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The Strathvagen lands, while hardly the largest peerage in Scotland, were not small. Acres of forest; significant farm fields; a sprawling estate featuring with a manor that boasted sixty-two rooms, and lately, a pavilion fit for a Celestial dragon and his rotating series of guests.
With so much space at their disposal, it would not have been difficult for the for Lord Tharkay and the esteemed Admiral Laurence to go days without seeing one another.
Perhaps that would have been true, if Laurence had accepted the offer to stay in the guest house on the grounds, which had the benefit of being in slightly better condition than the main manor after the estate's long neglect. "I will do very well in the main building," Laurence deferred, "and in any case I would not wish to create a heavier workload for the servants to no end." And so he ended up selecting quarters only a corridor down from Tharkay's.
Of course, things fell into place from there. There was a great deal of work to do in the first months of their habitation, the first few years. Tharkay was peculiar in his tastes; Temeraire opinionated in his; Laurence had some experience in carpentry, and a willingness to learn more. For a trio who were ostensibly retired, their days were long, filled with hammering, sawing, brick-laying, sweeping, polishing, dusting, surveying, measuring, and more.
It was only sensible they would eat together. Sometimes all three of them, outside; under the open skies in fair weather, then the great tarp they erected for when the seasons turned cool and wet; and then finally beneath the great pavilion, once its construction was complete. Sometimes their schedules diverged, and Tharkay and Laurence would take their meals in the manor's dining room, which over the months of their labour transformed from cool and dim to warm and bright.
It was of course only practical to eat in the same time and the same place, but this ran beyond practicality. It was long established habit, of course, for Laurence and Temeraire to read to one another in the evenings. Now Tharkay found himself coming to listen at least a handful of times per week, occupying his hands by cleaning the leather of the dragon's harness or polishing his breastplate. More evenings than not found them in the parlour, sharing a drink or playing a game. (Laurence enjoyed cards; Tharkay preferred backgammon; both proved to be equally horrendous at Go.) The day time often found them entreating Temeraire for flights. Sometimes this was to practical ends, such as meeting with the land's tenants or running errands, while other times it was for the sheer joy of flight.
It became increasingly clear to Laurence that the pair of them had not been invited to stay on a whim or temporary guests. It became equally clear to Tharkay that Temeraire and Laurence were not inclined to leave at the first shift of the winds. With this understanding came a sort of inevitability, as like water circles a drain, or as the arrow of a compass spins towards north.
The inevitability was seen in a dozen tiny gestures. In Tharkay bowing low to breathe deep from spring's first rose blossom as Laurence, dirt-stained, felt a deep welling pride. In Laurence's gentle encouragement towards a return to falconry, with a gift of a fine protective set of leather gloves finally setting Tharkay towards daily exploration of the surrounding woods. In Laurence's occasional screaming nightmares never being met not with comment, but by a lit candle in the library and a warm mug of posset.
Will kneeling on the floor, taking Tenzing's hands in his, working a balm of eucalyptus and camphor deep into the other man's hands, his friend sighing in sweet relief.
Something, eventually, was going to give a final push— to see the circumstances to their obvious conclusion. Indeed, the pair's friends gave many such pushes.
"And still, he has shown no notion...?" John asked, on one visit, while Laurence had stepped out to the privy.
"Truly, you two are not so engaged? Well, colour me surprised," Jane commented on a visit of her own, as she and Laurence lay dressed in blankets and little else.
"You know, or you should, I hope, that I have no issue with you mating," Temeraire said, to both of them, separately, in what he thought was a most discreet way. To Laurence alone he added: "It is not like marriage, and in any sense, Tharkay is already ours, so that would quite change the equation regardless. Not that I mean to pry. Only that mating can be very enjoyable, and quite beneficial to one's constitution, and I wish to ensure you are not lacking."
As the case was, however, it was a blizzard which finally broke the holding pattern.
The snow fell upon the land like a blanke while the wind howled like a banshee. It was a frantic few days of preparation, ensuring that the land was prepared for nature's siege. Once the work was done, Tharkay dismissed nearly all the servants, sending them all home to see the weather through, with Temeraire escorting each of them to their families as quickly and as safely as could ever be accomplished.
The effort left him exhausted, in a way which went far beyond physical. After the long campaign in Russia, Temeraire detested the cold as he detested little else, and it leeched his spirits in a way which could be genuinely distressing to behold. At least he was faring far better this winter than he had their first, with the pavilion complete, its floor heated and its thick curtains drawn against the driving winds. Temeraire drank his fill of a warm broth of soup, then tucked his head beneath his wings and went soundly to sleep.
While neither Laurence nor Tharkay's dread of the cold was as great as the dragon's, neither could either of them say to be unmoved by it. They shed their damp flying coats with great relief, and sought the sanctuary of Tharkay's room, so selected for being one of the only rooms with a fire burning in its hearth.
