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The rain had been falling for hours by the time Luka reached the edge of the woods. His coat was ruined—that much was certain. Water had found its way past the collar, and now ran in cold channels down his back, plastering his linen shirt to his skin.
He should have stayed at Netherfield. Should have accepted Iker's offer of the carriage but the thought of spending another evening in that house, watching the way Sergio Ramos filled a doorway when he entered a room, had been unbearable.
So he had walked.
And now, he was soaked through, shivering, and thoroughly miserable, and the path ahead had turned to mud. The wind had picked up, driving the rain sideways into his face, and he had to squint against it, one hand holding the collar of his coat closer to his throat. The trees had offered shelter, but only just—the leaves funneled the water into fat droplets that found it's way into the seams of his boots.
He would catch his death, he thought.
He would catch his death and die in a ditch on the road back from Netherfield, and everyone would say what a tragedy it was, and Sergio Ramos would attend his funeral with that grave, handsome face and never once let on that he had been the reason Luka had fled into the storm.
He heard a horse behind him, hooves pounding the wet ground. Luka stepped aside, pressing himself against the trunk of an oak, and pulled his coat tighter. The rider would pass. The rider would—
The horse stopped and Luka looked up.
Sergio Ramos sat astride a black gelding, his coat dark with rain, his hat pulled down over his brow. Water ran off the brim in a steady curtain, and the horse's flanks were dark and steaming with exertion, as though it had been ridden hard and fast.
"You should not be out in this," Sergio said.
"Then I will not keep you." Luka turned and started walking.
He heard the horse move, the splash of hooves in the mud, and then the creak of leather as Sergio dismounted. Footsteps were behind him, closing the distance, and Luka started to walk faster.
"Luka."
The use of his first name stopped him cold. He turned, his hands by his sides.
"Do not."
Sergio stood ten feet away, the reins loose in his hands. Luka could see the dark shape of Sergio's shoulders beneath his soaked coat, the way the wet wool clung to the breadth of him. His face sharp with lines and shadows, jaw set, eyes fixed on Luka with an intensity that made something in Luka's chest pull tight and refuse to let go.
"I have been searching for you," Sergio said.
"You should not have."
"And yet I have." He took a step closer. "I have been searching for you since you left Netherfield without a word. Since you looked at me as though I were something foul you wished to scrape from your boot."
Luka laughed. It came out sharp and broken. "And what would you have me look as you as? A man of honour? A gentleman?"
Sergio's jaw tightened, "You know that is not what I—"
"I know what you are." Luka's voice rose, carried by the rain. "I know your reputation. I know the trail of—of men and women you leave behind you, the way you tire of them and move on. Do you think I have not watched you burn through every soul fool enough to want you, and walk away from every one of them without a mark on you?"
"Then burn me." Sergio's voice dropped, and he stepped forward—close now, closer than propriety or sense or any surviving shred of Luka's better judgment allowed, close enough that Luka could feel his breath. "Test it. Say the cruelest thing you know how to say to me, Luka Modrić, and see if I walk away."
"You are impossible." It came out half a curse, half a confession, and Luka's hands curled into fists at his sides—not to strike him, though God knew the urge sat close beneath his skin, but because it was that or he would reach for him, and he did not trust which one would win.
"I have spent the last months of my life doing nothing but thinking of you." Sergio said.
”Do you expect me to believe that? That I somehow occupy your thoughts?"
"I expect you to believe nothing," Sergio said. "I expect you to continue thinking the worst of me, because that is easier than considering the alternative."
"And what alternative is that?"
Sergio's mouth curved—not a smile, but something closer to a wound. "That I am not the man you think I am. That the reputation you have heard of belongs to a younger, stupider version of myself who did not know what it meant to want something he could not have."
Luka's breath caught. He felt it—that treacherous pull in his chest, the part of him that wanted to believe. He crushed it down.
"You want me to believe that a man of your history—of your appetites—has suddenly discovered the virtue of restraint?"
"You think me incapable of constancy?"
"I think you incapable of honesty."
"Let me be honest with you now."
Luka's heart seized up. He took a step back. "Do not."
"I have tried to stay away from you." Sergio's voice was low. "I have told myself a hundred times that you are beneath my notice. That you are stubborn, sharp-tongued, impossible, for God's sake, and that wanting you is a sin I cannot afford."
"Then do not afford it."
"I cannot help it."
The words struck Luka like a blow. He felt them in his chest, in his throat, in the hollow space behind his ribs where his breath had stopped.
