift into sleep, Nicolas realizes just how awry his plan has gone. He thought to strip away Pierre’s self-control, to make him need desperately. He planned to make Pierre ridiculous. Instead, Pierre has done all of these things to him.
It is a miserable failure. And the worst part is, Nicolas can’t even bring himself to regret it.
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In the morning, the sun shines into the stable and the two men shift in each other’s arms as they wake.
“So?” Pierre says.
“What?” Nicolas asks, rubbing his eyes.
“Will you stay?” Pierre asks, and the need in his voice makes Nicolas lean over to kiss him.
“If you still want me to,” Nicolas says, surprising himself with the answer.
Pierre kisses him again, this time hard and possessive. “Forever.”
They shift again, Nicolas resting his head on Pierre’s shoulder as their arms encircle each other.
After a few blissful moments, Nicolas reluctantly says, “I suppose you want to hear the rest.”
“Mm,” Pierre assents, seeming amused that Nicolas was still trying to put it off.
Nicolas tells him. The wager, Kelleur’s reasons, the price if he lost, even his long history of misdeeds with Kelleur. He waits for Pierre to look scandalized, outraged, unforgiving, but Pierre seems to take in each new piece of information as if it were a puzzle piece he had been looking for.
Finally, Nicolas asks, “Does this change things?” Only a fool would expect a no.
“No. But I am going to ask you do something, Nicolas.”
“Of course.”
“I am going to ask you not to see Monsieur Kelleur again.”
Nicolas sighs. “I would prefer that. But he will surely come to collect his wager.”
Pierre frowns. “But you did indeed seduce me.”
“I believe it was the opposite,” Nicolas laughs, “And besides, the bet was to make you ridiculous. To corrupt you. And I would think that you would want me to keep my word. Even if it is… repulsive.”
Pierre hesitates. “Perhaps there is some flexibility when keeping one’s word to scoundrels after all,” he says and Nicolas laughs.
“Truly, though, Nicolas, I will write to relatives in Paris and make sure that Kelleur has so little standing in Paris he will have to leave the city. Or the country.”
“But you will not tell them about me?”
“No.”
A pleased smirk spreads across Nicolas’ face. “Surely you will not lie?”
“I will tell the truth in a way that leaves certain facts discreet,” Pierre counters with a smile.
“And you will not challenge him to a duel?”
“Do you want me to?”
Nicolas sighs. “No. Not that the man doesn’t deserve it. But…”
“But it is not what you want. And so out of respect for you, I will handle this … in your manner.”
Nicolas grins. “Thank you. And I am impressed with your plan to exile Kelleur. I think I must have underestimated your ability to negotiate Parisian society. But please be careful; Kelleur has blackmail material on many people and I would hate for your relatives to be hurt by one of his powerful allies.”
“My relatives are of high rank,” Pierre assures him, and Nicolas senses that there is more for Pierre to tell. After a bit of poking, Pierre finally reveals the relation that he usually keeps secret, not wanting to trade undeservedly on the name of his grandfather’s younger sister.
“Wait, you’re ‘little Pierre’? The one she always talks about?”
“I can’t believe she still calls me that.”
Nicolas lets out a chuckle. “I guess you have the luxury of being an honest man when you’re the queen’s favorite nephew,” he says, a teaspoon of resentment covered by gallon of amusement. “But truly, I do not want your assistance if it will … dishonor you.”
“I assure you, I will not allow that. Both my honor and yours will be protected with this plan.”
“With this scheme,” Nicolas cannot help but point out.
Pierre gives a reluctant smile as he lets out a long sigh. “I’m not sure when you managed it, my dear Nicolas, but along the way I have come to find your methods….”
“A necessary evil?”
“An annoyance more than an obscenity.”
“Faint praise if I’ve ever heard it,” Nicolas says with a smile.
“And you? What made you choose to stay with me? To tell me these things? And I know they are the truth because whenever you speak the truth you look as if someone is tearing at your toenail.”
