Chapter Text

HELSTON, ENGLAND

SEPTEMBER 1854

     Around midnight, his eyes finally took shape. The look in them was catlike, part determined and part tentative — all trouble. Yes, they were exactly right, those eyes. Rising to his refined, elegant brows, inches from the unruly line of his red hair. Andrew held the paper at arm’s length to assess his progress. It was difficult to work without he in front of him, but then, Andrew had never been able to draw in his presence. Ever since Andrew had arrived from London — no, ever since he had first seen him — he had been careful to always keep him at arm’s length.

     Every day now he approached him, and each day was harder than the last. This was why Andrew was leaving in the morning — to India, to the Americas, he didn’t know and didn’t care. Wherever he ended up, it would be easier than being here. Andrew bent over his drawing again, sighing as he used his thumb to perfect the smudged charcoal pout of his lower lip. The lifeless paper, a cruel impostor, was the only way to take it with him.

     Then, straightening up in the leather library chair, he felt it. The brush of heat against the back of his neck.

     Him.

     His mere proximity gave Andrew the most peculiar sensation, like the kind of warmth sent when a log turns to ash in a fire. Andrew knew without turning around. He was there. Andrew covered his portrait in the bound papers on his lap, but he could not escape it.

     His eyes fell to the overstuffed ivory sofa across the drawing room, where hours earlier he had appeared unexpectedly, later than the rest of his entourage, to applaud his host’s eldest daughter after a fine performance on the harpsichord. Andrew looked across the room, out the window onto the balcony, where the day before he had crept up to him, a handful of wild white peonies in his hand. He still thought his attraction to Andrew was innocent, that their frequent encounters in the gazebo were mere…happy coincidences. So naive! Andrew would never tell him anything else — the secret was his to bear.

     Andrew stood and turned, the portraits left behind on the leather chair. And there he was, pressed against the ruby ​​velvet curtain in his simple white silk shirt and trousers. His red hair was messy around his head. The look on his face was the same one Andrew had drawn so many times. There was fire, rising in his cheeks. Was he angry? Embarrassed? Andrew longed to know, but couldn’t bring himself to ask.

     “What are you doing here?” Andrew could hear the growl in his voice, and regretted his harshness, knowing he would never understand. 

     “I-I couldn’t sleep,” he stammered, moving toward the fire and Andrew’s chair. “I saw the light on in your room and then…” — he paused, looking down at his hands— “your bags are outside the door. Are you going somewhere?”

     “I was going to tell y—” Andrew started to speak, but stopped himself in an instant. He shouldn’t lie. He had never intended to let him know his plans. Telling him would only make things worse.

     Well, Andrew had let things go too far, hoping that this time would be different. Everything was already bound to get worse.

     He stepped closer, and his eyes fell to Andrew’s sketchbook. “Were you drawing me?”

     His startled tone reminded Andrew of how great the gap in understanding was between them. Even after all the time they had spent together these past few weeks, he hadn’t yet begun to glimpse the truth behind their attraction.

     This was good — or at least it was for the best. For the past few days, ever since Andrew had chosen to leave, he had been struggling to pull himself away from him. The effort had taken so much out of him that as soon as he was alone, he had to give in to his pent-up desire to draw him. Andrew had filled his sketchbook with pages of him’s arched neck, him's marble collarbone, him's strong, elegant hands and fingers. Now Andrew looked back at his drawing, not embarrassed at being caught drawing him, but worse. An icy chill spread through Andrew as he realized that the discovery of him — the exposure of his feelings — would destroy him. Andrew should have been more careful. It always started like this.

     “Warm milk with a spoonful of molasses,” Andrew murmured to him. Then he added sadly, “It helps you sleep.” 

     “How did you know? Why, that’s exactly what my mother used to—”

    “I know,” he said, turning to face him. The haunting in his voice didn’t surprise him, yet Andrew couldn’t explain to him how he knew, or tell him how many times he’d administered this same drink to him in the past when the shadows had come, how he’d held him until he’d fallen asleep.

     Andrew felt him's touch burn through his shirt, him's hand resting gently on his shoulder, making him gasp.

     They hadn’t touched each other yet in this life, and the first contact always left him breathless.

     “Answer me,” he whispered. “Are you leaving?”

     “Yes.”

     “Then take me with you,” he blurted. Right on cue, Andrew watched him suck in a breath, wishing he could take back his plea.

     Andrew could see the progression of him's emotions settle in the crease between him's eyes. He would feel impetuous, then bewildered, then embarrassed by him's own audacity. He always did felt like that, and too many times before Andrew had made the mistake of comforting him at this very moment.

     “No,” Andrew whispered, reminding himself… always reminding himself… “I’m leaving tomorrow. If you even care about me, you won’t say another word.”

     “If I care about you,” he repeated, almost as if he were talking to himself. “I-I love—”

     “No.”

     “I have to say this. I-I love you, I’m sure of it, and if you leave—”

     “If I leave, I’ll save your life.” Andrew spoke slowly, trying to reach a part of him that could remember. Was that even there, buried somewhere? “Some things are more important than love. You’ll understand, but you have to trust me.”

     His eyes bored into Andrew. He stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. This was Andrew’s fault, too — he always managed to bring out him disdainful side when he spoke to him.

     “You mean there are things more important than that?” he challenged, gesturing between them.

     Oh, to be him and not know what was going to happen! Or at least to be stronger and able to stop it. If Andrew didn’t stop him, he would never learn, and the past would simply repeat itself, torturing them over and over again.

     But he took Andrew’s hands and brought them to his chest, over his racing heart, and the familiar warmth of his skin made Andrew give in.

     Andrew was trying to ignore how close he was, how well he knew the feel of his lips, how bitterly he felt that this all had to end. But his fingers traced Andrew’s so lightly. He took a step closer and Andrew’s hands closed lightly over his shoulders, over that small strip of skin that his shirt hadn’t quite covered. It was a small movement, but Andrew felt his emotions transform. He trembled when Andrew touched him, his hands sliding from his shoulders to his neck, and his reaction reached Andrew’s senses.

     It killed him every time, took his breath away every time he reacted like this, to his touch.

     He was right. There was nothing more. There never had been. Andrew was about to give in and take him in his arms when he caught the look in his eyes. Like he’d seen a ghost.

     It was he who pulled away, a hand to his forehead.

     “I’m getting the strangest feeling,” he sighed.

     No — was it too late?

     His eyes narrowed on the shape of his portrait and back to Andrew, his hands on his chest, his lips parted hopefully.

     “Tell me I’m crazy, but I swear I’ve been right here before…”

     Then it was too late. Andrew looked up, shuddering, and could feel the darkness descending. Andrew took this last chance to grab him, to hold him as tightly as he’d been wanting to for weeks.

     As soon as his lips melted into his, they were both helpless. The honeysuckle taste of his mouth made him dizzy. The closer he pressed himself against Andrew, the more his stomach churned with the excitement and agony of it all. His tongue traced him, and the fire between them burned hotter, hotter, more powerful with each new touch, each new exploration. Yet none of this was new.

     The room shuddered. An aura around them began to glow. He noticed nothing, was aware of nothing, understood nothing beyond their kiss.

     Only Andrew knew what was about to happen, what dark company was about to descend upon their gathering. Though he was powerless to change the course of their lives once again, Andrew knew.

     The shadows circled directly above them. So close, Andrew could have touched them. So close, Andrew wondered if he could hear what they were whispering. Andrew watched as the cloud passed over him's face. For a moment Andrew saw a flicker of recognition grow in him's eyes.

     Then there was nothing, nothing at all.