a marriage of convenience: epilogue: honeymoon
epilogue: honeymoon
Jon had spent three months in Italy before his father died, but after all that time he could barely ask for directions. Tom had never studied it, but for some reason he picked up Italian easily. Girls in shops flirted with him and old ladies in the market in the square tugged at his sleeve and fed him figs and candied almonds, jabbering away while Tom laughed and said, lentamente, per favore, holding his hands up helplessly.
Tom was always laughing in Italy, Jon thought, laughing at something someone said to him on the street, or grinning as Jon murmured a running commentary about their neighbors in his ear, or just smiling as he closed his eyes and tipped his head toward the sun. He was happy, Jon thought. Tom had been happy before, in the month they had spent at Cadence before they left on their trip, Jon knew he had been. He'd said it enough, in words and in the way he looked at Jon, the way he looked at Jon when he thought Jon wasn't watching. Still, in the country Tom had been happy. In Italy Tom bloomed.
It was the warm weather, Jon thought, that they were so unaccustomed to, or perhaps it was the wine, but in Italy he felt not so much unlike himself, but like the self he had always wanted to be and had never quite known. Tom was different, too, Jon thought, or not really so different, it was as if he was more like himself, too, the self he always was deep down but had never found a place to be. It was the weather, or the wine, or the strange foreignness of everything around them, or perhaps it was something else entirely, something else that seduced them into shocking displays of affection, right out where anyone could see. In the Duomo, as Tom stood craning his neck, a guidebook in his hand, Jon slid a hand over his ass and laughed into the nape of Tom's neck when he jumped. In a dusty corner of an old villa they rented for a week, Tom backed himself up against the wall and pulled Jon in front of him by the shirtfront, bending his head down so Jon could kiss him. It was the weather that drove them to it, perhaps, or the wine or just the country, but whatever it was Jon hoped that it would never stop.
One night as they were driven back from a rustic restaurant to the villa where they were staying, Tom sprawled against the back of the seat with his head on Jon's shoulder, his mouth red and his hair sticking up in the back. The restaurant had been dark and deserted, the wine had been strong, and Tom's mouth was sweet from the small cherry cakes they'd been given for dessert. On one of the little winding roads the driver turned around to them, grinning. Ever after three weeks in Italy Tom still shifted a little, as if he wanted to sit up and straighten his collar, but Jon tightened his hand on Tom's hip and pulled him closer. The driver said something in quick Italian that Jon had no hope of following. Tom had trouble, too, because he frowned a little and repeated a few words tentatively, and then, at the driver's nod, said si. The driver spoke again, and Tom smiled shyly and murmured, grazie, before burying his face in Jon's shoulder. Jon tipped his chin up and said curiously, "What did he say?"
Tom flushed but Jon's hand on his jaw wouldn't let him turn away.
"He said - he asked if we were newlyweds, I wasn't sure I understood at first. And then he said - he said it's what he likes about the English, he can always tell when it's a love match."
They left the villa after a few weeks for Rome, where Tom dragged Jon through museums and ruins all day, and Jon made him pay for it every evening. It had to be said that Tom paid his debts gladly. One night while they were in the city, Jon hired a box at the opera, keeping it secret to surprise Tom. They spent the day wandering the streets by the Colosseum, following no map but just walking where they chose, until a late afternoon rainstorm drove them back to the hotel. Once there Jon ordered hot water brought up to their room while Tom stripped off his wet clothes. The hotel was at the top of a hill and their room was at the top of the house, looking over cobblestone streets shining in the rain. The bronze bath was set up before the window and Tom didn't bother to pull the curtains before he got in, hissing a little at the heat before relaxing back into it. After a moment he sat up and said, "Come in with me," pouting a little, his voice insistent.
When they were in England, even in the country at the end, Tom could still be a little tentative with Jon, a little unsure if he could ask for things, or if they'd be given if he asked. In Italy Tom was still shy sometimes, sometimes Jon had to coax him or even, sometimes, to order, holding Tom's hands to the bed and pinning him down until he whispered in Jon's ear. In Italy Tom was still shy sometimes but just as often he was demanding, even stubborn, pushing up against Jon's hands, biting hard at his shoulder when he thought Jon was fucking him too slowly. It had to be said that Jon loved it.