Nicolas laughs loudly. “Fine. You have become a bit more supple, shall we say, on matters of honor. I am a bit more … robust on matters of honesty. But with men such as us, you are aware that this may not be the end of our conflicts?”
“If you are willing to take the risk, then I am as well. And of course I have faith that you can change your ways.”
“Pierre, there I some things I will leave behind, but I am not certain that I will become someone new.”
Pierre frowns, realizing his presumption. “We have much time to spend together, my friend. We will learn to fit together, both of us.”
Nicolas nods and smiles. A promise from Pierre felt solid, impermeable. “I’m not worried,” Nicolas says, sliding his head to rest on Pierre’s chest, hearing the steady heartbeat beneath the cheek. He closes his eyes and feels an easiness sweep through him as he realizes that for the first time since meeting Pierre, it is the truth; he isn’t worried at all.
(end)
Continued from Part 1 here: http://daria234.livejournal.com/41495.html
The time in the countryside was passing like a blur to Nicolas Haldon. He had not meant to stay for so many weeks. He kept gathering information on Pierre, though little of it would be of use for schemes. Many days, he only thought about his wager with Kelleur occasionally, preferring instead to enjoy himself, and to enjoy the company.
He had learned much about Pierre in this time. For one thing, Pierre was constantly dragging him along as he engaged in various improvement projects in the area. It was a great bore. Sometimes, however, there was a problem that required a deft solution, a clever fix, and Nicolas was impressed to see Pierre’s acumen in those instances. He was also impressed that Pierre was eager to solicit Nicolas’ advice on these matters as well; the men were equal of mind, though opposite in demeanor, and Pierre seemed to delight in rather than resent those times when Nicolas’ intellect outshone his own.
He was learning other things about Pierre as well. The man, though rather rigid in his beliefs, was far from naïve, and Nicolas could see that the man could deal with less than honorable men with any number of approaches, especially when Pierre’s aunt sent him to handle some local dispute or tension. He was impressed with Pierre’s mind, even as he grew weary of Pierre insisting that Nicolas, deep in his heart, surely liked helping all of these fine gentlemen and ladies.
They continued their walks and their swims and their hours-long conversations, and Pierre never hesitated to embrace him with affection or to roughhouse with him as if they were foolish boys who didn’t yet know where all that closeness, all that congress of skin and muscle, could lead. There was an openness to this man that was, despite Nicolas’ every attempt to find evidence otherwise, entirely genuine. In Pierre was the strangest combination of honor and innocence with astuteness and pragmatism. Nicolas was finding him somewhat of a challenging riddle.
It was perhaps for this reason that Nicolas had let slip so many opportunities. He was often forward with Pierre, coming at him with double entendres, lascivious looks, friendly smacks on the rear that were promptly returned. There were times when he would say things that would make a Venetian courtesan blush, and Pierre was surely not dull enough to imagine Nicolas meant anything other than what he did, but Pierre was never embarrassed. He simply smiled as if he were certain that Nicolas was only saying these things for the pleasure of seeing Pierre look scandalized.
There were times, however, when Nicolas was quite sure that there was more than amusement in Pierre’s eyes. When they stared, darkened, at Nicolas' lips, at Nicolas' torso. Nicolas would step closer to him in those moments, angle his face up to his, sensing the fraught lines of desire that traversed between them.
But then Nicolas would step back, change the subject.
Nicolas still wasn’t sure why this kept happening. Though he commonly blamed the country air for making his wits dull.
And so as the time passed, he savored these many moments with Pierre. But there was another delightful surprise in the country, since Nicolas found that Pierre was not the only sharp-witted friend at the estate. Nicolas was also quite enchanted by the Duchesse, and she apparently by him. She had a directness to her, tempered by her experience.
When Nicolas had been there many weeks, as the Duchesse and Nicolas were alone in the game room playing cards, she said to him, “My nephew is a handsome man, isn’t he?”
“Indeed, Pierre is admirable in many ways,” Nicolas said sincerely.
