Authors: Laylah Hunter
“You never know,” Tom says as he starts setting up the board. “I might have improved since you saw me last! I’ve had years to work on it.”
“True,” Blake allows, “but so have I.” He sits down at the table, stealing himself a cookie.
Tom looks perfectly, charmingly undaunted. “Show me what you can do, then.”
It’s clear as they start the game that Tom
has
improved over the last few years; he takes his time with his moves now, thinking them through, and it’s actual work to keep ahead of him instead of being a simple process to leave him trapped. Watching him study the board, gray eyes narrowed in concentration, is enough of a distraction to leave them well matched.
Not that it’s a cutthroat match by any means. In between moves, Tom coaxes Blake into telling stories about going to sea, about the adventures he’s had there. His eyes sparkle with delight, and he hangs on every word when Blake talks about weathering storms on the high seas. He volunteers information about his own last few years in return; he’s studying law now, with the intent of bringing suit against crooked industrialists to win some kind of compensation for factory widows and orphans. He blushes when he explains that, studying the rook in his hand instead of meeting Blake’s eyes. It’s one of the sweetest things Blake has ever heard.
Blake takes the first match, though it’s a near thing. They have to stop to light the lamps before they can play again, but they’re both clearly hungry for a rematch. Midway through the second game, Blake is reaching for one of his bishops when Tom’s hand snakes out to catch his. Blake goes still. “Tom?”
“Sorry,” Tom says, letting go and smiling sheepishly. “I just keep feeling like this must be a dream, and like you can’t really be here. Had to reassure myself, is all.”
“It’s real,” Blake says. “I’m real.” For him, it feels more like the last seven years have been the dream, a bad one that he’s just now woken from. “But I suppose I can reassure you again later if you need it.”
Tom nods. “Excellent. I’ll hold you to that.” He looks back down at the board. “Check, by the way.”
He’s right, the bastard. It’s cleverly done, with the queen presenting an obvious threat but his knight in position to block the most obvious escape. Blake studies the board as much in admiration as annoyance, trying to figure out how he’s going to get out of this one.
Six moves later, he concedes the game, as checkmate starts to look inevitable. “Nicely done,” he admits.
“And you said you didn’t have a present for me!” Tom says. “I’ll take that victory and be pleased with it, thank you very much.”
“You earned that all on your own,” Blake says.
The light’s well and truly gone by then, and the warm, savory smell of Alice’s soup permeates the house. Tom packs up the chess set while Blake sets the dining table, and they all sit down together to the most flavorful, filling meal Blake has had in months. There’s rich broth, savory ham, meltingly soft potatoes, and dark bread to mop up the last of the soup from their bowls when they finish. Blake had thought that coming back to port was the same as coming home, but this visit is showing him the difference. He hasn’t felt this much
at home
since he left in the first place.
After supper Blake and Tom take on the washing up, so Alice won’t have to. Tom washes dishes and Blake dries them, trying to suppress his ridiculous delight every time Tom’s hand brushes his. He was a foolish boy to think that he’d rather run away and have nothing at all than content himself with this.
Alice comes back into the kitchen just as they’re finishing up. “Carolers coming up the street,” she says, refilling the cookie platter that they’d done such a number on earlier. “Fetch your coats, boys.”
“All this and carolers, too,” Blake says as he follows Tom to the door. “Do you suppose they’re any better at it than we were?”
Tom laughs. “Let’s hope.”
They pile out onto the front step as the carolers reach their door. The children are pink-cheeked and bundled up against the cold, and they might not be ready for the Metropolitan Opera House, but they do a very enthusiastic rendition of “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen” all the same. Tom leans against Blake’s side and Blake murmurs, “I’m still real,” his heart aching when that doesn’t make Tom move away.
Alice treats the carolers to cookies before they march off to the next house, their lanterns swaying, their bells jingling. The lantern light catches the first tiny flakes of falling snow. “White Christmas after all,” Alice says with a nod. She opens the door and they all tromp back inside to get warm. “That’ll be a pretty sight to wake up to.”
“Good thing we got the wood in already,” Tom says. He puts another log on the fire in the parlor.
“It certainly is,” Alice agrees. She covers a yawn with her hand and shakes her head. “I’m too old to wait up for Saint Nick these days. I think I’ll be retiring for the night.”
Tom stoops to kiss her cheek. “Good night, Gran,” he says.
“Sleep well,” Blake adds.