"This is—you cannot expect me to—"
"I expect you to do what you always do," Sergio said, and now there was something bitter in his voice. "I expect you to find a reason to push me away. I expect you to tell yourself that I am lying, that I am playing some game, that I am not capable of feelings. I am standing here in the rain confessing to you like a fool."
Sergio took a step closer, the distance between them now shrinking.
"Tell me, Luka—do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I woke up one morning and chose to fixate on a gentleman who cannot stand the sight of me?"
Luka's throat had closed. He could not have spoken if his life depended on it.
"I have tried to find fault in you that would justify my indifference. I have told myself you are too proud, too cold, too foreign in your manners and your speech. I have told myself that what I feel is nothing more than fascination—the novelty of a man who does not bow and scrape at my feet the way everyone else does."
Sergio stopped.
"But it is not fascination," he said, and his voice broke on the last syllable. "It is not novelty. It is the most terrible, consuming, unwanted devotion I have ever felt, and I have tried—God knows I have tried—to tear it out of myself like a weed."
Luka's hands were shaking. He pressed them to his chest, as though he could hold his heart still. "And the women?" he managed. "The men? Everyone I have seen you with, everyone who has told me what you are—are those weeds too? Are they just—just mistakes you made before you discovered the virtue of suffering?"
Sergio flinched. It was small, but Luka saw it.
"I will not pretend to be a saint." Sergio said quietly. "I have done things I am not proud of. I have used people the way they used me. I have been careless with hearts that did not deserve to be broken. But I never—" He stopped, swallowing. " I have never begged. I have never ached the way I ache when I look at you and see nothing but contempt in your eyes."
The word ached struck Luka. He felt it resonate through him, through the cold, and the wet and the shivering, felt it settle in place he had been trying to keep locked.
"You do not know me," Luka said. "You do not know what I am capable of. What I have—" He stopped, looking away. "I am not worth this confession. I am not worth the trouble it would cost you to pursue me."
"All I ask for is one chance. One chance to let me court you—properly, privately. Let me earn the regard you have already stolen from me."
Luka wanted—God, he wanted. He could feel the wanting in every part of him, a physical hunger that made him dizzy. But the fear was stronger. The fear of being found out. The fear of being used. The fear of giving himself to a man who had never kept anything.
"You will tire of me," Luka said. "You will grow bored, and you will move on, and I will be left with nothing but shame."
"Then let me spend the rest of my life proving otherwise."
Sergio's hand came up, slowly. Giving Luka time to pull away. His fingers brushed Luka's jaw, and Luka flinched—not away, but towards, a betrayal of his own body.
"You are shaking," Sergio said.
"Then let me go."
"I cannot."
Sergio's hand cupped his jaw, his thumb tracing the line of Luka's cheeks, leaving a trail of heat against the cold skin. Luka's breath caught, his eyes closing.
"You are the most infuriating man I have ever met," Sergio said, his mouth close enough the Luka could feel the warmth of the words. "And I have spent every moment since I first saw you trying not to love you."
Luka's eyes opened.
They stood in the rain, Sergio's hands on his face, and the rain fell around them, turning everything grey. Luka could feel the cold in his bones now, the shiver that ran through him, but he could not move.
"Say something," Sergio said. "Tell me to leave. Tell me you feel nothing, and I will go. I will never speak of this again."
Luka opened his mouth but no words came out. He could not lie, could not say he felt nothing. Sergio's forehead dropped to Luka's, the touch soft, almost reverent. Their breathes mingling.
"Say it," Sergio whispered. "Set me free. Or damn me."
Luka's hands came up without meaning it to. His fingers suddenly curling into the wet wool of Sergio's coat, gripping and holding on.
"Do not make me the villain of this story," Luka said, his voice breaking. "When I have fought so hard not to love you."
Sergio made a sound—something between a laugh and a sob, lost in the rain. His arm came around Luka's waist, pulling him close. They stood pressed together, and Luka could feel the rapid hammer of Sergio's heart through the layers of his clothes.
"Then let me love you," Sergio said. "Let me show you, let me prove it to you, in this moment with nothing but the rain to witness."
Luka's breath caught in his throat, he could not seem to find the words to answer, could not seem to find the will to pull away.
"May I kiss you?" Sergio asked, the question landed in Luka's chest. His eyes widened, and he felt heat rise to his face. He had imagined what it might feel like to be kissed. He imagined the press of lips, the scandalous forbidden intimacy of it but he had never imagined being asked. He had never imagined that anyone would want him badly enough to give him the choice.