Jon loved giving Tom what he wanted as much as he loved hearing Tom ask for it. What he also loved, almost as much, was pretending until the last minute that he would hold out against Tom's demands. When Tom beckoned him to the bath Jon shook his head and walked over to sit at the foot of the bed, facing Tom. "What are you doing?" Tom said sulkily, though Jon could tell it was put on for effect.
"Watching you," Jon said, low, and laughed to himself at how quickly Tom colored. "Now lie back," he said, "and let me watch you properly."
While Jon watched him Tom lay back slowly. The bath was tall and wide, with more than enough room for two, the water clear as it lapped against Tom's chest with every breath. "Spread your legs," Jon said, and when Tom did he said, "good boy."
"If you won't come in with me," Tom said, his voice a little ragged, "then at least you can touch me."
"But the view is so nice from here," Jon said teasingly, though his own breath came choppy and quick when Tom said,
"Then I'll have to touch myself," and put a hand on his cock.
Jon could barely catch his breath. Tom had never done this in front of him, at least not like this. Sometimes when Jon fucked him Tom touched himself, though it took ages before he'd do it, and the first time Jon had to fuck him slowly for what seemed like forever, while Tom whined and pleaded and swore before he finally curled his hand around his cock, making soft broken noises until Jon was hard put to it to wait to come until Tom did. Afterwards Tom had turned on his side, away from Jon, but Jon had learned something in the past few weeks. He had pressed up behind Tom, circling his waist with his arm, murmuring into his ear, telling him how much he liked it, how much he loved it. A few times since Jon had asked Tom to touch himself, just for Jon, but Tom had always shaken his head, looking so shy that Jon couldn't help tumbling him onto his back until Tom was thoroughly debauched and yelling Jon's name like he didn't care who heard.
Now Tom looked right at him as he touched his cock, then let his head fall back, his eyes half closed and his hair hanging down almost into the water as he worked himself over. When he came he opened his mouth wide, though he didn't say a word.
When Tom opened his eyes he looked right at Jon and then smiled smugly. As he stood up, water pouring off him, Jon thought of the statues they'd seen the past few days, gods whose names Tom had told him while Jon watched his mouth and wondered how much longer till they went back to their room. Tom stepped out of the bath and ignored the towels the servants had set out, walking to Jon and leaning over him, letting Jon sputter for a moment as Tom dripped water onto his jacket, then dropping to his knees. He fumbled with the buttons on Jon's pants, though again Jon knew he was just pretending. Since the first night he did this, when Jon had had to reach down and help him, Tom had had lots of practice.
When Jon's pants were open, Tom let go of him and sauntered over to the bed with a backward look, lying on his stomach and stretching, letting his legs fall open. Over the past few weeks Tom had learned how to ask for what he wanted, though he didn't always ask in words. Jon followed him to the bed, unbuttoning his shirt and dropping it to the floor but leaving his pants on. Tom liked to be naked while Jon was still half-dressed, Jon had discovered.
At the foot of the bed Jon looked down at Tom, lying golden against the clean white sheets, his skin shining and still damp from his bath. This time he didn't think of the museums of Rome but instead of a small shop up three flights of stairs that he'd found while waiting for Tom to tire of paintings, and of the book wrapped in brown paper that he'd bought there. He hadn't yet gathered the courage to show it to Tom, but now he had a better idea. While he stood there thinking, Tom looked over his shoulder and said, "Hurry up."
"All right," Jon said agreeably, and grabbed Tom's hips and pulled him down to the edge of the bed. Then he knelt on the floor between Tom's legs, hands holding Tom's thighs wide, his thumbs digging into Tom's skin.
When he slid his tongue inside Tom, Tom said, "What - what are you - " and then his voice cut off abruptly, as if Jon had stolen it. His whole body tensed until he practically rose off the bed, and he didn't relax when Jon ran a hand soothingly over his ass and up over his hip, his back. He didn't relax until Jon pulled his head away and bit the curve of his ass. When he felt Jon's tongue again Tom cried out and shifted and squirmed on the bed, thrashing in the sheets until he threw an arm out and knocked some books off the side table onto the floor. Tom kept crying out, mumbling and then yelling, swearing and calling Jon's name, until there was a knock at the door and the maid said, in heavily accented English, "Is everything all right?"
