Mon, February 06 2012
| TITLE: | Risk |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Polly Anne Morris |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | Romance |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | NC-17, Adult-Slash |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | Phileas\Jules |
| DESCRIPTION: | Win -- or lose all -- for Jules. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
Jules Verne sat up on the bed slowly, with a sense of great weariness that bordered on despair. No, he wasn't sleepy, he was just very, very tired, and it wasn't the sort of fatigue that came of physical exertion -- he hadn't had to run for his life for almost three days now. Things were quiet on the dirigible airship Aurora, Rebecca and Passepartout off on a clean-up mission of one sort or another, he and Fogg in charge of picking them up in two days' time. That was the problem. It was so quiet on the Aurora.
Pushing off of the mattress slowly Jules swung his legs to the side of the bed to stand up. There was his tumbler, on the side-table, the last traces of a hot brandy-and-water barely coloring the base in the yellow candle-light. Maybe he'd just go have another, Jules decided. Fogg wouldn't mind. And Jules had to get to sleep: he'd feel better in the morning, he hoped he'd feel better in the morning, and if he didn't feel better in the morning at least he'd know why he felt so distressed. He could blame it on the brandy, then, instead of torturing himself moment by moment to analyze what had gone wrong that could have put such a distance between himself and his friend Fogg.
It had been two years, maybe more. Once the initial awkwardness had passed Jules had found Phileas Fogg to be a fascinating companion -- full of energy, even full of fun, and if Fogg had his dour moments Fogg had earned them. Gaining Fogg's trust, venturing to trust Fogg in return, had opened the door to a world of wonders for a young law student from Paris. For these two years past he had lived the life of a sometime-Musketeer, a young D'Artagnan to Fogg's Athos and Rebecca's Aramis and Passepartout's Porthos, and he had come to believe that they would all be friends forever. And of course they would all live forever; that went without saying. Fogg's occasional fits of self-destructiveness had evened out a bit, over the years, gotten longer and longer between times, and now this.
Jules didn't understand what he had done, but over the past few months there had been a coolness growing up between Phileas Fogg and him, and on this past mission it had almost seemed that Fogg could barely tolerate his presence. Ordinarily Jules would have looked forward to three days alone in the Aurora with Phileas Fogg. Fogg would fence with him, play cards with him, tease him and tickle him and entertain him vastly, and now Fogg would hardly even look at him.
And yet it didn't seem that Fogg was angry. Rebecca wondered, too, Jules could tell, and it grieved her especially -- Jules was certain of it -- because Rebecca knew, as Passepartout knew as well surely by now, that one of the attractions of spending three days alone with Phileas Fogg for Jules was that it was three days for him to dream, to fantasize that Fogg was his forever. Yes, Rebecca had been the Fogg that had attracted Jules at first, how could she not have done? Rebecca Fogg was beautiful, brilliant, scintillating, sensitive, a lovely woman with a great heart and the courage of a Frenchwoman at war. Jules had been smitten. But Rebecca Fogg had always been more of a sister to him than a potential lover, and they had both known it from the beginning, and Jules didn't even know when first it had begun to occur to him that perhaps he was a little more aware of Fogg's physical person than could be readily explained by a playwright's passion for the telling expression or the elegant gesture.
Fogg hadn't seemed to notice. If Fogg noticed he hadn't seemed to mind. He wasn't a very demonstrative man in his affections -- because he was English, Verne supposed -- and the occasional moment when Fogg would settle his hand at the top of Jules' shoulder where it met the neck, or clasp him by the hand to pull him out of some abyss or another, or forget himself so far as to pat Verne on the back for being alive -- and not dead after all, all indications to the contrary notwithstanding -- those little things Jules had treasured up in his heart without quite paying attention to what he had been doing until the evidence of his infatuation had become too obvious for him to conceal from himself.
Was that what was wrong?
Had Fogg finally noticed, or had Fogg decided that he minded after all?
