Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He did wish something had happened tonight, of all nights.

The night was not the chilliest, but still the icy drinking glass in his hand burnt against his skin, paleness illuminated further by the milky moonlight that streamed its witching rays through the window.

He pressed his palms on the ceiling-high iron bars, taking in the midnight desolation strewn vastly across the estate down below. Like most winter nights, all was still. Plumes of an inky sky, tinged purple at the ends of the earth. 

The cool curled its frosty hand through the glass, seeping onto his own outstretched palm, while he remained focused on the white light reflecting on the stubborn leaves that dotted the once sprightly deciduous in the middle of the green. 

He exhaled softly, the noise a thundering explosion against the silence that permeated the residence at such ungodly hours. 

Silence save for the tree that snapped off in the garden, swearing that he could hear the thud on the gravel drive as the twig dropped. 

Save for the whispering of past occupants, apparitions undoubtedly brushing past his legs every night, continually resenting him for replacing the dust gathered family portraits in his newly acquired bedroom with paintings of the abstract kind that had no immediate sense about them. 

In his defense, he didn’t know who those sullen people were, and anything of the centuries past had no fitting place in his dwellings. So as the Rhodeses gifted their son the larger room by the west wing for the turning of his eighteenth the previous month, refurbishment en masse came along with it. 

That was little comfort to him now, falling further into the melancholy in the moonlight, wishing to be swallowed away in the ground like how the wine was swallowed from the glass with clarity, down in his own throat. 

This window was always the retreat.

Eyes wide and burning chartreuse, peering out while they scanned for something more than leaves, a particular figure, in flesh and blood, out on this icy night. 

A figure that had moulded their way into his lonely moonlight reverie, dropping their mark on his thoughts. His lonely thoughts, painted out in the open only when there were no other prying eyes, or interjecting opinions. 

The mangled product of him being the only child, he attempted to explain to himself. 

But that was blether. It was far more than that. 

More wine, slipping gracefully down, ruby glinting in his poised hand.

Then he steadied himself and allowed himself the liberty of his thoughts straying to the unknowing invader of his mental cavern. Time and time again.

Simon.

That was his name. 

He was always there, in Nicholas’ periphery. 

Simon had been there, since he was a child, employed formally by his parents when Nicholas was just ten. A ruffled, jovial helper boy, with just four years on him. One of the youngest of the Le Bon line, the family of servants that made their place in the Rhodes manor for generations.

He could not fathom life without him, he knew he was erring on the dramatic side, but a silent nightmare was likely to have ensued. 

It wasn’t that his life was of great difficulty, per se, only insolence would make a lavish life like his difficult, but rather, that he found a haven in the man. Away from the world. An understanding shared. A real friend. 

Amongst the shrubbery they had ran together as children when no one else would. 

“Got ya!” he called, and Nicholas would speed off, yelling and carefree for moments. Here. There. And everywhere. In the lush gardens that framed the acreage.

The mark from when he skinned himself from such escapades still dotted his knee. When it happened, it had caused a frightful row with the elder Rhodeses, and all the accusations were almost placed on Simon for a supposed oversight in taking care of his master, before Nicholas had his stubborn way and kept him in the clear.

He couldn’t bear to see Simon blamed. 

All his life it was always regarded that the older boy was just a servant - no more, no less. Not a friend, not a companion, a servant.

But it never sat well with him, mulling over it in his mind.

Oftentimes while he was here at this window. 

Servant. He hated the word with passion, hands forming into white fists upon the wooden ledge.

The title that placed Nicholas on that pedestal and Simon underground. 

The snub on the boy, who at sixteen, would carefully explain out all the books Nicholas could not fully understand at the time.

An obligation, his parents believed, but kind acts of grace, to him. 

The boy, who got the gardener to shear their hedged trees into his favourite shapes, eccentric and abstract forms that even his parents didn’t understand.

Servant.

He’d humour any pursuits that Nicholas had, who through the years, didn’t really get along much with the other boys from the nearby estates, but seemed to feed off the solitude. 

Calling themselves regal but engaging in horrid horseplay. Full of mud, dirt and muck.

Nicholas much rathered being curled up on the divan in the study, poring over the multitude of books about art that filled a whole section of the towering shelves, than playing football. 

And brightly, Simon would come by and join him on the stray dining chair opposite, lost in their artistic sphere together. 

He always emitted a brightness about him, a effervescent spark that was so jarringly mismatched with the Rhodes Manor and everything that was involved with it. 

