Chapter 21
They spent Christmas Eve up at the big house, which was apparently a tradition of long standing.
Micha, unwilling to trespass, had evinced reluctance, but Thomas had given him the irresistible look and said “please,” and, truthfully, Micha desperately wanted to be there—part of something, even if it was only pretence.
Of course, he had been warmly welcomed. And it had all been lovely, or perhaps that was the mulled wine talking.
But it was an evening Micha would never forget: the laughter ringing through the marble halls, and the golden glow that spilled like pirate treasure from the ornate fireplaces.
And Thomas, made beautiful in that generous light, smiling at him, his eyes bright with messages only Micha could read.
The hours slipped away, unheeded as sand, lost to the simplest of pleasures.
Conversation, parlour games, dancing, and songs.
Laura and Violet were proven unconquerable at charades.
Thomas was hopeless, and Micha even worse, and they soon fell to arguing with the sort of amused ferocity known only to lovers over matters of no consequence.
They played Adjectives and perpetrated unspeakable atrocities on the works of Charles Dickens, which Esther particularly relished.
And, later, with military precision, Ada manoeuvred Micha under the bough of mistletoe that arched over the main staircase, where she kissed him soundly on the cheek.
Then, as midnight was approaching and Thomas had to prepare for Mass, there came an exchange of small gifts.
Micha’s last Christmas had been lost to opium dreams, the ghost of a man who used to love him, and a silent city that unravelled with his mind into countless iridescent threads.
The one before to some unremembered drudgery.
Now he sat among friends he suspected he did not deserve, abashedly receiving presents he was sure he did not.
Esther rather wickedly gave him a copy of Wuthering Heights, solely because Ada had once compared him to Heathcliff.
From Ada came several pots of her “world-famous” port-and-damson jam.
From Laura, a vast, multicoloured hand-knitted object that was, she thought, either a scarf or a shawl or, perhaps, a blanket.
Hope solemnly presented him with a new set of pencils, and Violet, with one of her rare, mysterious smiles, gave him an exquisitely embroidered sampler which read Love worketh no ill to his neighbour: Therefore love is the fulfilling of the law.
Thomas had warned Micha of this particular Christmas Eve custom and had even suggested they combine their gift-giving efforts, but Micha had been quite adamant that he would manage for himself.
It was, therefore, with more than a trace of awkwardness that he distributed his sketches.
But he need not have worried—he was far more skilled at portraits than he was at landscapes, and everyone was delighted.
For Laura, there had been a picture of Violet at the piano, for Violet a picture of Laura on her monstrous horse.
For Sheba, a picture of Hope, riding an elephant, and for Hope, a pirate ship, herself as captain and Thomas as first mate.
For Esther, an attempt to render Ruff at full speed—which was, truthfully, not much more than a hairy orange blur, but Esther said it conveyed his spirit splendidly.
For Ada, a picture from the book group: herself and Esther, deep in conversation, the moment caught so perfectly upon the page that Ada said one half-expected to hear what they were saying.
They concluded with a toast.
“To Christmas?” offered Ada.
“To friendship?” Esther.
“To love.” That, surprisingly, was Thomas, slightly flushed but otherwise resolute. “To the multiplicity of love, in all its manifestations.”
After that, the party broke up for church, and Micha, weighed down by presents and mince pies, staggered home.
He could have gone to bed, but his sleeping patterns were still somewhat irregular.
And, besides, foolish or not, he wanted to wait for Thomas.
He tucked himself into the window seat where he used to doze away his laudanum-soaked days and stared out into the darkness.
It was a cold, clear night, and the stars were flung across the sky in the same wild abundance he had seen on his first night in Nettlefield.
They gazed back at him, gleaming steadily in their private spheres.
Thomas woke him a few hours later with a kiss.
Micha uttered an absurd, disorientated noise and then remembered where he was, and with whom. He eased the cold and the stiffness from his limbs and smiled. “How did Jesus like his birthday?”
“Probably not as much as I did. I had such a wonderful evening. Though”—Thomas’s eyes flashed—“I still can’t believe you failed to identify ‘artichoke.’”
Micha swung round in mock outrage, laughter wavering in his voice. “How the hell was I supposed to? I had no idea what you were doing.”
