Queermance Anthology, Volume 1 (10 page)

It's just how he's made. He's resigned to that, now, and he has enough evidence to prove it true.
The verdict is that Harcourt is difficult to love. Perhaps impossible. He knows it. After Father,
after Mama, after Phillip at school and Raymond at university, after Ashley. He stopped trying after
Ashley, and the lecture the senior partner gave him about propriety and expectations. It was a lot
like the lecture his father and mother had delivered after earlier disappointments and betrayals and
loss.

He would have ignored all the lectures, if he'd felt that something good might come and then
stay. But love does not last. Not for him.

But it lingers, it seems. Ten days after that self-sabotaging admission and Jake still comes to
work on the garden, to sit with Harcourt on a blanket in the grotto to watch the night flowers
bloom. To hold his hand and take him to the bedroom, and strip him bare and lay his hands and mouth
and tongue and sun-honey skin on Harcourt's paleness and make Harcourt's precise and measured voice
break and moan and cry out.

Harcourt doesn't understand why his angel hasn't gone yet, but he's grateful, in his melancholy
way, that love isn't yet denied him.

But this afternoon, Jake is looking at him speculatively. He's in bed, with the sheets pulled to
his waist, his arms crossed behind his head, and Harcourt has already cleaned himself and is
reaching for his suit. He will pull his armour back on and leave Jake to sleep or eat or go as he
chooses, and Harcourt already wishes he had stayed in bed, although he never does. How much longer
will he have, after all?

Harcourt is still naked, however, perched on the edge of the bed, crisp white shirt in one hand,
about to put it on, when Jake leans over and kisses him between the shoulder blades.

Jake has never indulged in post-coital affection before. He speaks affectionately of course, but
he usually gives Harcourt time to reassemble his clothing shield first.

But today he kisses between Harcourt's shoulder blades, and lays his cheek on pale, freckled
skin.

Harcourt freezes, a hyper-urbane rabbit in the spotlight, not knowing what to do. What's
expected? Jake slides his arms around Harcourt's chest in… it's too gentle to be properly
called a hug. A… cuddle, then?

'Don't go, Harry. We have time. Civilisation isn't collapsing without you just yet, is it?'

Jake is the only one who calls him Harry. He's the only one who has ever thought to. Harcourt
likes it. He treasures how his hard, old-fashioned name becomes a little common, a little warm, a
little loved.

'Not just yet.' Harcourt smiles, a crooked smile, a little warmth heating its corners, so it's
not just the bland, polite smile he offers to everyone else. For his earthy angel, this smile is
small but it's real.

Jake scoots up behind him, arms wrapped around his chest, and just holds him, cradles him. It's
not even a sexual hold, a possessive hold. Jake just seems to like the feeling of Harcourt in his
arms. Harcourt considers this, how unlikely this is, how improbable. Whatever this relationship
offers the beautiful Jake… it's so, so nice. Harcourt thought it was curiosity at first, and
perhaps being drawn to power; and then perhaps a little affection.

What does the relationship offer Harcourt? The judge examines it, from a distance, as though it's
a case to be considered.

This
relationship
- surely the wrong word for something destined soon to die -
soothes his loneliness; and it is so lovely to be held. Jake is thoughtful and funny and warm; he
coaxes growth from the cold ground and understands the beauty that even some weeds may have. Through
Jake's eyes, Harcourt feels that the world is not so barren after all. The sex is good, is a relief
but more than that too; and he pretends the kindness of the Angel Jake is something he deserves.
Sometimes it might even be true. But really, this beautiful man holding him is a little miracle that
will never last. His time is almost up.

Harcourt worries that if this does not end soon, he will be the one to corrupt Jake's immunity
from cynicism; he'll be the one to soil that perfection. And he would protect his Jake from that, if
he could.

'I am not good for you, you know,' says Harcourt.

'I'd have to disagree with you there,' says Jake mildly, pressing another kiss to the ridges of
his lover's spine.

'I have a dark view of the world,' Harcourt attempts to explain without being cruel, 'I move in
dark places.'

'The places I walk aren't always Paris in the springtime.'

'I refer to-'

'I know what you refer to. Law is murky, and I've seen the games they play. I'm not a gardener
because I lacked the marks to do anything better, you know. I studied law too, back in the day. I
joined the police force for a while. I decided I liked gardening better. And really, I don't know if
you give me more credit than I deserve, or just think I'm naïve.'