Simon was fascinating and Nicholas could never stop staring.

He stared and stared.

Servant, the word could be simply child’s talk as far he was concerned.

Finishing the final vestiges of the wine, the liquid swirled away and he himself swirled away into what his imagination drifted to.

With all the staring, his own thoughts were often not of the variety that was suitable for children’s talk. 

Or their ears, for that matter.

This. The part that set off the scuffle within him. 

Over the years, he’d heard about suggestive things from the other boys down their grove. Crudely, they often went about it. Curiosity piqued by the adolescent in him, he hung around to hear enough, to hear them talk about things they wanted to get up to with the girls.

Indecencies. Laid out bare. Word for word. Sordid mental images - a pleasurable treat passed around.

He had tried to imagine his own fairest lady later those nights in his bed, the girl of his dreams. Night and night again. A girl, with the smoothest of skins, rosy in hidden places just for him and vivid eyes of clear blue.

Clear blue…

Clear, cutting blue eyes looking back at him. A figure lean, lithe and larger in stature, after the sudden growth of the previous summer. Hair not flowing, but cut back, though sweeping. Beside him, dressed in the formal, crisp apparel as the Rhodeses had given him. A jesting smirk that always found a home in those lips… 

…Simon. 

Simon Le Bon. 

It vexed him the first night, leaving him longing for the touch of a lady to bring his thoughts to order, but finding that the other man was all his mind could conjure. All that something deep inside him sought for. 

Preposterous on any level there could have been, it perplexed him horribly, how it was all wrong. It was foolish. Idiocy.

Older than him. A twenty-two year old jumping ahead of him into life. 

Different people to him. A servant and the man who he had to serve. Swords would fly before the world would allow them to lay a single finger on one another. Or so much as breathe in each other’s direction.

Another man. Despicable. Vile. Surely all Hell would break loose, or come for him.

Anything and everything improper. 

Damned, his sadness now be justified. A trifecta mixed for pain, seeping there and back through his chest while he stared at the ornate cornice above the window.

Sighing.

A noise came from the knocker on the door and whipped his head around to see who decided to meddle in his escape at this time of the night.

Who?

With a creak, a head popped in. 

“Ahah! I knew you were still up!”

Of course. It was the centre of his labyrinth, the object setting off his turmoil. 

Simon Le Bon. 

“Nicholas,” he called informally as directed, rather than Sir whenever they weren’t in hearing range of his parents, “you’ll be delighted. Strawberry jam tarts, with warm milk!”

Strawberry, wonderful indeed. A favourite, really - crimson tidbits. The wines he had now polished, the strawberries set out for him. 

The man flashed a wink at him, barely visible, in the light of the candle on the table in the far corner of their space. 

He did not react, strings of attention played by an invisible hand.

Adulation spread across the other man’s face. 

“Nicholas?”

Closer. Closer.

“Sir?”

A caress in the dark. The forbidden union of their lips.

“Is everything alright, Nicholas? Pardon me, but you do seem a little under the weather.” The mild concern was evident in his visage, and it twisted something sharp in Nicholas’ heart. 

He jolted himself out of it, fingertips absent-mindedly brushing his lips.

“Oh no, nothing of the sort, Simon,” he afforded him a small smile of reassurance, “I do enjoy the view from here.” nodding out to the window.

His comfort, his glassy confidante, Simon knew. 

He smiled back, and if he was not convinced, did not indicate so. He paused for a second, about to say something, but decided against it, mouth shut and eyes studying Nicholas’ slender silhouette in the light of the window.

“Well, I shall be going then.” he waved his hand in similar fashion to tipping an imaginary hat, a gesture that had never failed to make Nicholas snicker since they were young boys, and certainly was no different now.

“Enjoy the biscuits, Nicholas, and tell me you’ll be in bed resting before the rooster crows tomorrow morning? And not sitting here waiting for the sun to tan you?” 

Nicholas laughed.

“Yes, I will. Now go off before Mother finds you disturbing me in the middle of the night and gives you a flipping earful.”

The man made a face of agreement, waving him goodnight as friendly as ever, to which he waved back.

And he turned towards the door to make his way to his own quarters. Nicholas watched those black shoes disappear out the hallway.

Leaving him alone again.

The candle glowed a gaping orange, moulding and stretching its light once again to adopt the role of a lover.

Chapter Text

Anyone? No one? Full speed ahead!

His shoes clicked along the expanse of the oak that ran all the way down the corridor. With each quick step he winced, praying that the lords dotted all over this place weren’t overtaken by the urge to look out their doors.