“Yes, but ‘ear cravat’? What on earth is an ear cravat?”
“Well, I don’t know. You were pointing at your ear, then at your throat. I didn’t have a clue what you were doing.”
“I was signifying ‘sounds like,’ you . . . you . . . cabbage.”
Micha swept to his feet, bringing his height to the debate. “How,” he demanded, with magnificent scorn, “does ‘artichoke’ sound like ‘ear cravat’?”
Thomas actually stamped his foot. “No, sounds like ‘heart.’ Why do you think I was touching my chest like that?”
“I thought that was just non-specific frustration.”
“No,” cried Thomas, in quite specific frustration, “I was trying to tell you sounds like ‘heart.’”
“And the cravat thing?”
“‘Choke,’ of course. ‘Choke.’”
Micha digested this. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Not as ridiculous as ‘ear cravat.’”
“Well, you’re an idiot.”
“No, you’re an idiot.”
They glared. Then laughed. And Micha shoved Thomas up against the wall and kissed him. “Artichoke my arse,” he muttered, when his mouth was not otherwise occupied.
Thomas made a soft, tender sound and rubbed his cheek against Micha’s.
“And,” added Micha, “you just called me a cabbage.”
“I should not have said that.”
Their breath mingled in the scant space between their mouths, like a sigh of mutual longing.
“I’ll forgive you.” It was impossible for even Micha to sound harsh at such a moment. He dipped his head, and they kissed again, as gentle as summer rain, as though they lived in a world without time.
“Oh.” Micha drew back, just enough for words to slip through. “I forgot. I have something for you.”
“Hmm?” Thomas blinked love-dazedly at him.
“For Christmas. A gift.”
That, at least, seemed to break the sensual haze. “Micha, really, there was no need.”
“I wanted to. Here.” Micha stepped away and picked up his sketchbook. He slid a page free from the very back and handed it to Thomas.
Thomas, who had peeled himself away from the wall, looked at the drawing, froze, and turned a deep shade of scarlet. He swallowed and, if possible, went even redder. “You . . . you seem to have given me a naked picture. Of myself. For Christmas. I-I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, ‘thank you’ has quite a tradition behind it.”
“Yes but—oh but—it’s lovely, skilfully done, but . . . I surely do not look like that?”
“You did and you do.” Micha slid his arms around Thomas’s waist from behind, resting his chin lightly on his shoulder, and Thomas leaned instinctively into the embrace.
They looked together at Micha’s handiwork: Thomas, half-naked, sprawled on a bed of gold-red leaves, head thrown back, eyes closed, utterly lost to a profound and private ecstasy.
Thomas gave a shy, uncertain laugh. “You have been most generous with my . . . proportions.”
“I enjoyed drawing them. Your beautiful cock.” Micha’s own stirred in memory and reaction, and Thomas’s body pushed back against him. “That,” he went on, desire deepening in his voice, “was when I first knew for certain I was in love with you.”
Thomas stroked his fingers over the lines, as though he was imagining Micha’s hands drawing them, and Micha’s hands touching him. “Because of my . . . beautiful cock?”
“Hah. No. Because of everything you are.”
“Thank you.” Thomas’s head fell back against Micha’s shoulder, and Micha slid a caressing hand about his exposed throat.
Thomas moaned, sweetly helpless, and his pulse jumped beneath Micha’s palm.
Micha leaned down and claimed his lover’s mouth, and they kissed, body straining to body, the vulnerable curve of Thomas’s neck pressed without hesitation against Micha’s palm so that he felt every quivering breath before he tasted it.
With his spare hand he caught the drawing before Thomas’s fingers entirely forgot their purpose and released it.
Thomas murmured a largely incoherent apology which Micha kissed away as he tossed the page onto a nearby table.
He fumbled with the fastenings on Thomas’s waistcoat and then the shirt underneath, dragging aside silk and cotton until he met skin.
Thomas’s chest heaved beneath his hand and Micha slid downwards, over slender crests of bone and muscle, planes of velvet.
Lower still, beneath the fine worsted of Thomas’s trousers, to the solid heat of his cock through his drawers.
Thomas made a rough, exquisite sound, his hips thrusting gracelessly, his mouth slackening against Micha’s.