Because there wasn't anything Jules could do about it now. He was too far gone. He had tried to plaster over the unhappy truth in his own heart, he had done his best to put emotional distance between himself and Fogg, but Fogg breached his defenses by just breathing, and nothing Jules had tried so far had worked. Except isolation, isolation from Fogg, and that only made him miserable, but if Fogg had decided to take offense at him that was all the future could possibly offer. It made Jules almost want to weep. He could manage the pain of wanting Fogg and not having him, he was almost sure he could, if only he could still be with the man from time to time and be his friend and share the things that any companions might honorably share with one another. A game of cards. The occasional fist-fight.
Something that was like a forlorn sob was building in Jules' belly, and he could not afford to acknowledge the depth of his pain or he would be defenseless against it. Brandy was definitely the idea. It would be two days and more before they would rendezvous with Rebecca and Fogg's valet Passepartout; the brandy might just last, because this was after all Phileas Fogg's pleasure craft, which meant that there was a very great deal of brandy about at any given time. Two days and more in this deserted alpine meadow, far away from chance detection, alone. He could have lived on these two and a half days for months and been happy, if only Fogg had not grown cold to him.
He took up the glass and stood up from the bed, taking a moment to steady himself on his feet. He hadn't had all that much brandy, but he'd been lying down -- staring at the ceiling -- for the better part of two hours now. The stars were probably beautiful. In another time he might have bullied Fogg out of the gondola and into the observation deck of the Aurora high above, and bored Fogg mercilessly with astronomical trivia, and loved every minute of Fogg complaining and protesting and pretending that he was hating every minute of it.
Downstairs, down the spiral staircase to the main deck of the Aurora's gondola in his stockinged feet. He had slippers in his cabin; Passepartout had set them out for him. Slippers, and bed-linen, and Jules couldn't bear to use the slippers Passepartout had bought for him, because it was on Fogg's account and Fogg no longer was Jules' friend, or no longer so close that a man could accept a pair of bed-slippers for his use and not feel that he was accepting favors from a rich acquaintance. There was a little light on in the kitchen; Jules went quietly, not wanting to waken Fogg if Fogg was asleep. He hadn't heard Fogg come upstairs. Fogg could move very quietly even in boots and Jules had been distracted.
Setting the water on to boil Jules put a spoonful of castor-sugar into the tumbler, grated a few shavings of cinnamon bark and nutmeg into the glass, looked around for where he'd left the brandy-decanter. It wasn't there. Fogg had taken it upstairs with him, perhaps, but maybe it was just out in the cabin. Jules padded out into the darkness of the Aurora's main salon scanning out of the corner of his eye for the decanter, using the trick of night-vision Fogg had taught him -- when you were seeing in black and white you saw more clearly at the periphery of your vision. He found the brandy decanter, and it was almost as full as it had been the last time he had seen it. Fogg had left it on the table in front of the banquette that stood against the wall of the salon, behind the Aurora's pilot-house with its great steering-globe. Jules picked it up, and something stirred on the banquette, startling Jules so badly that he almost dropped the decanter.
"Fogg."
Jules put the decanter back down, carefully. Fogg hadn't gone upstairs at all, that was why Jules hadn't heard him. Lying on his back on the banquette, with his legs hanging over the end no doubt, the banquette was not so long as Fogg was tall; what was he doing sleeping in the salon?
Drunk, perhaps. Fogg didn't speak. He merely sat up, clumsily and awkwardly, and put his head down on the table. Jules could see the white of Fogg's shirtsleeves, in the dark; he wanted to know what the matter might be, but there was no knowing whether Fogg would even talk to him if Fogg was drunk, and the water in the kettle would be coming to the boil.
Jules took the decanter back to the kitchen and poured himself a drink. The tumbler was glass, but it was heavy glass, and there was enough brandy in Jules' glass to moderate the temperature. Moving carefully and deliberately Jules turned the stove down, took the kettle off, stirred his drink; then took it back out to the main salon with him to see what Fogg was doing.
Fogg hadn't moved much; he'd sat up, leaning against the padded back of the banquette. The impossibly long line of Fogg's strong throat would be sinking all the way down into Fogg's shirt toward his belly through the salt-and-pepper of the hair on Fogg's broad chest; Fogg had probably lost his neck-cloth hours ago. Jules bit down against the inside of his cheek savagely to quell his hopeless longing, and lit a lamp.