“And do you plan to do anything about it?” she inquired, and a less sophisticated gentleman would not notice that she had brought up the topic of seduction at all.
“I would never wish to abuse your hospitality, your grace,” Nicolas answered.
“But that was not my inquiry.” Her smile was kind even as she was far from naïve.
“I… am not certain, I must admit. Pierre does not seem to be one to… take serious matters lightly.”
“Indeed he is not. And is that what you are seeking? Something light? Are you looking merely for a confection?”
“Pardon my profaneness, but I believe I wish the whole meal,” Nicolas admitted, embarrassed. Something about the woman brought out his honesty.
“Then you will pardon me for correcting you. But you seem to believe that a man of honor is the same as a monk, and I do not believe that to be the case. And so if your intentions are noble, I want to assure that I enjoy having you as a guest and would heartily welcome your presence for any length of time.”
“Thank you,” Nicolas said, sincerely, wondering if her words could even possibly mean what he believed they did.
She nodded graciously, his cue to allow her to enjoy her room alone, and he kissed her hand as he left. When he neared the door, she said, “And don’t forget to take your letter. It arrived today - it’s right there on the table.”
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Nicolas waited until he was alone in his room to read the letter. There was no return address, but he recognized Kelleur’s handwriting on the envelope.
Dear Nicolas,
I am writing to save your life and your reputation.
You see, I know you better than you know yourself. And seeing that you have been in that putrid little town for far too long, I can only assume that you are contemplating giving in to your weakness. Nothing could be more disastrous.
Do not be swayed by de Burceau. When he sees the man you are, he will despise you. He may try to have you executed, or just do it himself with that infamous blade of his. And he will certainly destroy your reputation, regardless of the threats we pose against him.
Do not forget our wager, Nicolas. Do not forget why you are there.
M.
Nicolas felt a pit in his stomach, a sharper iteration of the jabbing he felt in every encounter with Pierre. Something gnawing at him, never letting him quite forget that no matter how much he enjoyed Pierre’s company, he was there to betray them. This was the underpinning, the bass clef of his time with Pierre that made laced even the most pleasant excursions with conflict and dread.
Someday soon Pierre would hate him and Nicolas would be ripe for it.
It’s not that Nicolas had forgotten now that he was away from Paris. It’s that the uncertainty wasn’t as piercing in the country, without Kelleur to remind him of their sickening deal every day.
He felt a sudden impulse to return to the city. Alone. He gathered his things and left a brief note for the Duchesse on his dresser and went to borrow a horse from the stables. He did not bother with a carriage and headed toward the city, even though it was already the evening, taking the narrower, winding paths so he would be nearly certain not to be found even if Pierre tried to pursue. The horse wanted to go fast, and Nicolas let it, keeping his head down in the wind and hoping to gain distance.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
It was almost dark when Nicolas turned a corner to see Pierre waiting for him atop his steed, looking like an impassable Spartan force in the middle of the path. Nicolas slowed and stopped his horse as he gaped.
“How?” Nicolas asked.
“I know how you think. And I know these paths like the back of my hand. Now, my turn for a question. Why?”
“I left a note.”
“You left an excuse, undoubtedly false,” Pierre said as he dismounted. Nicolas dismounted too, against his better judgment.
“I need to return to the city.”
“Why?”
“Urgent business.”
“What?”
“I cannot answer your question, Pierre! Now please get out of the path.”
“Were you not enjoying yourself?”
“Of course I was.”
Pierre hesitated. “Was it because I was … forward?”
Nicolas paused, almost wanting to laugh if it weren’t all so wrong. Surely Pierre did not think his mild flirtations were overly forward, especially when Nicolas’ were so much more direct. “No. I can assure you, I would have refused you nothing.” He wasn’t sure why he was saying this; he must be the greatest fool to say this. “What I mean is, your friendship is the reason I stayed so long.”
“Then if we are friends, you must stay. Or you must tell me what your troubles are so that we can address them together.”
