The Great Grey

[Continued from here]

"It is perhaps a Dutch trait," Nikolaas replied with a faint lift of one shoulder. Rafael's laugh tugged a faint smile across his lips. "The English do not always find it so charming, even when the topic is less scandalous." They were nearly all shocked by the notion of speaking actual truth, but in many you could read their thrill as well. What a strange, repressed society these Anglos were.

"We are here," Nik said, and began to lift the strap of his bag over his head. "Unless you've a notion of being fucked rather than fucking me, we ought to carry on, I think." Even amidst their conversation, the walk here had allowed ample time to consider what Nik wanted from their interaction, as well as what he had earned in the year he'd spent as a hazy ascetic. He was no priest; he had taken no vow. In all likelihood Maxime was spilling his sorrow into every sweet and ready arse he could find. Why should Nikolaas not chase his own pleasure when it presented itself so conveniently?

The bag was placed on the seat of a chair with care, followed by his coat and suit jacket. In his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, Nikolaas crossed the room to stand before Rafael, and for moment merely afforded him a soft, assessing gaze as slender fingers worked open the buttons of his vest. This man was nothing like Maxime in aspect nor temperament, and that was good. "Shall we test your stamina?"

A click of his tongue against his teeth was Rafael's immediate response to what the English thought. "If we lived our lives according to what the English find charming, we would be very sad men indeed." Though it seemed like Nikolaas had managed to find his ennui even without living according to English whims. Unless, of course, that was the source of his wound and sorrow.

But then that bluntness was put to furthering the scandal, and the playwright found himself entirely smitten with the young poet. Such forwardness would wear with time, he was certain, but for now it was unique. It was new, a shiny plaything that caught the eye and dared it to turn away. "Then by all means, let us carry on."

It was curious to see that bluntness transition into action, too; to see the clothing unceremoniously but neatly removed and set aside, all aspects that Rafael would associate with passion having been stripped, so to speak, from the action of disrobing. Were it less fascinating, it might have been quite the dissuading factor. No one alive had ever accused Rafael of being quite so businesslike when it came to intimacy, or indeed anything. But blunt or not, there was an attractive young man standing before him, and that was something that he was well familiar with.

"Yes, and I shall endeavor to meet your no-doubt exacting standards." Though it was a tease, there was truth to it: Both that he was certain Nikolaas had high standards, and that he would do his utmost to meet them. It was a rare partner that could elicit the oft-dormant streak of dominance in Rafael's personality, but this young man seemed to do so effortlessly. He was a pretty thing, and so forward. It was not hard to step into the role he expected, and indeed Rafael enjoyed doing so.

This time there was no hesitation; no shyness to take him by the back of his neck and pull him down the difference of their height to kiss him. In spite of that lack, it was still a testing of waters; a way to see just what Nikolaas expected, and how he reacted to a firm touch. Even with that desire to control this morsel, ever was Rafael the diligent host and accommodating lover.

Rafael's mouth was warm, and the man himself easy to kiss despite Nikolaas' initial jerking exhalation as their lips met. The Spaniard's mouth tasted dark with coffee, and his fingers were firm at the nape of Nik's neck, pressing with a gentle firmness Nikolaas might have freed himself from at any moment. Such careful handling twisted a knot in his guts — Was he really so transparent? After what he'd said at the cafe, Nik supposed he was.

When they broke for breath, Nikolaas breathed hot against Rafael's mouth for a long, shuddering moment, and then swallowed, eyes fluttering. "I ought to say," he began without drawing away, not quite willing to watch the older man for this, "it has been some time, well over a year, and for three prior I had but one lover." That admission made, he could shift back enough to focus, but his expression had softened into a youthfulness not allowed by the typically-harsh lines of his face. "I do not think I want to align with my standards today, if you understand me."

The young man was more vulnerable even than he'd seemed, and Rafael's expression softened at the honesty he was being entrusted with. It was an honor, though he would not say as much nor did he wish to betray his thoughts. This wasn't a pity fuck, and it wasn't about healing this man's wounded heart, no matter how Rafael felt about it personally. That it was dreadfully romantic, in a way, was his own private treat.

"A far easier goal to meet, then." His fingers gently pet the back of Nik's head, and he pressed another, shorter kiss to the younger man's lips. Then both hands fell to the buttons of Nik's shirt – the last thing he had to undo, at least above his waist. There was no hurry to it, but neither did Rafael see a reason to dawdle; a steady pace with well-practiced fingers undoing one button after the next.

"I've half a mind to fuck you against the window," he mused, "Let the passers-by peep their fill and be jealous of the man who is fucking such a pretty thing like you." Having run out of buttons, his hand instead dropped to rub firmly between Nik's thighs, exploring what he had there. "Or I have all manner of toys in the bedroom, if you fancy something a bit more, mm, exotic." He would not throw the babe into the deep water, of course, but he had little idea of just how experienced Nik had become with his singular lover. He was a young man, and an artist; surely he'd sampled some kind of passion beyond a rote fuck a few times a week, like some dowdy married couple.