Carrying the lamp over to the table Jules set it down, and Fogg raised one hand as if in reflex protest against the light. Jules sat down himself, with his drink in front of him. "Fogg. What are you doing down here, in the dark?" Then immediately he wished he hadn't said it quite like that. His body was too willing to make suggestions to him about what Fogg might have been doing in the dark, and he had no hope of ever understanding what had come between him and his friend Fogg if he couldn't keep his own impertinent passion in check even long enough to see what was the matter.
Fogg let his hand drop to his thigh, wearily. Fogg had such long hands. Long slim fingers. Jules loved Fogg's elegant wrists, the muscled power of his forearms, the rounded grace of Fogg's strong shoulders . . . "Well, I should have thought that was obvious, Verne," Fogg said, either half-asleep or more than three parts drunk or something, because he sounded utterly bereft and there was no reason for Fogg to be feeling as Jules did. Jules had not grown colder to Phileas Fogg. It was Fogg who had turned away from Jules. "Sleeping."
Maybe he was just drunk. He didn't sound cold or impatient or almost angry as Fogg had so often seemed to Jules in recent weeks. It was almost Fogg as Jules had grown to love him, very open, very plain, and with that subtle streak of vulnerability that had the power to break Jules' heart on a regular basis. "Come on, Fogg," Jules scolded, gently, knowing that he couldn't keep the tenderness he felt completely out of his voice, hoping a note of humor would serve for a camouflage. "You've got a perfectly good bed upstairs, in your cabin. Very nice bed. Clean sheets. Much more comfortable than a bench, even that bench, and I should know, because I've slept on that bench more often than you have, I dare say."
It had taken him some time to accept the offer of a bedroom on the Aurora during their adventures. First it had been the close proximity to Rebecca's room that had unnerved him, and made him cling to the safer distance of the lower deck. And then it had been wanting to be closer to Phileas, even in separate rooms, even worlds apart, that had persuaded him to consent to take advantage of an offered guest-bed.
"Yes, well, I don't want to go upstairs, you see," Fogg said, then leaned forward rather suddenly to put his elbows to the table and bury his face in his hands. Rubbing his cheeks between his palms briskly, as though to wake himself up. "And why should I, perfectly comfortable down here, after all."
It was. That was true. "Well, you've slept down here, Fogg, and now you're awake. So you can go to bed. Upstairs with you, my man, Passepartout is going to want to know about the creases in your trousers, you'll have some explaining to do."
Fogg shook his head decisively, but the head-shake went on just a little too long, so that it almost put Jules in mind of an obstinate child's sulk rather than the emphatic gesture of a very dangerous man. "No. Staying right here, Verne, thanks all the same. You go on."
There didn't seem to be anything obviously the matter; and yet what could be going on, here? One way or the other Fogg was more relaxed with him here and now than he'd been for quite some while, and Jules wasn't about ready to go away while this lasted. "What have you been drinking, Fogg?" Jules scolded, mildly, to prolong the conversation. "You're tight."
Fogg shook his head again, but more certainly this time. "Claret, Verne. Thought about the brandy. Not a good idea. Man can't afford to get drunk at a time like this. Entirely too dangerous."
"How do you mean?" The Aurora was as safe as the Aurora could be; the doors were locked, Passepartout's patented peripheral security system was in place and liable to go off the next time some goat wandered innocently over the trip-wires, nobody knew they were there and for just now nobody probably cared. "You're as safe as you could ever be, Fogg, where's the danger? Falling down the stairs? I'll help you."
"Might go upstairs," Fogg sighed. "And then you never know, Verne, you just never know. I couldn't forgive myself. I just want to, so much. I daren't, really I daren't, surely you understand, it could be a disaster."
Fogg couldn't be talking about daring to go to sleep. He couldn't. When Fogg had nightmares he came by them honestly, but he knew the difference between waking and dreaming, he took it in stride. For all the damage Fogg's psyche had absorbed in his life -- physical and emotional trauma -- Fogg remained a profoundly sane man. If a moderately maniacal, and periodically depressed, one. "Want to what, Fogg?" Jules asked, heartily, wanting to cover Fogg's right hand where it lay flat on the table's surface with his own, and suppressing the impulse by taking a drink instead. "It's all right, you can tell Uncle Jules, I won't tell Mother. Or even Rebecca. Though it could cost you."