"I hate to see him suffer so," Laurence said, meaning Temeraire. "Though I have said it before, again I must thank you for the shelter you given him. Him, and me both."
"I know," Tharkay said, and did not need to say any more.
While not as common a place for their evening constitutionals as the parlour or the library, impromptu conversations were common enough that both of them had established seats, space several feet away from one another. Yet with the wind howling against the window panes, and the cold so oppressive, it was not long until both of them were creeping their seats forward, an inch at a time, closer to the flames.
After an hour, Laurence stood, and tossed another log on the fire. Turning around, he saw how comically close both their chairs had come, and laughed. After a moment, Tharkay laughed as well, and it was so unlike his usual; unrestrained and free.
"Perhaps," he said, "we should dispose of chairs entirely." So saying, he pushed them both away, and fetched the heavy blankets from the bed, spreading them out before the hearth. Laurence frowned, checking that the fabric had not strayed too close to the flames, but as always, Tharkay had been careful.
The pair laid down besides one another, only a hand-span apart. "This reminds me of making camp," Laurence said, with a strange rush of nostalgia.
"More comfortable, I hope, than the Taklamakan, or the Australian outback."
"Much." Laurence perched his head upon a pillow, and stretched out his leg, which brushed up against Tharkay's.
Tharkay froze. Laurence froze. The pair glanced at each other; then quickly broke eye contact to gaze back into the fire.
Slowly, casually, Tharkay's hand came to rest on the flagstone between them. "Your room will be cold."
"And yours would be lonely." Laurence's hand, less scarred but still worn, came to rest on top of Tharkay's.
Everything was hushed as the pair drew in for a kiss.
Neither were inexperienced, but there was the fumbling uncertainty of a relationship transforming. Their chins were both scratchy with a day's growth. Will tasted of brandy and his after-support mint; Tenzing of tobacco and toffee. Their skin was as warm as the wind outside was cold.
That cold was what made it unwise to discard of their clothing... But the heavy blanket pulled over both of their bodies, pressed close together, soon made up for the loss.
When Tharkay awoke the next morning, it was to an empty bed— well, empty assemblage of blankets and pillows upon the floor— and he was struck with a bone-deep dread.
For so much of his life, dread had been a clear sign it was time to run. To flee, to escape. His entire skin, his every bone, itched with the urge to vanish into the forest.
But he was no longer some anonymous vagabond, but a Lord, and he had the obligations to his land and his tenants to think about. More convincing, at that very moment, was the thick blanket of snow which coated the entire countryside. So Tharkay set his fantasies of running off aside, for the moment, and descended down the stairs to the dining room.
A fire burned in the hearth, the table already set and a meal already set out, albeit much abbreviated given the circumstances. Laurence's place had clearly been undisturbed.
Tharkay sat. He poured himself coffee. Forgot to add cream and sugar, and did not bother adding them in the aftermath of his first disgusted sip. For once he barely noticed the bitterness. He took two slices of bread, buttered them, perhaps even added jam, but took perhaps two bites.
More than once people had asked him how he managed alone on the trail for such long stretches of time, and had not meant in the sense of the most base necessities of food and water and medical treatment. They had referred to the pleasures of physical touch as if it was a physical necessity in of itself.
Tharkay's answer had been the same for them all, regardless; "I manage well enough." And it was true. He did not seem to have the same pull which spurred so many other men and women to heights of great passion, and his life seemed all the simpler for it.
In his other profession, such as it was, the affairs of the flesh were a little more relevant. Tharkay tended to consider them merely another tool in his box, though one he only used judiciously. It served as a useful form of camouflage, allowing him to deflect and distract. One thing he learned to appreciate was that in a world of uncertain allegiances and motivations, you could at least know where you stood with someone in a single solitary respect, once you had fucked them.
He had thought, at last, he knew where he stood with Will. Now, it seemed, he had horribly miscalculated.
After he had finally managed to take, chew, and swallow his third bite of toast, a sudden cool burst o air made Tharkay twist. It was Will, shouldering his way in, his coat already discarded in the cloakroom, but a sprinkle of snow on his hair gave away where he had been. "Apologies for my tardiness; I wished to check on Temeraire. He assures me he is perfectly well, despite the blizzard, and not to fret."
Temeraire. Of course. Laurence had merely gone to check on Temeraire. He should have known.
"I am glad to hear it," Tharkay said, and took a sip of his too-bitter coffee. "And you?"
Will tilted his head, expression almost shy. "I consider myself very well," he said, and took his usual seat across from Tharkay.
As Tharkay reached for the sugar, he allowed himself to smile.
Laurence, for his part, had spent the morning deep within his own thoughts.
As Laurence dressed and regarded his reflection int he mirror, he wondered: Was it wrong, what they had done?