Alice smiles at them both. “Good night,” she says. “If you’re still up when Saint Nick arrives, tell him I’ve been a good girl this year.”
“We’ll tell him,” Blake promises.
Alice retires upstairs, and Blake goes to warm his hands by the fire. “Brandy?” Tom asks. He’s already pouring a snifter for himself.
“Thank you,” Blake says. “I was going to say it’s just like old times, but we weren’t allowed in the brandy last time I was here.”
Tom smiles. “Probably for the best. We were hellions enough without liquor addling our judgment.”
“And of course you’re staid and responsible now,” Blake says. He takes the snifter Tom offers him.
“Absolutely,” Tom says, completely straight-faced. He takes a seat on the sofa, and after only a moment’s hesitation Blake joins him there. “Here’s to homecomings,” he says.
Blake lifts his glass. “To coming home.”
The brandy is smooth and rich, warmth chasing down Blake’s throat and blossoming in his stomach. He closes his eyes to savor the feeling of heat, letting himself relax into the softness of the sofa. This is almost perfect, much closer than he ever thought it would be.
Tom sighs; it sounds like a contented noise. “This is going to be the best Christmas in ages. I’m so glad you’re here, Blake.” His hand comes to rest on Blake’s shoulder, warm through the fabric of Blake’s shirt. “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have with me for the holidays, you know.”
“Not anyone?” Blake asks. “I’d have thought you’d have a sweetheart you’d be pining for.”
Tom pulls his hand away, and Blake curses himself for ruining the moment. “No,” Tom says quietly. “I don’t… have anyone like that.” He sounds so quiet and cautious, and he’s looking down into his brandy as if he’s searching for something there.
“I’m sorry,” Blake says. “I didn’t mean to pry, or bring up bad memories, or… anything.” Has someone broken Tom’s heart? He fights down the surge of protective anger. It’s not his business, is it? He walked away; he doesn’t even truly have a best friend’s right to be outraged on Tom’s behalf.
“No,” Tom says, “it’s fine. I’ve actually never really found anyone. Not… not someone I wanted to be serious with.” He’s still looking for answers in his brandy snifter. “I actually thought, ah.” He downs the contents of the snifter in one gulp, grimacing, and sets it on the side table. “I’ve wondered sometimes if you… wanted me, back then. Don’t be angry with me!” He’s hurrying through the confession now, while Blake sits stunned, unable to find words. “I didn’t think so at the time, but later, after I’d gone to university, and I met a fellow who, well, who
did
think of me that way, and it made me wonder… I know it’s not likely, and I don’t mean to cause offense, I just… the idea nags at me, and—”
Blake recovers from the shock enough to take Tom’s hand, and that silences him. “You couldn’t cause me offense if you tried,” Blake says. His voice is shaking; he clears his throat before he goes on. “The idea nags at you, you said. So… if it were true?”
Tom takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Then I think I might be even more cross with you for running off like that. Without—without giving me any sort of a chance!”
Now Blake is the one who can’t believe this is real. He stares at Tom, still stunned, trying to figure out where to start. “I’m an idiot,” he says, which seems like the obvious place to start. “I’ve been a complete idiot for seven years, and I’m so sorry.”
“Then,” Tom says. “It is true? Or—or was?” He squeezes Blake’s hand in his.
“Is,” Blake says. “It is true. I fell for you when I was fifteen, and I was sure you couldn’t possibly feel the same, and I… ran away rather than admit it.” He clings to the fact that Tom is still holding his hand. He wants to
hope
, after the way this day has gone.
Tom nods slowly, like he’s thinking. “You always did get to things first. I’m not sure I would have known what to do with myself if you’d told me when we were fifteen.” He meets Blake’s eyes steadily. “But I’ve thought about it a lot since, you know. What I would do if you told me now.”
“And?” Blake asks. “What did you decide?”
“This,” Tom says.
He leans forward, slowly, smoothly, and presses his lips to Blake’s. Blake’s heart hammers in his ears, and for an instant it feels as though the entire world has simply stopped, as though nothing is real except this. He leans into Tom and kisses back, tasting brandy on Tom’s lips, feeling the faint scrape of stubble as he presses harder. Tom’s mouth opens for his tongue and Blake groans, trying to stifle the noise, his skin breaking out in goose bumps as Tom’s tongue meets his.