Nicolas closed his eyes. That sinking feeling in his gut again. “You are a true friend, Pierre. But…”
“It is nearly dark, Nicolas,” Pierre said, pleading almost, and the edge in his voice made Nicolas weak in his legs, “This is no time for a journey. Come back. You can leave in the morning if that is still your choice. Give me one night to convince you to stay. After everything, you cannot give me one more night?”
For all of Nicolas’ skill with words, for all of his brilliant trickery, he had no defenses against Pierre, the man’s sincerity like a weapon Nicolas was not able to parry. He felt as if he should vomit, as if he should run, as if he should knock Pierre over and steal his horse and never leave Paris again. Instead, somehow, he closed his eyes and nodded.
“Good,” Pierre said, eyes joyful. “Let us hurry home.”
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
They arrive at the estate’s stables well after dark, tired and sweaty and with unanswered questions weighing on them both. Nicolas is expecting these questions to fly at him soon.
Instead, after they’ve put the horses in their stalls, Pierre grabs Nicolas by the hips and kisses him.
It is far, far better than Nicolas expects.
Pierre steps back, stares into Nicolas’ eyes as if to discover if Nicolas wants this from him.
Nicolas answers by grabbing the collar of Pierre’s shirt and pulling him back to him. He kisses Pierre harder, his tongue pressing into Pierre’s lips, then deeper, savoring Pierre’s mouth as he lets out a deep guttural moan.
Pierre practically drags Nicolas to a stack of fresh clean hay and they fall into it, laughing like schoolboys until Pierre pulls off Nicolas’ coat and starts to unbutton Nicolas’ waistcoat and shirt, slowly kissing his neck and jawline.
When Nicolas chest and stomach are bare, framed by the ivory-colored ruffles strewn messily on either side of his torso, Pierre sits up. He looks down admiringly, like he has never seen anything so beautiful. He smiles at Nicolas and it’s full of gratitude.
Nicolas tries to smile back. But that pit in his stomach again.
Pierre leans down to kiss his lips. It’s warm and forceful, it can be nothing but a claim. Nicolas opens up to it, drinks it. Pierre moves his lips to Nicolas’ ear then, sucking lightly and with a nibble, until he whispers, breath hot against his skin, “I adore you, Nicolas.” He moves back to kiss Nicolas’ lips again.
Nicolas turns away.
Pierre is confused, tries again.
Nicolas closes his eyes and waits for Pierre to back up.
When he does, he looks worried. “Have I done something wrong? Have I been too forceful?”
“No,” Nicolas says, eyeing the stable door, wanting to run. “Not at all.”
“What then?”
The pit in the gut. Telling Nicolas that this was his last chance to do the honorable thing, and at the moment he doesn’t even remember that he is a fool to care for such things.
He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then, finally, Nicolas says, “I’ve decided that some things are better left uncorrupted.” A film of bitterness clings to his voice, and he knows it won’t go unnoticed. He looks away from Pierre’s face.
For a moment, Pierre is confused. But then he gets that look of determination he sometimes has. He looks at Nicolas, then down to the bulge in Nicolas’ pants, and he seems to discern something.
“Oh,” Pierre said, with exaggerated disappointment. “I see you’re one of those.”
“One of what?”
“One of those whose ideas would shock everyone and whose actions would shock no one.”
Nicolas turns back to him, eyes narrowed. It is a cunning move, Nicolas knows. To insult Nicolas in this way. He would laugh if a man called him a coward, a criminal, a sexual deviant, a rogue. But to call the infamous Monsieur Haldon a prude… it is unthinkable. For once, Nicolas forgets that the measurement of a man’s worth is only a game; he has never heard anything so offensive to his pride.
He is, in a word, outraged.
His eyes darken and he pulls Pierre down to him with surprising force. Their next kiss is a clash, a battle instead of a seduction, and this time neither man succumbs to the other. Nicolas braces against the floor with one arm and rolls them over so Pierre is on his back, Nicolas astride him, his hindquarters hovering just over Pierre’s manhood.