The Bible would certainly say so. But Laurence could admit, privately to himself, that soldiers did not always live as closely in accordance with the Bible as they should. To that end, he had made his own accounting of his sins; and in that great summation of his deeds, he found it difficult to believe that a thing such as this would tip the scales greatly in either direction.
As he opened the front hall door and wind bit at his face, he thought of Granby. He thought of Granby, and of Little, and the well-wishes he had gave them, and the sincere spirit with which he had given them. It could only through some great species of hypocrisy, Laurence thought, to condemn in himself what he had not only accepted and encouraged in his friend.
Yes, he thought, as his feet crunched over the snow-blanketed path. Once reconciled with inversion in someone else, Laurence found it surprisingly easy to reconcile within himself.
And so it was, by the time he had reached Temeraire, and in the sheltered warmth of his pavilion the dragon had sniffed him with a delicately flickering tongue and said, "You and Tharkay have become mates at last, then?", that Laurence felt little out of the way of his usual embarrassment in response.
"Yes," he answered simply.
"Oh, that is splendid! You must both be pleased."
Yes, Laurence thought, they both must be. For all his doubts, since waking he had felt a lightness in his heart, a warmth in his chest, and knew very well its fuel. And though he had yet to speak with Tharkay, he did not think it was overstepping to suspect the other man must feel the same way. Certainly, he had given every sign of enjoyment the night before.
But it was more than that. When Laurence had awoke that morning, the pair of them tangled up in the blankets together, he had taken the moment to simply watch Tenzing's face in sleep.
For all they had had to share tents and other quarters many a time in their long travels, Laurence had rarely had the opportunity to do so, as they were both early riders when upon the road. One of the only times— the last time— Laurence had had the opportunity had been after Tharkay's rescue in China, as he had sat vigil by Tharkay's bed. Then, even in drugged sleep, the man's face had been a mask of pain of fear.
In the pale morning light, only a breath away, Tenzing's dear face had been smooth and smiling.
No. He would not regret anything which inspired such peace.
Things changed afterwards, but not as much as one might expect.
That evening, after drinks and a few hands of cards, Tharkay tilted his head at Laurence, and Laurence nodded back. They slept in Tharkay's room that night— in his room, and in his bed. Only sleep, Tenzing tucked small inside Will's arms.
So they slept the next night, and the next, and the next.
Items began to migrate from Laurence's quarters to Tharkay's. Not everything, certainly; everything else aside, there would not be room. But certainly a section of the wardrobe becomes home to Laurence's favourite daily outfits. Meanwhile, his razor and brush came to sit on the vanity next to Tharkay's much more impressive collection of salves and colognes, and eventually Laurence's favourite painting of a ship at sail was hung on the wall above their bed.
The servants must have noticed. Of course they must have. But Tharkay was thoughtful in who he chose to hire. He hardly had to say a word to the head housekeeper, and he knew she would handle the rest.
If the secret were to slip out, it would likely be through Temeraire, who on account of size and temperament both was nearly incapable of whispering. But Parliament was proving to be an effective teacher in the importance of discretion, and he already been lectured on the important of circumspection in regards to Granby. He was privately effusive, and otherwise scarcely said a word on the subject.
For all they shared a bed, love making was a rarity, one they indulged in perhaps once a season, or even less. They saved it for long afternoons where there was little else to occupy themselves, or for when the other returned from an extended absence, their hearts filled with yearning. Otherwise, it seemed unnecessary.
Neither wondered much on the other's relative lack of appetite, nor spoke on it. This too seemed unnecessary. They both trusted the other to speak, to initiate upon their needs.
Instead, they showed their affections in other ways. A gift of a pocket-watch or fountain pen; a folded shirt or jacket; a kiss brushed against the other's cheeks; hands held in the quiet shelter of Temeraire's coils.
A year or so later, Granby was visiting, along with Little, and Roland, achieved through some triumph in military scheduling. It was a joy, to have so may friends visiting. The manor grounds could sometimes seem rather empty and desolate, and there was nothing like a coil of four dragons sleeping in a pile on the grass to make it seem wonderfully lived in.
On the final day of the visit, they were all taking drinks in the parlour. Spirits were high; scarcely two minutes could pass without the whole room breaking into raucous laughter. With such a spirit of camaraderie surrounding him, Laurence took a risk— calculated, but a risk nonetheless— and placed a hand on Tharkay's thigh. Tharkay, in response, leaned almost imperceptibly closer.
Little, usually something of a day dreamer, did not seem to notice. Granby blinked and looked between the two of them. Roland snorted. "Well," she said. "Glad to see you two have figured that out, then."
"We have come to an arrangement," Laurence agreed.
"An arrangement, eh?" Granby pressed, eyebrows raised.
"An arrangement," Tharkay repeated. For once, both he and Laurence's smiles were nearly equally enigmatic.