In the dim light of the darkened main salon Jules could not read the expression on Fogg's face; but the intensity with which Fogg stared into Jules' eyes was still unnerving. Fogg had such focus to him. It wasn't fair. "I want to touch you, Jules," Fogg said. "Oh, God. Just to touch you. All over, do you understand? I can't stand the thought of you lying in your bed, and so close. I can't stand it."
The unexpected nature of Fogg's claim left Jules stunned and speechless as suddenly and completely as though he'd been struck by lightening. It was an eternity before he remembered to breathe: and yet the lamp had not burned out, Fogg still sat there staring at him with a frown of desperation on his face, the steam still rose from the brandy-and-water in the tumbler in front of Jules on the work-table.
"I'm not quite sure I understand exactly -- " Jules started to say, carefully. He could not have heard what he thought he'd just heard. He could not have. It was his own mind, playing tricks on him. He must be drunk. And that meant he was in greater danger than he had ever been, with Phileas Fogg, because if he did anything as stupid as responding to what he thought Fogg had just said . . .
Fogg pushed himself out and away from the table with a sudden violence that stopped Jules' words in his throat; and began to pace. Jules knew that pacing. It was the feral tread of a jungle cat in captivity, burning up the carpet step by tense coiled step from one end of the salon to the other, then turning almost before the last step was even complete to double back in the exact same direction from which he'd come. And do it over. And over. And over.
"It's just impossible, Jules, I don't dare, surely you can see that. You're my friend. I'd like to keep it that way, I don't have many friends, especially not ones who could see their way clear to staying my friend after some of the things I've done to you. And still there has to be a limit. And if you knew what depraved thoughts I've had you'd never be able to so much as sit down at the same table with me, ever again, but it is hard."
Fogg was raving. It was the only explanation. Jules stood up and put himself in Fogg's path, daring Fogg to run him over, forcing Fogg to stop. Fogg stopped. He stopped well out of arm's reach, but he stopped. "Fogg, you're drunk," Jules said, as firmly as he could manage and still somehow keep the passion that he felt from resonating in his words and making a mockery of them. "You're babbling. You're not even going to remember any of this in the morning, are you?" He could hear something too much like pleading in that question; he had to be more careful. "I think that you should go to bed. You need to sleep. I'm sure you do."
"No," Fogg said, and took half-a-step closer. He'd more than lost his neck-cloth, the buttons of his shirt were open more than half-way down the front, Jules could almost smell Fogg's skin from where he stood. The physical impact of Fogg's person staggered him. "I'm sorry, Verne, but I'm not nearly drunk enough. I didn't see this coming, or if I did I pretended I didn't, perhaps I thought it would go away, maybe it was too good even if it was only an idle fancy for me to be able to give it up. It was a moral failing on my part. I won't complicate it. I dare not."
"Speak French," Jules said. "Because you're not making any sense in English. What are you talking about, Phileas?" Once upon a time Phileas Fogg had taught Jules how to fence, and told him that the only way to win it all was to risk everything. Jules had never had much respect for that adage: until now. Right now he was just desperate enough, and just almost hopeful enough, to take the chance and risk it all. Because if he won -- "I'm the one who wants to make love to you. If there's any moral failing here, it's mine."
"You mustn't say such things, Jules, please, I entreat you," Fogg said, taking another fraction of a step closer. Fogg's French was very good, and to hear Fogg use the intimate pronoun made Jules' animal nature leap within his breast and arouse him beyond hope of misinterpretation. "Please. Because I want to touch you. I want to caress you, Jules, and it can only be -- incompatible with the friendship with which you have consented to trust me -- "
Even in French Fogg could be English. He was a marvel beyond words. They were alone in the world; there was nothing in the entire universe but the Aurora gondola, and the yellow light of the lamp, the silence of the night, Phileas Fogg in his shirt-sleeves with his cuffs undone and his collar open standing not half-a-pace from where Jules stood and pleading with him to forgive the thing that Jules himself wanted more than his life itself, just here and now.