Stay asleep, Sirs.

Small plate of sponge cake balanced in one hand and pepper teas in the other, he kept in mind every misfortune that could possibly befall him, holding fine china while dashing across the hardwood floor into the main hall at this time of the night. 

He would be jobless at best, slaughtered at worst if someone nosey were to peep out of their bedroom. 

Luck was on his side though, for the route to be taken was second nature to him. 

Down the hallway, past the third gallery, take a left, then a right to the stairwell, two flights up.

Right there to the left. 

Almost, almost there. 

Here!

He stopped short before the towering wooden door to catch his breath, adorned with stained glass motifs that betrayed the quiet glow of an electric light in use. Then he knocked, a sharp rat tat tat that he hoped the man inside was able to hear. 

I hope he lets me in.

“Come in!” a voice muffled by the thick wood drifted out.

He didn’t hesitate to rest the plates on an arm, turn the knob, and slip inside, furtively closing the door behind him.

Turning around, he was met with wide, bugged-out eyes whose energy just about hid their bedraggled state. Peering out from a dark, flying fringe, they were fixed on the sudden intruder into their private space. 

“Simon!” The figure on the bed had sat upright in his cream nightgown in much faster time than he had in the past few days, eyeing the servant up and down in confusion.

“Nicholas, don’t look so dismayed to see me!” His mouth remained agape as Simon walked right up to the table by his side and placed the bulky plates and its many contents down with ease.

“What in Heavens are you doing here?” he exclaimed after a silence, linguistics finally unjumbled again. 

“Coming to give you a repast or two of course,” he explained himself as if it were the most normal of things, “I know you ate terribly at dinner as Helen was berating me for giving her more washing and scraping to do ...oh, and there’s fresh pepper tea there too. You know, for the pesky sniffle.” 

“But I- you- you’re done for if my parents know you’re here!” Nicholas hissed, biting to smother the giddiness that was bubbling up inside. 

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Simon whispered harshly back, eyes clouding, “would you like me to leave?” 

Panic smarted through Nicholas’ chest at the mere suggestion and his gaze softened, shaking his head with his whole body and patting for Simon to sit down in the puffy chair at his bedside, well, patting as far as his invalid arms could stretch out from the warmth of the bed. 

“No! ” his eyes pleaded, “Please, stay Simon. That was wrong of me.”

“Alright.” The hurt hadn’t fully fled the older man’s eyes, but he relented as he dragged the small seating to the bedside where Nicholas faced, shivering a little in his worn coat as he settled cross legged into the cushioning. “How have you been feeling?” 

“A bit like a dying cat, I’d say,” Nicholas rubbed his forehead showily.

“Dramatic now, aren’t we?” Simon finally laughed, gesturing to the bedside table, where the aforementioned meal lay, “Here. Have the tea and a little sponge, it’ll do your tummy good.”

Nicholas stared, transfixed, drawing his head aside as he sneezed, then stared again. Golden sponge? In those little rounds? Surely not from the Le Bons? 

“I might’ve taken a little from the Rhodes in-ven-to-ry!” he answered the unasked question, grinning again at the shock that adorned the invalid’s face. The inventory was off limits to the servants, and was right in the kitchen centre, overlooked by the residencies. 

“You did what?!”

“Got some food for you, you chuckaboo.” Simon huffed, before descending into a giggle, “show some gratitude, kind Sir, I sailed the seven ragged seas and valiantly fought off tigers for this!”

“There aren’t any tigers in England, Simon.” he tried to maintain calmness himself, smile hidden behind his scrawny hand, but the image of the other man sword-fighting tigers left anything but a cool in him.

While his forehead burned with ailment, his heart burned at the thought of Simon reaching to pilfer their own cupboard. 

For him. 

For me. 

Oh, that hand had darted to pick out those treats and eats now specially spread for him, his favourites.

There was a pulling urge in Nicholas to grab that hand now and kiss it. 

He held back on it though, letting the sweetness of it stay shrouded in the safety of his hazy fantasy, rather than expose it to reality. 

Still, to feel the skin of that hand.

A dream. A dream he had to shake off for now, with Simon staring expectantly and the array of foods calling to him, temptingly so. 

Across the lush carpet-lined oak, a battle with stark similarity was occurring in the servant’s own sphere. 

Warmth etched a smouldering path through his own chest, taking in the scene uncovered before him. 

