Conversation: Damien Hall and August Lowell
Jul. 16th, 2007 @ 04:59 pm
I wake to the harsh, horribly bright chirping of birds outside of August's window. The light seems almost unhumanely bright, and I feel slightly disgusting, having not changed or washed for bed.
Besides the vague nastiness, the sunlight, and the birds, I feel strangely well-rested. Opening my eyes, I stretch and yawn, and my eyes fall upon August, already awake and regarding me in silence.
"Good morning. " I rub one eye. "Sorry, do you know the time?"
"I don't, it just feels later than it should be."
I card my fingers through the length of my hair a few times while furtively (although hopefully discreetly)searching for a mirror to gauge my appearance.
"Do you? "
I snort at the first comment and lie back down on the pillows. "I must say, you take sloth to an entirely new level. And as for the second part, I actually had my mind set on sleeping with you last night to celebrate New August, but I didn't know your collapse was less of a seduction attempt and more.. of a collapse."
I yawn. "At any rate, I suppose this is better, I haven't slept this well in days."
I skim a finger over his lips. "Mmm, but I'm not so convinced I'm in the mood for that type of exertion anymore. You snore; and you're so tall and long that I'm afraid I was quite cramped for space last night."
I untangle myself from him long enough to make some muffled noise of affirmation. Before dropping a kiss on his shoulder, I kick off my recalcitrant left shoe and slide off of his bed. "I am quite disgusting. And while I do love you, I'm afraid I can't deny that you are, also."
Back in August's room, I slowly pull off my shirt, until I'm standing in his room in only horribly wrinkled trousers. I use the second alone to observe his room more closely for incriminating materials; guns, ladies' underthings, bloody clothes and the sort. I only see music manuscripts, creamy paper, and pens.
I hear his call and hurriedly remove my trousers, tripping over my own legs. August is already naked when I get there, and I grin slightly, peeking in the doorway.
"Is this how New August does things? I admit, it will be nicer to be clean for once instead of heading over my own place for a bit of a wash."
August's bath is splendidly large, enough room for me to turn around in without bumping into him. The water that spurts out of the faucets in jets is warm and lovely, and I let it stream over my shut eyes.
August is wetting his hair into dark, twisted and wavy strands. It is nearly straight, and for a second, I wonder whether or not it merely frizzes back into normality, or if he uses some secretive dandyish technique to make it curl wildly like that.
I can't help a small laugh, and I turn to him. "Could you pass me the soap?"
I laugh. "Much thanks, Lowell
I crouch to my knees in the cascading, gurling water and grab the bar. It takes a couple grabs, but when I get it, I stand, and I start soaping my arms and chest. Hah, yes! I was figuring out how to write this part without describing Damien "on his knees" under the "spurting, gushing faucets" sound all porny. Because bending over would just be too bad. I can't even write that without laughing.
I take a huge mound of soap and work it through my hair, leaving it piled up on my head in a mound while I awkwardly try to wash under each leg, while hopping frantically on the other.
August is singing something that sounds horribly cheerful and baroque and I cringe inwardly, in retaliation humming the beautiful cello opening from the melancholic third movement of Brahms' third symphony, closing my eyes to stop the soap from burning.
I blink as he tenderly smooths away the lather, prefacing it with a lecherous question made all the more ridiculous by his soaked figure and lack of clothing. I slide my hands over his slippery shoulders and kiss him, pressing our waists together.
"Once or twice, but it was too crowded to be anything but painful and awkward. I have high hopes for the future, though."
I remove my mouth from a bruised patch of neck long enough to stare at his face and grin in open admiration. "Boarding school? It took me 'till I was in college, and then only with enough alcohol to make me not myself." Yeah, I did happen to notice that. Yay for stringed instruments in general, I just see Damien as a cello aficionado for some reason.
I drop my hands from the small of his back and raise an eyebrow. "I'm going to assume that it was consensual, in that case. You are even more of a tart that I had expected, Lowell." I try to keep the amusement out of my voice and fail.