So it was up to Jules, he felt; because Fogg was diffident, and suffering from some self-inflicted curb that Jules did not understand but was quite certain could be sorted through at some later time. Up to him. Jules stepped so close to Fogg that he had to crane his neck to look Fogg in the eyes: and put his hand up, to touch Fogg at the back of Fogg's stubborn English neck, but Fogg caught at his wrist and held it half-way in a grip that burned and froze at once. "You aren't paying attention, Fogg," Jules said. He had expected Fogg's defensive gesture. He would not let it prevent him from doing what had to be done. "I am your friend. And I want to be your lover. Think of it as an experiment. We can talk about it in the morning."
Fogg's grip at Verne's wrist loosened by degrees till Verne could move his hand, and take Fogg by the back of the neck to bend Fogg's head down to where he could be kissed. "You're the most beautiful man I've ever seen in my life," Fogg said, as though the fact confused him. "No, that's not true. Rebecca is always bringing beautiful men home, she has a collection, I've never wanted any of them, Verne, and God knows I want you. I don't understand it. But I do."
Jules almost wanted to laugh, because as gallantries went this was very weak on Fogg's part, very weak indeed. But he wanted to press the moment forward more even than he wanted to laugh, and he knew very well that if he paused for even the fraction of a moment's contemplation he might lose his nerve. And then he would lose everything; instead of standing as he did on the threshold of having everything that he had ever wanted, ever since he had first met Mister Phileas Fogg of London, England.
So he didn't speak.
He pressed his lips to Fogg's trembling mouth instead.
It was a unique sensation; Fogg's mouth was much cooler than Jules had expected. Women's mouths were generally very nice and warm, and Fogg's mouth was nowhere near as soft and plump as it might have been if he had been Rebecca rather than Phileas. And yet somehow the differences only made the touch that much more arousing, to Jules, emphasized to him that he was kissing -- that he was trying to kiss -- his friend Fogg who he had wanted for so long. It wasn't working. Fogg simply stood there with his mouth to Jules' mouth, stock-still, frozen in his place like a paralyzed man, and Jules knew that he did not have the courage it would take for him to force the issue and seek Phileas' tongue. He couldn't. He couldn't. He had gotten this far on nerve alone, nerve and desperation, and now this would be the end of friendship as well as fantasy.
Fogg raised his hand slowly to the side of Jules' face, and touched Jules' face with his finger-tips, and shifted his head by a minute half-reluctant fraction that gave Jules an entirely different angle on Fogg's mouth.
Jules discovered that there was nothing in the least bit chill about it.
Pressing himself to Phileas with fierce passion Jules caught his friend to him with an arm around his back; Fogg was holding him as well, now, and as Jules wondered frantically what he was supposed to do next Phileas opened his mouth, just a little bit, just a tiny bit, and touched his tongue to Jules' mouth where his lips met. Jules opened his mouth with a gasp of astonished pleasure, and Phileas went in; touching Jules' mouth, the inside of his mouth, tasting Jules' teeth -- there was brandy on his breath, Jules thought with panic, but there was claret on Fogg's breath, so perhaps it was all right -- sliding his tongue with slow deliberation against the flattened eagerness of Jules' tongue, and suckling it, pulling Jules' tongue into his own mouth gently and caressing it tongue to tongue with suave and irresistible persuasion.
The intimacy of the sensation, the cumulative impact of the astounding developments of the last few minutes, Jules' own long-nurtured longing for his friend Fogg conspired against him. He wanted more than anything not to betray himself, to live in this kiss forever, to match Phileas move for move and partner him, and it was not going to happen. He felt it. He knew the heat building in his belly, he could feel the urgent strain of his erection, and he wanted Phileas' kiss -- he didn't want Phileas to ever stop --
Phileas slid one hand down Jules' spine, at his back, and pulled Jules' hips against his, fitting the hollow of his groin to Jules' erection, letting Jules feel his own. Even through the clothing that he wore. It was more than Jules could endure, he couldn't hold that incandescent kiss, he pressed his forehead to the bare skin of Phileas' chest where Phileas' shirt hung open and lost himself to the reflex of pleasure. Weeping. With joy, because the pleasure he endured was transcendent; with sorrow, because he wanted Phileas' kiss forever, and he could no longer bear it.
