Work Text:
“What happened to your face?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Guy was running a towel through his curls. He let it fall to the floor when he reached the foot of the bed, and rubbed at his bare upper lip with his thumb before draping himself on top of the covers. “I usually shave when I’m on holiday, if the studio doesn’t insist on any publicity photos. The mustache is a sort of trademark—without it I hardly ever get recognized.”
Thomas was reclining amongst a small mountain of pillows, enjoying his first proper holiday—not a bit of free time while his employers were off entertaining themselves, not an afternoon out, not a few days’ leave, but a real, honest-to-God holiday in which he had vowed to remain in his pyjamas, in bed, until the obscene hour of 10 AM. For a whole two weeks they had absolutely nothing planned except exploring the city of Ensenada, shopping, visiting the sea caves, eating a lot of excellent food, and drinking legal wine. His lover, freshly bathed and smiling, gazed at him with easy adoration. The front of Guy’s robe gaped, offering an appealing view of his chest, and the lazy morning light filtered through gauzy curtains brought out the gold in his hair.
There was honestly nothing at all he could complain about. But he was feeling cheeky.
“And what if I don’t recognize you?”
“Well, you have an advantage over everyone else, don’t you, pet?” His eyes sparkled. He leaned down and kissed the nearest part of Thomas’s body he could reach—his kneecap. “The very distinct advantage of knowing that whoever wakes up in your bed is Guy Dexter, regardless of the state of his face.”
“As far as you know.”
Guy gave a mock gasp and fell on his back, wounded. Thomas snickered. He sat up and lay down on his front, and Guy peered up at him upside down. He looks even stranger at this odd angle, although in truth the lack of a mustache didn’t make all that much a difference. Guy was a very handsome and distinguished man regardless, but… well, he didn’t look quite the movie star, that was all.
“Is it such a bother, being recognized? You always handle it well.”
“Not a great bother, no. But I thought you’d enjoy the privacy. Hm?” he reached up to caress Thomas’s cheek. “On our first holiday together… no fuss, no one else demanding my attention…”
“Do you really expect to be bombarded by film fanatics here? At this time of year?”
“It’s not inconceivable there are other tourists in the city. We’re here, after all. And they do release my films in Mexico.”
“Hmm.”
“You have such a magnificent pout,” Guy laughed. “I’m starting to suspect that you don’t like my face unless there’s a dark line through the middle of it. What a blow to my considerable ego.”
“Of course I like your face,” Thomas sniffed. “It’s just not quite as… dashing.”
“And would you have run off with me in the first place if I was not so very dashing?”
“Would you have worked up the nerve to ask me?”
He tilted his head. Guy pulled a face somewhere between acknowledging a point scored and grumbling about it, and moved to sit up. Thomas shifted so he wasn’t in the way.
“Point and match to you, Mr. Barrow. I give in—if you’re that attached to the precise state of my upper lip, I’ll forgo shaving for the rest of the holiday. Of course, that won’t do us any good for today. Do you think you can bear to be seen with me?”
“Well,” Thomas sighed. “It will require great mental fortitude and patience, but… yes, I can manage.”
“Good. It’s quarter of 10 now—I’m going to get dressed.”
He stood and headed towards the dividing door between, ostensibly, Thomas’s room and his.
“Wait.” Thomas smiled as he sat up, dropping the game. “Give me a kiss first.”
Guy raised both eyebrows, as if he had just committed a grave faux pas.
“No.”
“No?”
“Oh, God, Thomas, I wouldn’t dream of subjecting you to such a strange and unsettling sensation as a kiss with an un-mustachioed man. Bad enough you’ll have to look at me for an entire day—possibly even two—until the natural order is restored—”
“Guy,” he laughed. He clambered out of bed, freeing himself from the twist of bedspread and sheets.
“And now I’ve lured you out of bed before ten! What a disaster this trip has become.”
Thomas wrapped his arms around Guy’s waist. Professional actor that he was, his wounded mask didn’t slip—but he did drape his arms around Thomas’s shoulders. Thomas leaned forward until their noses were brushing.
“You still look very dashing, sweetheart. Not as stately, but… more vivacious, perhaps. And if this is really how you prefer to go out and about on holiday, I think I could adjust very well.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And if I started feeling nostalgic for the days before I was a dashing film star, and wanted you to call me Quentin Sidebotham while we’re here, to befuddle the fans even more?”
His first instinct was that it was a joke; he had a joke ready to fire back. But they were still so close he could feel the warmth of Guy’s skin and see the glimmer of sincerity in his rich eyes.
“Kiss me,” he said. “And I’ll give it a go.”
Guy obliged. And then a second time, without needing to be asked. And a third.
The long and short of it was that Thomas went back to bed, and didn’t get up again until the unthinkable hour of 12 noon.