'Nothing could be further from my mind.' Harcourt is disconcerted. He didn't know that Jake had
once been in law enforcement. Perhaps that is why Jake seems to understand so much, about the things
that weigh Harcourt down.

Jake nuzzles the back of Harcourt's neck. 'Who says you're a bad influence on me? Maybe I'm a
good influence on you. Did you ever think of that, Harry? Maybe I make you less cynical.'

Harcourt wants to protest Jake's conclusions, but Jake's hands are stroking his bare chest, his
bare stomach. Jake seems not to mind (or ever to have minded) that Harcourt, with his indoor job, is
not in striking condition, isn't much to look at really. Harcourt has a first class brain but he has
no illusions about his body.

Jake's roaming hands are joined by a roving mouth, kissing, tasting, savouring, inviting Harcourt
to
stay, please stay
. Jake eases Harcourt onto his back, and Harcourt lets him; because there
is time, and it's so lovely that Jake wants him, for however long this will last, and he closes his
eyes to feel it all-

And Jake blows a raspberry on his belly.

Harcourt twitches, sits bolt upright, opens his shocked eyes. No lover has ever
dared
…

Harcourt glares. Jake twinkles back at him, his angel grin delightfully wicked, and Harcourt
doesn't know what to think. While puzzling over the unexpected thing, Jake leans over him again,
kisses and nips the pale skin, and,
good heavens
, blows
another raspberry
. A third,
and he is running his fingers light as a feather down Harcourt's waist and it…
tickles
.

Harcourt giggles, then snaps his mouth shut on the sound.

Jake presses his advantage. He tickles more, and presses kisses to Harcourt's jaw, then another
raspberry, and Harcourt giggles again, and laughs. And Jake smiles, the most wonderful smile, and
says: 'That's better.'

Harcourt does not like his own smile. He doesn't like the way he looks when he laughs. His father
told him he looked ridiculous, and he does, and people will not respect him if they see that his
face splits like that, and his nose wrinkles. And he giggles like a child.

But Jake simply looks delighted and kisses the corners of his mouth, and tickles him again.

In the next sudden moment, they are mock wrestling, Harcourt attempting to tickle Jake in turn,
and Jake is wriggling across the bed, snickering. He moves swiftly to capture Harcourt with his legs
and pins him to the bed.

He is grinning at Harcourt like he has unlocked a secret, and is delighted with himself.

Harcourt feels like he has surrendered something vital of himself but the wonder of it is, he
feels… released. Free. The sensation makes him giddy. It makes him giggle some more. He
swallows the ridiculous sound, but there is his angel, fingers dancing over ribs and thighs, mouth
kissing then pursing and blowing and the most undignified but joyful noise bubbles out of Harcourt's
mouth.

Jake Constance is sitting across Harcourt's legs, hands on Harcourt's hips, then his thighs, then
running up over his soft, poochy belly, his untoned chest, and he just grins his angelic devil
grin.

'I don't know about you, but I'm starving,' he says, and to Harcourt's dismay, Jake gets out of
bed, abandoning Harcourt and his burgeoning erection. 'Come on, gorgeous,' he says.

Jake wraps the sheet around his own hips and takes Harcourt by the hand, pulls him to his feet.
While Harcourt looks stunned and a little disgruntled, Jake tugs a dressing gown over Harcourt's
shoulders. Retaking his hand, Jake leads him to the kitchen.

'Sit,' says Jake, and, puzzled beyond his capacity to refuse, Harcourt sits on a stool, just as
he is told.

The kitchen light is off, so when Jake opens the fridge to inspect the contents, he is bathed in
strange light. Harcourt thinks he looks more like an angel than ever. Jake returns laden with a jug
of home-made custard, a quarter consumed by Harcourt. Harcourt feels cross at himself for the
indulgence, but when Jake isn't here he needs
something
that provides a little reward.

Jake doesn't get out bowls to serve the custard. He gets a spoon and eats some straight from the
jug, then offers a spoonful to Harcourt. Mama would have had a fit about his manners. Harcourt
refuses the offering to begin with, but that wicked angel grin is back.

'Come on, just a bite. I can make it worth your while.'