"I—" Luka's voice cracked. "I have never—"
The confession hung in the air and he could feel the shame rising in him like a tide. He wanted to pull himself away from Sergio's arms and disappear into the rain and never have to face the pity or amusement that must surely be gathering in those dark eyes.
"There's no shame in it," Sergio said, his voice without a trace of mockery. "There's nothing to be ashamed of."
Luka couldn't speak, he could only stare at Sergio and he felt the walls he had built around himself begin to crumble.
"I will kiss you only if you want it. If you're not certain, I will wait. I will wait as long as you need me to."
Luka's heart was pounding so hard he thought it might break through his ribs. "Yes," Luka whispered. "Yes. I want—I want you to."
Sergio's breath left him in a rush, as though he had been holding it. His hand slid from Luka's jaw to the back of his neck before leaning in slowly, giving Luka time to change his mind.
And then his lips met Luka's.
Luka's whole body went still, he felt the world narrow to the point where their mouths met, and he did not know what to do. He did not know where to put his hands or how to move his lips. Was he supposed to close his eyes? He felt the panic rising in him.
But Sergio did not pull away. He did not make a comment about Luka's inexperience or offer any of the condescending remarks Luka had half expected and braced himself for.
"Just follow me," Sergio murmured against his mouth. "Don't think, just feel."
He felt Sergio's hand tighten at the nape of his neck, felt the tilt of Sergio's head, and the way he angled his mouth perfectly against Luka's. He felt the soft pressure of lips parting, and he tried to mirror it, follow it, and tried to let go of the fear and doubt and simply feel.
Luka's lips were stiff, and he did not know whether to press harder or softer but Sergio did not rush him. He moved slowly, guiding Luka through each small adjustment with careful attention.
"Softer," Sergio breathed, his lips brushing Luka's as he spoke. "You are not fighting me."
Luka's hands came up, curling in the wool of Sergio's coat, holding on. He felt the kiss deepen, felt Sergio's mouth part against his. Sergio's tongue touched his lower lip, and Luka gasped against his mouth, startled by the intimacy of it, making his knees weak and heat shoot through his body.
Sergio pulled back, just enough to look at him. "I have you. Just breathe."
Luka's chest was heaving. He could feel the way his whole body came alive in a way it never had before. He looked up at Sergio.
"I—" Luka's voice was barely a whisper. "I did not know it could feel like that."
Sergio's mouth curved into a smile so soft it made Luka's heart turn over. "There is more," he said. "We have so much time, only if you will have me."
Luka looked at Sergio, at the man who had just kissed him with patience, care, and he felt something in him finally, irrevocably give way.
"Kiss me again," Luka said, and the words came out before he could stop them.
Sergio did not need to be asked twice.
Luka kissed him back, clumsily at first, then with growing confidence, following Sergio's lead, learning the rhythm of it, the way their mouths fit together like they had been made for each other. The rain fell around them, Luka let himself want something this badly without trying to destroy it.
"We must go back," Luka said when they pulled away.
"I know." Sergio grabbed Luka's hands. "But I will not walk into that house and watch you disappear from me again without knowing when I may see you."
Luka's heart jumped. "I do not know. I cannot—I have not thought—"
"Tomorrow." Sergio said. "The folly at the far edge of the garden, after the evening meal. When the others are playing card. No one will miss us for an hour."
The plan was reckless. It was the kind of arrangement that started scandals, that Luka had spent his whole life careful to avoid, and yet he heard himself say, "Tomorrow," before he could stop the words.
Sergio's grip tightened. "You will come?" For a moment, Sergio's eyes did something strange—softened, warmed, lost the hard edge of desperation and became something tender.
Luka could not look away. "I will come."
The smile that crossed Sergio's face was unlike any Luka had ever seen on him. It made Luka's chest ache with a sweetness that frightened him more than any danger did.
"Then I will survive until tomorrow," Sergio said, "and I will spend every moment of it counting the hours."
He lifted Luka's hands and he pressed his lips to the inside of his wrist, to the pulse that was beating there. It wasn't a kiss on the mouth but Luka felt it everywhere, felt it in the roots of his hair to the soles of his feet.
"Go," Sergio said, releasing his hand. "Before I do something we both regret."
Luka went.
He walked back towards the lights of Netherfield, his whole body trembling. He did not look back, could not have looked back because if he had, he would run to Sergio and damned them both.
When Luka reached the edge of the garden, he stopped, pressing his hand to his chest, and felt it racing—the proof that something had already begun that could not be undone.
Tomorrow, he though. Tomorrow.
The rain had stopped but the storm inside him had only just begun.