Nicolas gives him a smirk as he grinds downward. “I hope that the country gentleman is not scandalized by a Parisian’s penchants.”
Pierre moans but manages a riposte. “I can assure you, we are not so innocent in the country as you believe,” he says as he gropes the bulge in Nicolas’ pants.
Nicolas lets out a breath and bites his lower lip, and this seems to make Pierre desire him more, brings out an animality in Pierre that Nicolas now realizes he has long been waiting to see.
Nicolas smiles and moves backward, deciding to make Pierre, for once, give chase. “Monsieur, now is the time. If you want me, you must take me.”
Pierre’s eyes turn dark. For a moment he is perfectly still.
Then Nicolas is thrown into the soft hay yet again, Pierre’s hands working roughly at the ties of Nicolas’ pants. In return, Nicolas pulls off Pierre’s coats, tears at his shirt until it lies ragged on his arms and shoulders. There is a speed to their movements, but it does not stop them from noticing the incidental pleasure, the chance to kiss here and bite there as they do their work. Nicolas almost comes to a halt when Pierre starts to suck at Nicolas birthmark, halfway up his inner thigh, just hard enough to be painful.
As Nicolas tenses, Pierre stops and looks up, sweating and beautiful and desperate to have him.
“Harder,” Nicolas orders, “Bruise me.”
Pierre grins in anticipation and licks his lips before sucking a bruise onto Nicolas’ thigh, with just enough teeth to make Nicolas tremble. He grips Pierre’s hair and tugs from the pain of it, but Pierre seems to think this is direction and he pulls Nicolas’ cock from his pants and begins to suck the tip.
Soon Pierre is licking hard circles around Nicolas’ cock, using his hand to twist the shaft one way as his tongue twists the head the other. Nicolas moans and he feels helpless somehow, and he wonders how it has come to this. He is the greatest rogue in Paris, he can usually plan his next scheme, silently recite an aria from memory, and think of his next witty comment while being sucked, and yet somehow, the anticipation, the release of months of fear and need, has overwhelmed him. There is nothing in his mind but the sight of Pierre’s lips on him and the sensations that threaten his sense.
It was not supposed to go this way, he thinks. Nicolas was supposed to leave Pierre breathless and overcome, dazed with the sensations of it all. Instead…
He realizes that Pierre is pulling Nicolas’ pants off, and so he helps. He kisses Pierre roughly again, attempting to wrest control of this congress, control of himself.
Pierre licks his fingers and reaches behind Nicolas and slides one in. Nicolas buries his face in the crook of Pierre’s neck and sucks his own bruise to mark the other man.
Pierre presses a second finger at the rim of Nicolas’ entrance. He hesitates, the second finger caressing the entrance until Nicolas bites down on Pierre’s shoulder and with a cry from both of them, the second finger slips in. They stay like that for a long while, Pierre moving his fingers inside of Nicolas as they kiss each other everywhere they can reach without pulling apart, as their free hands grip and rub and tease. Finally, Pierre pulls his fingers out.
Nicolas expects a third finger at least, and maybe more. But Pierre’s hands are on his chest, suddenly gentle, pushing him slowly back and then raising Nicolas legs up and apart to put them on Pierre’s shoulders.
Nicolas honestly has no idea what is going on.
He sees Pierre’s face move downward, is thrilled Pierre is going to suck him again.
Instead, he feels Pierre’s tongue at his entrance, its soft wetness, its lushness pressing into him.
For a second all Nicolas can think is that it’s an utter embarrassment that a man from the country has a lewder repertoire than he does.
He is more than slightly impressed.
Then the tongue pushes in, the tongue is ravishing Nicolas, and Nicolas can think of nothing else at all. It pushes in and out, a torture of soft, supple motion, and then Pierre pushes a finger alongside his tongue, filling him up, pressing at his spot again and again. Nicolas hears himself moaning, hears words such as “please” leave his lips, and in a brief moment of cogency, he wonders if he has lost himself completely.
