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The kiss they share when the door of the bedchamber closes behind them is no more special than the first, second, and third kiss they shared at the lakeside, but this time there is nothing stopping them. They are entirely and completely alone.
After their moment of joyous abandon there had been nothing to break into the haze of happiness as they returned to the castle—no soul to disturb them or drag them to the hall for another dire poetry reading. They had been able to proceed easily towards the wing of the castle where both of their rooms were located, but rather than parting, by unspoken agreement, they made their way to Drummond’s chamber.
Now Drummond presses Alfred back against the door, fitting his body as close to him as he possibly can. Alfred does not seem to mind the liberty, allowing himself to be pinned to the wood as though he intends them never to be separated. Drummond finds himself wishing that they never did have to be separated, but he will not allow melancholy to taint this moment. Alfred is here with him now, and they are both wanting. It is enough.
Kiss blurs into kiss, sweet and soft and slow.
Then Alfred makes a strangled noise, low in his throat. Drummond kisses the sound off his lips and lingers there, slowly teasing Alfred’s bottom lip with the very tip of his tongue, as though seeking permission. Alfred parts his lips, understanding even before Drummond himself knows what he is asking, and suddenly his tongue is inside the soft warm heat of Alfred’s mouth. There is a fire between them now, desperate and hungry, like a furnace that has leapt to life. He presses his knee between Alfred’s and Alfred parts his legs willingly to bring them even closer together.
It is Drummond’s turn to moan, the sound muffled, and Alfred swallows it greedily.
When they pull away for air it is only to put a hair’s breadth of distance between their mouths. Again, like at the lakeside, their noses brush against each other, and Drummond can sense, more than see, Alfred’s smile. He has never allowed himself to hope that he might find anything like this and he suspects Alfred has not either.
They both lean forwards again to bridge the scant space between their mouths, and it is a relief to find that Alfred couldn’t hold back any longer either.
Drummond’s hand dares to leave the nape of Alfred’s neck and brushes up into his hair, fingers caressing his scalp. Alfred’s hands have been gripping at the soft silk of his waistcoat, arms slung low around his hips. Now they move to Drummond’s chest, fingers pushing between their bodies as Alfred begins undoing the buttons of his waistcoat.
“Is this —?” he breathes, a ghost of air across Drummond’s lips.
“Yes,” Drummond murmurs wildly, “yes, yes, yes.”
He cannot see Alfred’s expression but he can feel the relief in the kiss he presses to his lips. Alfred pushes the waistcoat off his shoulders and it falls to the floor to pool at their feet. His own hands repeat the motion on Alfred’s buttons. They have to take a step into the room, away from the door, to remove his waistcoat properly.
Drummond’s cravat is already loosened from their earlier dancing, merely looped around his neck for the walk back to the castle, so it only takes a gentle pull from Alfred’s nimble fingers to send it tumbling to the floor. His own hands shake as he tries to remove Alfred’s, fingers trembling against the silk. Alfred leans forward to kiss him, sure and steady, and Drummond takes his reassurance from the gesture and finally tugs it free.
Alfred’s fingers skirt the hem of his shirt, untucking it from his trousers, and Drummond’s hands join his to pull it over his head. He tosses it onto the chair where their jackets are already draped. Alfred eagerly removes his own shirt, flinging it on top of Drummond’s.
Then Alfred pulls him back to him, pressed chest to chest. When Drummond brings his hand to clasp the back of Alfred’s neck now there are no layers between them—no fabric, just skin. He finds himself unable to stop touching, smoothing his hands over Alfred’s back and shoulders and chest. Alfred mirrors his touch, hands yearning to touch every inch of skin he can reach.
Heat blazes between them. There is no mistaking this. There was never any mistaking this, no matter how hard he had tried to fight it. Now it is as though the dam has broken and there is no holding back. He wants everything, all at once.
Drummond presses forwards, slowly, deliberately, Alfred’s wild blue eyes caught in his gaze. He nudges Alfred’s nose playfully with his own, leaning forwards for another kiss. This kiss is long and exploratory, but with a hunger that only feeds on feeding.
“I will never tire of this,” he pants against Alfred’s lips after breathless moments.
Alfred’s reply is to kiss him again in agreement, and Drummond can feel his smile against his skin. It is as though they were born solely for this. It is something people can search a lifetime for and never find. Drummond feels, perhaps for the first time in his life, that he is blessed after all.
“Alfred,” he murmurs, and even that is an admission of wanting. He pulls back to see the way Alfred’s eyes have kindled, and feels a pride he never thought he would—the pride of a lover.
“Edward,” Alfred replies, voice delightfully roughened.
Drummond burns with it. He has never heard his name said that way, but now he finds he wants no one to say it but Alfred. He would happily tear it from the mouths of everyone in the world if only to keep it for Alfred and Alfred alone. It is blasphemy said like a prayer; it could drive even a saint to corruption.
It drives him to fumble at the fastenings of Alfred’s trousers with trembling, desperate fingers. Alfred returns the touch on Drummond’s own trousers.
And then, at last, they are skin to skin.
It is not the first time they have been naked in each other’s presence, but now, unlike in France, they are free to look and hold each other close without the fear of repercussion. They laugh their breathless relief into each other’s mouths, arms wrapped around each other, clutching with a desperate gratitude.
When they finally draw apart, Drummond entwines their hands and takes half a step towards the bed. Alfred doesn’t follow him. He looks up from their joined hands to see a hint of uncertainty warring with the desire in Alfred’s eyes.
“Alfred?” he asks quietly, afraid of the rejection he suddenly fears is coming.
“Are you sure?” Alfred murmurs, voice strained as though it is taking enormous amounts of self-control to even ask the question—like he is afraid that he might talk Drummond out of it when all he wants himself is for this to happen. “You won’t regret it?”
“I’m certain,” Drummond replies, stepping back in to press another kiss to his lips. He will not allow even a second of doubt to creep into Alfred’s mind. “The only thing I would regret is if we didn’t do this,” he assures him, pulling back so that he can look Alfred in the eyes and hopes that what he sees there is enough to convince him that he speaks only the truth.
It must work because Alfred nods, then smiles with relief. “Good,” he whispers, leaning in to capture Drummond’s lips once more.
This time, when Drummond tugs him gently towards the bed, Alfred follows him with sure steps.