Phileas held him, and Jules' crisis flamed and flared and consumed him entirely.
He couldn't stand.
He collapsed to the floor, but slowly, and somewhere in his mind he knew that Phileas was holding him, lying on the rug embracing him. Long hours, forever as it seemed, Jules lay in amorous stupor; and when he roused himself again, when his focus sharpened, when he woke up from his tranced sleep, he lay on Phileas' bosom on the floor, and Phileas was stroking the back of his head tenderly with one hand.
He fought to gain control of his arms and legs, knowing that he needed to wash and change his drawers. He couldn't quite make it, and collapsed onto his back on the floor. Phileas rolled up onto his side to lean over Jules; touching his hand to Jules' chin Phileas tilted Jules' head back for another kiss, one that was very loving, very grateful. "Thank you," Phileas said, and Jules wanted to protest -- that was for him to say, surely. "Jules. I only want to do it again. And again. I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?"
That was going to be funny, Jules was sure, at some future date. "Never," he said, and coughed, to clear his throat, because his voice sounded very strained and husky to him, strange in his ear. "Fogg. I tried so hard to be satisfied to be your friend, and it's very good to be your friend. But if I could be your lover it would be beyond wonderful. Please don't apologize for that. I want you. Soon. Very soon. But not right now. -- All right, right now."
"Then we should go upstairs to someone's bedroom, after all, just as you suggested," Fogg said. Very tenderly. "I want you in my bed, Jules, even if it's only just this once. I don't know when we'll have the chance again. And I've spent so many nights trying not to think about how close you were to me, and in your bed, and let's please get upstairs or we shan't get upstairs for another while, I'm afraid."
Perhaps there had been an hallucinogenic drug in Fogg's brandy, Jules mused happily, crawling to his feet with Fogg's assistance. He was going to wake up at any moment, and it would be morning, and none of this would have happened after all. Yes. Clearly. That was the explanation.
So while he was asleep he was going to take the completest advantage he could manage --
"I'm right behind you," Jules agreed solemnly. "And I've never been. But I have wondered. It will be an experiment, Fogg, if you're willing."
Something gave Fogg pause just at the foot of the stairs; Jules wondered, with a sudden prickling of trepidation, whether he was going to wake up now. But decided very firmly that it was just cold on the main floor of the Aurora for a man still in his stockinged feet who had just recently been very heated indeed in exercise. "Are we going to be all right, though, after all. Are we, Jules."
That was the reason Fogg had seemed so cold. That was the reason Fogg had made him miserable. It had taken Fogg a little longer to realize that he desired Jules than it had taken Jules to comprehend how much he wanted Fogg. That was all. It wasn't Fogg's fault. The English temperament was colder than the French, it took English more time. "One way or the other we are going to be all right, Fogg, I promise you. And in the mean time. We owe it to ourselves to make a thorough investigation. In the spirit of scientific inquiry, of course."
He reached for Fogg's mouth, again, to take the edge off what Fogg might feel sounded a little on the hard side of romantic. Fogg kissed him very sweetly, and smiled.
"Up to bed with you then, Verne, and quick about it, or I shall have to levy sanctions -- tariffs, and impediments -- "
But for all his language Fogg went up the stairs slowly, keeping step with Verne. Into Fogg's bedroom, still made up from Passepartout's last-minute tidying this morning -- a lifetime ago. Fogg slid his bedroom door closed behind them.
Jules lay down on Fogg's bed and reached out toward the man who had become his lover, surrendering himself to his friend's embrace with passionate desire stored in years of longing. It was a risk. It was going to be a risk. But taking the risk -- true to Fogg's teaching -- had already won him treasure so precious he had only ever dreamed about it; and the adventure was only just beginning for them both.
Continued in Additional Risk