The tension builds as Pierre’s tongue penetrates him, as Pierre’s hand strokes Nicolas’ cock slowly, too slowly, controlling it utterly. Just before Nicolas is sure he can wait no longer, Pierre stops, moves away, and Nicolas groans with the absence.
But then Pierre moves up to Nicolas’ face, kisses him on the lips, his tongue going deep into his mouth. Nicolas can taste himself on Pierre’s tongue, can taste the desire, the appetite Pierre has for him, and Nicolas nearly shudders from how deliciously filthy it is.
Pierre steps back then and lines himself up to enter Nicolas, pinning one of Nicolas’ legs to his chest. He breaches him and pushes inward, a single slow plunge, and Nicolas feels all of him, feels the fullness pushing at him in every direction.
Soon, Pierre starts to move, sliding in and out, looking at Nicolas’ face the entire time. The physical sensations are overwhelming but not painful. But Pierre’s stare is too much, it makes it all seem wrong somehow, and he turns his head to look at the stable wall. He tries to concentrate on his body, on the fullness and motion, and somehow in the intensity of his focus he forgets to shield his emotions, he forgets to fix the mask to his face.
He is a fool to forget.
Pierre stops, and Nicolas realizes at once that he has been betrayed by his own weakness.
“Nicolas. Are you --”
“I was enjoying myself until you stopped,” Nicolas answers, trying and failing to match his verbal bravado with a smile.
“Are you - you look - forgive me, my dear Nicolas, but are you afraid?”
Nicolas stares up at Pierre’s piercing gaze, at Pierre’s lips, thinned with worry. He knows that the answer to this question is no. The answer is always no. The answer is a bon mot, an insult, a deflect, but always, always a form of no.
“Yes,” Nicolas gasps and the terror of it takes his breath away.
“Of me?”
“No. No. Of course not.”
Pierre sighs and runs a hand, slow and soft, up and down Nicolas’ chest. As if he could soothe a heart with a light hum. “Tell me,” he whispers, the perfect balance of an order and a plea.
This would be the time for improvisation. This would be the time for a brilliant story to materialize in Nicolas’ head.
Instead he retreats. Like a true coward, like a child, like a man who knows nothing.
He covers his face with his hand.
It is practically an admission of guilt and he knows it.
What is happening to him?
A tug, then, Pierre’s hands forcing Nicolas’ hand away, stripping away Nicolas’ protection from Pierre’s eyes. It is the closest thing to violence Nicolas has felt at Pierre’s hands.
Pierre is still inside of him, his hands holding down Nicolas’ hands, and his gaze, his terrible gaze, is boring into him, full of concern, full of desire, full of things that shouldn’t affect Nicolas, things that shouldn’t mean anything at all.
Pierre is looking at Nicolas like nothing in the world has ever meant more to him.
Nicolas has seen this look before. It usually means a success. It means that Nicolas has won a victory.
Today it means his collapse.
“I have lied to you, Pierre.” He has never admitted this to anyone. Never admitted fear, never admitted guilt.
Pierre looks pained. “About - about wanting us to - no. No. I do not believe you.”
“I befriended you in order to ruin you Pierre.” Nicolas has nothing, no mind, no wit. What kind of fool reveals such a secret to a man holding him down, a man who could do anything to him?
It is a long moment as Pierre contemplates this. Nicolas tries desperately not to wince at what is coming.
It is a question. “And tonight? Is this to ruin me?”
Nicolas laughs at the question, at the absurdity of it, but somehow it comes out as moan. “No.” This night is to ruin me, Nicolas thinks.
“What is your grievance with me?” Pierre asks. He looks lost, Nicolas realizes. He cannot imagine that Nicolas would destroy him for a bit of fun.
“It was a wager,” Nicolas chokes out, his eyes wet, against his will. It feels like every word he speaks, every act of his body, is against his will. He catches his breath, a shaky breath hiding a near-sob, and he moves to pull away from Pierre.