Nestled in the grand four-poster, sat a man, so far away from the imposing, brooding son that everyone knew as Nicholas Rhodes. He watched as he sniffled and sneezed in the bed, an unkempt mass of darkened hair framing the childish joy on his face, enjoying his secret meal.

A small smile gracing his visage bashfully, hardly visible under the dimmed electric light. 

Gratitude, it spoke to him, with a glazing of something else that Simon had likely dreamt up to enjoy for himself. Love and dreams, stuff of the imagination.

Dreams aren’t real, he had always repeated to himself, causing him to nearly fall off the chair at the question Nicholas posed once he had polished off a sponge. 

“What’s your view on love?” 

Choking on air, Simon fought to keep his eyes from bugging out from their sockets, diverting his mind by procuring a curious, lopsided grin. 

What?

“Huh? You’re knackered aren’t you, Nicholas? Going all intense!”

“Not at all.” his eyes, which stayed sharp despite their exhaustion, seemed to pierce through Simon as he sipped the pepper tea. 

“What about love, then? Where did this come from?” 

“A long running curiosity," he explained softly but curtly, "have you ever experienced it?”

He nearly upchucked the thickened breath he was holding. 

“Why, of course. I love my family, my pastimes, your company!” Play it off. Play it off. 

“No, not that . Love... of the romantic kind.” his words hung softly, an upward twirl that ghosted around his tone. 

A twirl of undeniable suggestion, though there was no fair lady to catalyse it anywhere around. 

Just Simon. And just Nicholas.

And across them, while they both made no mention or reference to it, an energy arced. Across the distance between them, something akin to a bolt shot through. 

Something that they both felt.

And in truth, terrified Simon. 

It shouldn’t have. But it did, almost irrationally so. 

Having such a conversation, one that had started to take root in the grounds of a dangerous place, in a room he should not be in, was wrong to converse further with Nicholas on the matter?

Especially when the circumstances happened to border closely on his reality. More than Nicholas would ever know. Far too closely.

Blast it.

A side of him overthrew the other.

He was already locked into this position, and their encounter would most probably eased away with time in Nicholas’ sickness-addled brain, no harm done. 

“Yes, I do have romantic dreams, Nicholas.” composure regained, he mustered up the joy that would drown out the mottled uneasiness that roiled underneath.

The other man quirked his head.

“Of?”

He wasn’t prepared for the animated jump off the chair that could have broken a hole through the flooring, a thump as Simon pranced around the carpeted expanse near the window, to the bed, and back again. 

“Cloaks of flowing darkness, the hint of silver in her gaze. The pricking sharpness in her mind, her disposition like a blade.” 

Large hand to his heart, he flailed his limbs in an exuberant show that showcased the lady of his dreams and disguised his own shaking hand. 

In reply, the smallest of sweet, painted smiles. 

“Hair dramatic, as her complexion and eyes.” he tilted his head toward the direction of the bed almost imperceptibly, praying both that it went noticed and unnoticed, “I have no qualms about her height, though chancing upon a lady of my height or taller would not be so usual anyway.” 

“Even ladies much smaller than you are?” 

“Yes. Very much so.” A twinkle. That damned twinkle. 

Subtexts that Nicholas sensed in his words were very much extra threads spun by his own mind, he reasoned to himself. 

Nonsense, wishful thinking that had shaped itself into a real, glittery prize.

A trick of the low light. 

And this battle so went on and on until it had thinned out to white noise that Nicholas fell apt to ignore, chalking it up to his own fluctuating emotions.

Illusions he tried so hard to will himself away from that he nearly missed the conclusion of Simon’s theatre. 

The soft steps closer,

The dash of terror before a hand touched his upright shoulder,

The a human breath close to him, 

and the soft, pressing heat on his forehead.

Lips, his mind screamed. 

Lips. Those were lips.

Simon had just kissed his forehead. 

A gasp came of its own accord, before Nick’s brain could catch up and say more. Which Simon mistook for horror, disgust, overstepping.  

Flee. Flee for safety. 

Run and don’t look back... 

“No, don’t go!” 

But the whisper and arm that shot out was futile, as the door closed with a quiet thud and the empty doorway mocked him.

Energy dissipated. 

His head fell back onto the pillow, leaving the tea to grow cold and the bread to harden. Rustle of the towering trees outside, low hum of the light.

Staring at the nuances in the ceiling, swirls and bumps in the plaster, all he could see was Simon in them.

Simon, and the remnants of the warm touch to his forehead, burning hotter than any fever he could ever have.