Tom shifts his weight and Blake moves with him, sliding closer and pulling Tom into his arms. This is the kiss he’s spent the last seven years telling himself would never happen, and now he’s gloriously, wonderfully wrong. Tom’s body is strong and solid in his arms, teeth scraping his lip, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his neck. His cock stirs and he makes another helpless sound of need into the kiss. He’s been telling himself the kiss wouldn’t happen, so he hasn’t even let himself
think
of anything more, and now the possibility alone is almost enough to ruin him.
When Tom breaks the kiss, Blake can’t bring himself to let go. He rests his head on Tom’s shoulder, treasuring their closeness, breathing in the sweet, musky traces of Tom’s eau de cologne.
“Blake,” Tom says. “Oh, Blake.” He runs his fingers through Blake’s hair, almost unbearably tender. “You came home to me.”
“For you,” Blake says. “I swear, I’ll never go away that long again.”
Tom laughs softly, his voice cracking as if he’s close to tears, too. “You’d better not. After this, I’d have to chase you down.”
“I wouldn’t want you to have to do that,” Blake says. Then they’re kissing again, slick and warm, increasingly urgent. Tom runs one hand down Blake’s back, and Blake slides his palm up Tom’s thigh. Tom moans. “I want—” Blake starts. Is it too soon? He has no idea what Tom is expecting, what he’s ready for.
“So do I,” Tom says, even though Blake hadn’t let himself finish the statement. “I know it seems a bit like rushing things, but I’ve been waiting ages to be able to track you down, and you’ve been waiting even longer for me to figure things out, so….”
Blake nods. “Take me upstairs,” he says. “Take me to bed.”
Tom’s eyes light up with the thrill of a challenge, and he grabs Blake’s hand to haul him up off the sofa. Blake laughs, letting himself be dragged out of the parlor and up the stairs. They both try to step quietly, so they won’t wake Alice if she’s already asleep, but the excitement is hard to contain.
Tom lights the lamps in his room, then pauses like he’s not sure where to start. “Here,” Blake says, reaching for him. “Let me see you.” He reaches out to pull Tom’s shirt untucked and start on the buttons. He has only a moment’s head start before Tom mirrors the gesture, hands shaking but not hesitant at all. Blake pushes Tom’s shirt off his shoulders and tugs at the undershirt below, dragging it up to bare sleek skin turned golden in the lamplight and the scatter of dark hair across Tom’s chest.
For his part, Tom looks amazed and delighted when he gets Blake bared to the waist. “You have tattoos,” he says reproachfully, as if they’re a secret Blake has been keeping. He touches the anchor on Blake’s right forearm. “Every inch the proper sailor, aren’t you?”
Blake grins. “Everyone knows sailors are improper as a rule,” he says. He flexes the muscle there to make the anchor rope appear to move, wanting nothing more than to have Tom keep touching him.
“Do they mean things?” Tom asks. “Is it true you get them to give you good luck?”
“There’s some truth in it, I suppose,” Blake says. “There’s the anchor, here, to keep me grounded when things get rough. The birds, here,”—he shows Tom the tiny flock inked on his left shoulder—“they’re for the freedom to go anywhere I please.”
“And this one?” Tom places the palm of his hand over the compass rose on Blake’s chest. “Right over your heart.”
Blake looks him in the eyes. “So I’ll always be able to find my way home,” he says. He leans in to kiss Tom again, because he
is
home now, at last; the compass has done its work.
Tom’s room isn’t quite as warm as the parlor was, depending as it does on the warmth from the fires downstairs, but when they’re in each other’s arms it hardly matters. The feel of bare skin on skin leaves Blake feeling intoxicated, and he thinks perhaps he’ll never get enough of kissing Tom. He’s slept with other men plenty of times in the last few years, but none of them have made him feel so greedy for kisses, so hungry for every little touch.
Blake shivers, and Tom laughs into his mouth. “We should get you under the covers, if you’re chilled.”
“Won’t argue with that,” Blake says. He tugs at the waistband of Tom’s trousers. “Lose these on the way?”
“Right,” Tom says, still looking giddy with excitement. He sheds his trousers as Blake does likewise, and Blake steals a quick glance before they tumble into bed and under the protection of the quilt. Tom’s cock is thick and ruddy, already hard, standing stiff amid dense black curls. When they slip into bed Tom reaches for Blake immediately, and their bodies fit flush against each other with perfect ease. Tom filled out to be a bit broader, a bit more solidly muscular than Blake; he must be doing some sort of sport, because a chest like that doesn’t come from poring over law books.