Pierre holds him there.
Nicolas looks up, expecting to see rage. Instead, Pierre … is stunned. Pierre never thought such a thing possible. But Nicolas sees him thinking, sees him looking at Nicolas and making a decision. Sees the astonishment on his face slowly turn to resolve.
His voice is not angry but there is a tremble to it. “You will cancel the wager, Nicolas. I will help you if you cannot. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Nicolas feels as if he is falling.
“And you will answer truthfully: do you want to stay with me?”
“…Yes.” Nicolas’ voice breaks. He is certain this is a torture before Pierre has his revenge.
“Swear it. Swear on your honor.”
“Surely that would mean nothing to you,” Nicolas says, thinking himself mocked.
Pierre’s face is all sincerity. “If you swear on your honor, Nicolas, I will believe you.”
Nicolas gapes at him. He does not understand this, does not understand how he can constantly be surprised by an honest man. But he assents. “I vow on my honor that I have never wanted anything more than to be with you. For our friendship to outlast what I have done to you.”
He swallows, waiting, as Pierre gazes down at him, trying to read Nicolas’ expression. Finally, Pierre places his thumb gently on Nicolas’ lip, caressing it. He moves his hand up to the side of Nicolas head and weaves his fingers lightly through Nicolas’ sweat-drenched hair. And he smiles.
“Then the past is the past, my dear friend,” he says, and Nicolas can see the strength behind it, the hope and certainty in Pierre’s eyes.
Nicolas lets out a noise. Someone looking upon them might even think it crying. If Nicolas were watching someone else lose themselves so absurdly to something so petty, so trivial, as forgiveness, he would surely laugh, make a joke at their expense.
But Pierre leans down to kiss him, softly. He starts to pull out but Nicolas grabs his arm.
“Continue,” Nicolas says, “Please.” He is panting still.
Pierre looks moved, filled with emotion at such a simple request. But he carefully - so carefully - moves again, slowly continuing until he is at his previous rhythm. He never stops looking at Nicolas’ face and Nicolas can’t bear to deny him the sight.
Eventually he moves faster, his hips moving in circular motions, then in swift jerks, until he comes inside of Nicolas, the heat of it a salve.
After, he pulls at Nicolas’ cock until he comes as well, spilling onto his own stomach.
Nicolas feels spent, lost, blissful, destroyed. He is barely able to piece together his good sense when he loses it yet again as he sees Pierre lick Nicolas’ white off of his stomach. He licks his cock clean as well and then lays kisses down Nicolas’ thigh, soft and excruciating on his overly sensitive skin. And Nicolas watches, rapt, as Pierre lets the come spill from his mouth to Nicolas’ inner thigh, right atop the bruise he had left earlier in the night.
“You are indeed full of surprises,” Nicolas manages to say.
Pierre laughs, unashamed of his appetites. “I wouldn’t want you to become bored,” he teases, voice full of kindness.
“Never.” He smiles weakly at Pierre, and Pierre takes him in his arms. They lie together in a sweaty heap, blissful and exhausted. As they drift into sleep, Nicolas realizes just how awry his plan has gone. He thought to strip away Pierre’s self-control, to make him need desperately. He planned to make Pierre ridiculous. Instead, Pierre has done all of these things to him.
It is a miserable failure. And the worst part is, Nicolas can’t even bring himself to regret it.
--------
In the morning, the sun shines into the stable and the two men shift in each other’s arms as they wake.
“So?” Pierre says.
“What?” Nicolas asks, rubbing his eyes.
“Will you stay?” Pierre asks, and the need in his voice makes Nicolas lean over to kiss him.
“If you still want me to,” Nicolas says, surprising himself with the answer.
Pierre kisses him again, this time hard and possessive. “Forever.”
They shift again, Nicolas resting his head on Pierre’s shoulder as their arms encircle each other.
After a few blissful moments, Nicolas reluctantly says, “I suppose you want to hear the rest.”