Curious as to how Jake can make it worth his while, Harcourt opens his mouth and lets Jake dip
the tip of the spoon between his lips. He closes his mouth on the silverware and Jake slides the
spoon out again. There is custard on Harcourt's tongue, and a little on his lower lip, and Harcourt
intends to dab that away, with the back of his hand if he must, but he's mesmerised by Jake. By the
way Jake licks the spoon, slowly, the very tip of his tongue flicking into the bowl of silver, over
the tip and then his mouth is bridging the gap between the utensil and Harcourt's mouth.

Jake sucks at Harcourt's lower lip, very gently, before leaning back again, looking once more
very pleased with himself.

'I have an even better idea,' says Jake.

Harcourt's body is almost vibrating with urgency to discover what that better idea is.

Jake dips his finger into the jug, then stripes Harcourt's chest, across his nipple, with
custard. He lowers his head to suck the skin clean, then stops to kiss Harcourt's mouth softly. His
lips are sweet.

'You try,' he says. Harcourt seems stunned, so Jake takes his hand, guides Harcourt's index
finger into the jug and then holds his arms wide, allowing Harcourt the choice of where on that
canvas to make his mark. The sheet slips a little but Jake ignores it.

Harcourt reaches out, almost reverently, to paint a stripe of custard from Jake's sternum to his
navel. Then he lowers his head, suckles against the top of that stripe, moves down slowly, until he
reaches the small dip, that belly button into which custard has pooled. His licks into the hollow,
delighting in how it makes Jake's skin shiver…

And then he purses his lips and blows.

Instead of pulling away, Jake arches into the sensation, laughing. Harcourt nips at the skin,
grabs Jake by the waist and pulls him closer, blowing another raspberry. Jake's full throated laugh
morphs into a startled shout and Harcourt starts to giggle. He presses his face into that wonderful
stomach, smothering his ridiculous laugh, but Jake dances away to let the sound escape again. Jake's
hands dart down to tickle Harcourt's ribs, and the giggle bursts out of him again.

And this time, he lets it go. He laughs, and he stops caring what it looks like or sounds like
when it happens, because this is his angel of earth and flowers, who is utterly delighted by it.

After a while, laughter subsides. Jake's hand guides
Harcourt's jaw up and he leans down for a kiss.

'I know you tried, Harry,' he says, between kisses, 'but you can't make me go away. I don't want
to go away. You are remarkable, and I want you, and I love you, and I'm staying.' He pauses in his
ministrations to rub his thumb against the moisture gathered at the corner of Harcourt's eye.

'Your trouble,' says Jake, kissing the lines there, 'Is that you've forgotten how to laugh.'

'I never did know how,' Harcourt confesses.

'Well, we'll take care of that,' Jake promises. 'Let's go back to bed.'

They do. And there is tenderness, a lot of laughter, and then two bodies sliding together, voices
whispering then moaning then crying out, then more laughter, breathless and content. In the rush of
air,
I love you
is murmured and reciprocated.

Harcourt Winterbloom can't ever let the control go, outside. Harcourt has enemies. Too much is at
stake.

But here, in this house, with his angel, Harcourt learns to take down the wall. He learns to be
playful, and he never knew he could be that. He never knew he could laugh, and scrunch his face up
the way he does, or that someone could love that ridiculous expression and try to make it happen.

Within these walls, he finds delight. And food fights. And ridiculous sex to go with the sex full
of affection and passion.

And in their grotto, their night garden, some nights they lay out blankets and a midnight feast
and they touch each other in the moonlight and, with these secret flowers, bloom.

When Tully saw it for the first time, he was standing near the ocean.

It was just after twilight in early March. The main tourist season had passed. Tully liked living
in Ocean Grove best at this time of year. It was still warm enough to enjoy living by the beach, and
he had it almost entirely to himself.

The tide was coming in to where Tully stood by the shallows. At first, he didn't believe what he
had seen: it looked like a man with luminescent skin and hair that was liquid flowing halfway down
his back. But that had to have been a mistake. Tully blinked, rubbed his eyes, but he couldn't keep
from looking out into the ocean again. The "liquid hair" he thought he'd seen was nothing more than
the dark fur of a seal. Not a lot of them came this far in, but Tully had seen stranger things. Last
year, a group of kids had set up in tents on the sand and spent most of the days and nights
streaking between those tents and the water, and then squealing when sand got into everything.