After a minute Jon said breathlessly, "Yes, si, yes." He heard her laugh and call out a phrase, the same one the driver had said to Tom the night before. Si, Jon thought, newlyweds, and then he went back to finding out exactly what it took to make Tom scream.
As night fell Jon told Tom of the box he'd hired at the opera, though Tom tried to convince him to stay home. "I'm tired," he said, though the way he curled around Jon and licked at his shoulder did not persuade Jon of the truth of his statement. "It's raining," he tried, which was undeniably true, but a closed carriage had been arranged for them. "Let's just stay here in bed," Tom said, pushing the sheet down to his hips. "We can have them bring up supper," though supper was not what Jon was hungry for just then.
Still, Jon resisted all of Tom's entreaties. When he had last been in Rome he went to the opera because it was the thing to do, though he had been sure he would be bored. To this day he remembered in great detail the glittering glamour of the crowd, the drama of the famous hall, the sensual luxury of the scenery and costumes and the transporting beauty of the singing. Tom would love it, he knew. Tempting as it was to spend the evening not sleeping with Tom in their bed, he wanted to share this with Tom. He wanted to watch him loving it.
He rousted Tom out of bed, listening to him complain as he dressed and as they went down to the carriage. When they arrived at the opera hall, Tom was struck silent, just as Jon knew he would be. Jon watched him look around him, his mouth a little open, his eyes shining as he took it in. He guided Tom to their box with a hand discreetly on the small of his back. Once there, Tom didn't engage in the people-watching, in the smiles and nods and flirtation that took place from box to box all around them. Instead he sat right up against the edge of the box with his elbows on the railing, watching the orchestra warm up. When the singing started he glanced around for Jon, as if to make sure he wasn't missing it, and then leaned back over the railing. Jon sat back in his chair and watched Tom and listened.
At the first intermission Jon suggested going outside. It was hot and stuffy in the hall, and he was thirsty. It took a promise that they'd return at least five minutes before the opera resumed to make Tom agree, and even then he was slow to leave their box, looking behind him to make sure nothing was going on without him.
When Jon finally got him out, the first crush of people had gone downstairs and for a brief moment the hallway was almost empty. Jon was half-listening to Tom talking about the tenor and peering down the stairwell, looking for the bar, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around.
"Small world," Pete Wentz said, Ryan smiling on his arm.
There was nothing to be done but have a drink with them, although at least Jon did not need to add anything to the conversation, as Tom filled them in on everything they'd been doing. Well, almost everything. When the intermission was over Tom was only up to their fourth day in Italy and Pete and Ryan had barely said a word about their own travels, so there was nothing to be done but invite them into their box. As the music started Pete lowered his voice a little but kept talking. Jon was gratified to see Tom glare at him and say, "Shh," in a warning tone.
"I told you," Ryan said quietly, "you're uncivilized," and turned to watch the opera. Pete shifted in his chair, tapping his fingers against the wall, and finally escaped outside to smoke. For a moment Jon envied him. Then he caught sight of Tom's profile as he leaned toward the stage, and moved his chair forward for a better view.
When the opera was over Pete was waiting right outside. "Do you want to have supper?" Tom asked, though Jon was pleased to note the question sounded a little less than enthusiastic when Jon slipped a hand over his hip, under his waistband, and brushed up against him.
Pete smiled briefly, then said, "No, we have plans," and turned to button the last button of Ryan's jacket. "It was good to see you, though, Tommy," he said. "You look good. Well taken care of," he said, shooting a smug glance at Jon. "Finally."
When Tom blushed and looked down Ryan laughed, though Jon thought Ryan looked pretty well taken care of himself. He didn't volunteer this to Wentz, however.
In the carriage going home Tom was full of talk about the opera, about Pete and Ryan, but as they entered the hotel he fell quiet. The proprietor offered them coffee and Sambuca, and, having known them these few weeks, had put it in a jug for them to take up to their room. At the top of the stairs Jon fumbled a minute with the key, until Tom took it from him and opened the door.
"I am well taken care of," Tom said quietly. Jon cupped his hands around Tom's face and kissed him, pulling him gently to their unmade bed. He felt rather well taken care of himself.