Work Text:
Edrington's hair had started to come loose from its queue. A stray curl tickled Bush's nose; he brushed it aside sleepily and draped his arm back over Edrington's body. Through his half-closed eyelids Bush could see that only the faintest hint of starlight crept in past the curtains. It was not yet dawn; he supposed he should go back to sleep.
"Hmm?" Edrington shifted slightly, not quite woken by Bush's movement, but not fully asleep either.
"Nothing," said Bush. "Nothing."
He found himself awake now, though, and lay quietly in the darkness, feeling Edrington's chest rise and fall underneath his arm. He heard the first distant rattle of noise in the street as those with early morning business began to wake. Soon there would be noises closer to hand as the servants in the house rose and set about their daily routine. He knew Edrington's house well enough not to be concerned, though it still amazed him that an entire staff could be made to turn a blind eye to -- well, to the fact that Edrington had brought home a friend and not required any of the guest rooms to be readied.
A strange world, the one Edrington lived in; it seemed almost charmed to Bush at times, so different was it from the life he usually led. To think of himself as Edrington's friend -- let alone as his lover, one of his lovers -- had a strange, dreamlike unreality to it at times. Yet here he was, with a peer of the realm naked and warm against his own body, the residue of their last night's exertions still sticky on their skin.
Without thinking about it, he brought his hand to Edrington's flank and stroked it down over his hip. Then he did it again, and this time, Edrington made an almost inaudible sound and curled against him, shifting as if to make an even greater stretch of his body convenient to Bush's touch. He was still not awake, not by any measure Bush would care to suggest, but -- Bush reflected wryly -- it was like him to offer such an invitation even in his sleep.
Such an invitation and more, as it happened; as Bush ran his hand over Edrington's thigh, Edrington rolled and moved his leg, exposing the inner curve of his buttocks. Bush smiled in the dark, trailing his fingers across the sensitive crease at the top of Edrington's thigh. "Good morning," he murmured, but got no response. Everything in Edrington's pose seemed to say, "Trust me, I'm fast asleep." As if he always slept with his arse wide open to passers-by... though on second thought, perhaps he did.
It was but the work of a moment to find the bottle of oil that Edrington habitually kept by the bed and drizzle a little on his fingers; harder to find a place to put the bottle afterwards, within reach but without spilling, but he managed to prop it between the pillow and the bedhead before tracing one slick finger down the crack of Edrington's arse, bringing it to rest against his entrance. A tiny muffled noise from Edrington, and his finger slipped inside.
They lay quiet for a moment, and Bush felt Edrington flutter around him, tiny internal movements not betrayed by the rest of his body. The faintest aura of light had begun to show around the curtains' edges, illuminating the curve of Edrington's shoulder with a faint blueness. Bush withdrew his finger slowly almost to the tip, then pushed back in. He had done this often enough with Edrington, though usually it was faster, more cursory, a mere preliminary. This time, in the strange gap between sleep and waking, with Edrington prone and silent beside him, neither urging nor taunting him into any sudden action, he found himself taking his time. An unexpected, unprecedented luxury.
Edrington's feigned sleep became less and less convincing as his long, deep breaths grew faster, catching at times with the merest hint of a whimper as Bush fucked him, intently and slowly, now with two fingers and an extra drizzle of the oil. His leg hitched higher, his hips tilted; Bush pressed deeper, and Edrington rose to meet him.
Bush's prick, half hard to begin with and lying heavy between his legs all this time, gave an insistent twitch and came to attention. Time now, he thought, time to -- he withdrew his hand, reaching for the bottle again.
"No." Edrington twisted and grasped Bush's wrist with surprising quickness, belying any pretence of sleep. "Don't -- I mean --" He looked confused for a moment, as far as Bush could tell in the dim light, averting his eyes momentarily and then, with some effort, looking directly at Bush as he said, "Please -- just -- keep doing what you were doing."
Bush nodded, a little disconcerted. None of Edrington's usual arrogance had been in the request, nor even the mocking tone Bush had come to expect from him. A simple request, somehow pure. Perhaps Edrington, too, felt the unreality of this time between night and day, the strangeness of their situation.
Edrington lay back, manoeuvring a pillow under his hips, and Bush set to again, slicking his fingers with more oil, driving them deep and slow into Edrington's body. A third finger, and Edrington's eyes, dark as a moonless sea, met Bush's and held them. Bush could feel the ripple of muscle around his fingers, feel his every movement echoed in the hitch of Edrington's breath, communicated through his gaze.
"Another."
"What?" The word had come out of nowhere, seemingly unconnected to anything.
"Another -- another finger, if you please."
There; the slightest hint of his usual demeanour, the tone of voice that had dared Bush, the very first time they had met, to push him up against a wall... yet his eyes were still steady, and open, and calm. Waiting. Waiting for -- oh.
He hardly knew if it could be possible; his fingers were not slender, and four of them -- he would have worried about causing some injury, had not Edrington been looking at him with an expression of utter trust. Four fingers then, with a steady pressure and a twist of the hand, and he found himself in past the knuckles, Edrington gripping tight around the body of his hand, only his thumb outside. He traced his thumb around the entrance, feeling the stretch of it, spreading oil around, and Edrington shuddered. His body, his chest and thighs, every part of him tensed and vibrating like rigging in a storm, and inside, too: irregular tremors fluttering around Bush's hand. His breath came shakily, once, twice -- almost a sob -- and then he relaxed, every part of him becoming still and heavy at once, and his breath slow and even, the circle of his arse opening to accommodate Bush's hand and draw it in even further, to settle comfortably, it seemed, deep inside him.
Bush reached up with his other hand and laid it on Edrington's chest, and Edrington's own hand grasped it, held it there. Bush could feel Edrington's heartbeat through his ribcage, in perfect time with the pulse he felt with his other hand. He pressed a soft kiss against Edrington's thigh, the most convenient point available, and they rested a moment.
Edrington was the first to move, stroking a fingertip over Bush's hand where it lay on his chest. Bush, in reply, moved his fingers inside Edrington, curling them minutely. Edrington clutched at Bush's hand, held it tight, and Bush repeated the movement, pressing his fingertips against the spot he had found, smooth and hard, in exactly the right place. Edrington tensed again, not shuddering this time, but a building tightness through his body. Bush pressed and stroked again, pressing more kisses into Edrington's taut thigh, murmuring words he hardly knew he spoke, until Edrington clutched desperately at Bush's arm, his shoulder, his hair, and spilled time and time again across his own stomach as Bush watched in awe.
* * *
When Bush woke again it was full light and Edrington was sitting in a chair by the window, being shaved by his valet. "I trust you slept well?" he asked, tilting his head to catch Bush's eye. Weston snorted, and turned Edrington's head back where he wanted it.
"Yes," said Bush, sitting up and reaching for his shirt, feeling the remnants of the night uncomfortably obvious on his skin, and a sudden flush of embarrassment rising to join them.
"I'm pleased to hear it." Despite being covered in lather and having a razorblade against his throat, Edrington managed a smirk. "Will you take coffee?"