It's not so often I get to ask such personal questions like these, even if it is at the expense of other activities. I'm dying to ask. "How old were you?"
I pull back long enough to stop my fingerwalking on his hipbone, and I slip a little lower, stroking his cock and grinning at the moan it elicits.
" Was that professor of yours worth it, after all? Did he have talented hands?"
The distraction of the immediate dulls my curiosity, even though there are a million other questions I'm dying inside to ask, and someday I will poke apart August until he has no secrets. As for now, however, I murmur something, quickening the movements of my left hand while brushing across a marbled nipple with my right.
I lift my head quickly from where I had been tonguing a nipple, letting the thought slide through my head. I had just been getting used to the submissive role that I had quietly assumed in our relationship. The thought of switching filled me with a curious but not unwanted pleasure.
I can't help being slightly symied by his tone. "If I wanted? What about you?"
"As much as a part of me would really, really, really like to show you, in extensive detail.." I sigh. "I can't ask you to give that up for me. Not now, atleast. But don't think I won't, someday."
I towel my hair off vigorously, making it horribly fluffy in the process. "What's that?"
"Is that where you're going with this?" I catch the robe and smile a little smugly. "I mean, I had already guessed the answer was myself, but that is extraordinarily mature of you. Well done.
"I've already admitted I love you and such, so I'll take whatever you're prepared to give. And I'm sorry I've spent so much time peppering you with these questions, but I can't resist asking atleast one more."
I whirl around on my foot and point at the slowly drying mass of blond hair on his head. "Is that altogether natural?"
This morning has made me realize how little I actually know of him; just vague tidbits about some professor conquest and vague outbursts towards his father, nuggets filed away in my head to accomodate the rapidly changing stories I've slowly been forming about him.
"Can't say I recall the name, no."
I look in horror as August starts screaming, and I bend down to pick up the letter, crumpled on the floor, reading the neat, slant hand print. Oh, god.
I sit heavily on the bed and drop the letter like poison, my eyes stinging involuntarily with tears.
My eyes well up and I wipe my eyes hard with my arm to stop them from coming, pressing my arm so tightly to them that it almost hurts. I inhale sharply, clenching my teeth and waiting for it all to end.
August is making frantic, tearful apologies, but I can't yet bear to speak or acknowledge that any of this is happening.
I realize that hiding behind my arm is horribly childish and melodramatic, so I inhale sharply a few more times, before kneeling to meet him on the floor. "I don't hate you. Not in the least, August, I can't even find it in myself to blame you anymore."
Try as I might, my voice cracks pathetically on the last part- "But, atleast from this side of things, it seems pretty obvious to me what you must
I bury my face into his shoulder. "My father left my mother to avoid disgrace. I hated him all my life. Even after my mother died, and I was living among his family, I refused to see him. He left me almost everything when he died, but still, after all this time I'm still not convinced that I don't hate him now."
I sigh. "That kind of guilt is more than anything I'd ever want you to bear, August. " Another sharp inhale. "It will be better this way." I say, forcing myself to believe it.
The foreboding in me knows we simply can't belong to each other ever again, but for the moment, I delude myself. "I'll write as much as I can. "
The melancholic humor in the situation suddenly strikes me. " It seems we are destined to be at odds. I just admitted that I love you and now I have to give you up. Back when we were bickering endlessly, I, too scared to act on my feelings, unsure if you were of my sort, and you, flirting endlessly with everyone but me.. it almost seems as if we had endless time then, and none now."
I can't help the pang of jealously that strikes at Julian's name, but I nod. "I don't mind at all. As long as you write, I'll reply."
There's something so stony and hard in his face and red rimmed eyes at the prospect of a child. More irony, and I can't help wondering if my father felt the same way. It's apparent that however much August loves me, at this moment he needs me to leave, and I need to leave him.
I slowly rise to my feet and shakily acknowledge his forced levity. "That might have been for the best, after all. I'll.. I'll be back tonight."