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When two men were as wealthy as Bingley and Darcy were, they lived comfortably, and sought to fill out their days to their satisfaction. But, when two men were as close as they were, finding something to do wasn’t very hard either.
Bingley wouldn’t dare tell anyone, most especially his Mr. Darcy, but his fondness for kissing, above all, was quite obvious anyway.
It was a familiar picture: Bingley lay in Darcy’s lap, back to the man’s desk. They had been at this for two hours. When Darcy broke away to look at the other man for a mere second, Bingley pouted, chasing Mr. Darcy’s face to no avail.
“You haven’t the faintest idea of what you look like right now,” Darcy chuckles, but Bingley simply smiles.
“You like it,” he accuses, “the effect you have on me.”
“It’s impractical what we do,” Darcy says, and begins to hold Bingley’s jaw. He moves his face about, thoroughly enjoying the way the light makes his eyes shimmer.
Charles re-situates himself, perching more comfortably on the other man. “How so?”
“Well. There’s many activities more productive than this, for one. I know how fond you are of walks, Charles,” Darcy says affectionately. Like a dog, the younger man is, gentle to even strangers. Almost to prove his point, Bingley refashions Darcy’s fingers to touch him higher, to cup his cheek, before closing his eyes blissfully.
“But you’re also fond of me, aren’t you? Or do you enjoy ‘productivity’ more?”
“If I loved productivity I wouldn’t be here at all,” Darcy said dryly. “Besides, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Precisely because we shouldn’t?”
Bingley opens his eyes, frowns. “Whatever do you mean, Darcy? I’m in your company because I like to.”
“You don’t need me, and I don’t need you- at least, not in the way Ms. Bennet does.”
Bingley looks almost aghast. “You state the obvious, but you needn’t be so cruel when you do.”
Darcy laughs, apologizes with a sincere kiss to the man’s hand that trails up his arm. “You misunderstand me, Charles,” he chuckles. “I may not need you, but I do need you.”
“That just doesn’t make any sense Darcy,” he laughs, “You adore confusing me!”
“That I don’t need you, really, makes me want you all the more,” Darcy explains in a gentle tone, as if he was talking to a child. “And that makes my affection more legitimate than it ordinarily would. Understand?”
Darcy brushes through Bingley’s hair with his fingers, not unlike a girl would with her dolly. The younger man huffs, thoroughly detesting the fruitless conversation that had taken place instead of the other, more agreeable, previous actions they had both been partaking in. “Just tell me you love me, will you Fitzwilliam?”
The man smiles, eyes soft, and the conversation is lost altogether. “I love you, Charles.”
“And I, you! Now, was that all you had to say?”