“Mm,” Pierre assents, seeming amused that Nicolas was still trying to put it off.
Nicolas tells him. The wager, Kelleur’s reasons, the price if he lost, even his long history of misdeeds with Kelleur. He waits for Pierre to look scandalized, outraged, unforgiving, but Pierre seems to take in each new piece of information as if it were a puzzle piece he had been looking for.
Finally, Nicolas asks, “Does this change things?” Only a fool would expect a no.
“No. But I am going to ask you do something, Nicolas.”
“Of course.”
“I am going to ask you not to see Monsieur Kelleur again.”
Nicolas sighs. “I would prefer that. But he will surely come to collect his wager.”
Pierre frowns. “But you did indeed seduce me.”
“I believe it was the opposite,” Nicolas laughs, “And besides, the bet was to make you ridiculous. To corrupt you. And I would think that you would want me to keep my word. Even if it is… repulsive.”
Pierre hesitates. “Perhaps there is some flexibility when keeping one’s word to scoundrels after all,” he says and Nicolas laughs.
“Truly, though, Nicolas, I will write to relatives in Paris and make sure that Kelleur has so little standing in Paris he will have to leave the city. Or the country.”
“But you will not tell them about me?”
“No.”
A pleased smirk spreads across Nicolas’ face. “Surely you will not lie?”
“I will tell the truth in a way that leaves certain facts discreet,” Pierre counters with a smile.
“And you will not challenge him to a duel?”
“Do you want me to?”
Nicolas sighs. “No. Not that the man doesn’t deserve it. But…”
“But it is not what you want. And so out of respect for you, I will handle this … in your manner.”
Nicolas grins. “Thank you. And I am impressed with your plan to exile Kelleur. I think I must have underestimated your ability to negotiate Parisian society. But please be careful; Kelleur has blackmail material on many people and I would hate for your relatives to be hurt by one of his powerful allies.”
“My relatives are of high rank,” Pierre assures him, and Nicolas senses that there is more for Pierre to tell. After a bit of poking, Pierre finally reveals the relation that he usually keeps secret, not wanting to trade undeservedly on the name of his grandfather’s younger sister.
“Wait, you’re ‘little Pierre’? The one she always talks about?”
“I can’t believe she still calls me that.”
Nicolas lets out a chuckle. “I guess you have the luxury of being an honest man when you’re the queen’s favorite nephew,” he says, a teaspoon of resentment covered by gallon of amusement. “But truly, I do not want your assistance if it will … dishonor you.”
“I assure you, I will not allow that. Both my honor and yours will be protected with this plan.”
“With this scheme,” Nicolas cannot help but point out.
Pierre gives a reluctant smile as he lets out a long sigh. “I’m not sure when you managed it, my dear Nicolas, but along the way I have come to find your methods….”
“A necessary evil?”
“An annoyance more than an obscenity.”
“Faint praise if I’ve ever heard it,” Nicolas says with a smile.
“And you? What made you choose to stay with me? To tell me these things? And I know they are the truth because whenever you speak the truth you look as if someone is tearing at your toenail.”
Nicolas laughs loudly. “Fine. You have become a bit more supple, shall we say, on matters of honor. I am a bit more … robust on matters of honesty. But with men such as us, you are aware that this may not be the end of our conflicts?”
“If you are willing to take the risk, then I am as well. And of course I have faith that you can change your ways.”
“Pierre, there I some things I will leave behind, but I am not certain that I will become someone new.”
Pierre frowns, realizing his presumption. “We have much time to spend together, my friend. We will learn to fit together, both of us.”
Nicolas nods and smiles. A promise from Pierre felt solid, impermeable. “I’m not worried,” Nicolas says, sliding his head to rest on Pierre’s chest, hearing the steady heartbeat beneath the cheek. He closes his eyes and feels an easiness sweep through him as he realizes that for the first time since meeting Pierre, it is the truth; he isn’t worried at all.
(end)