AN: Quick warning: this chapter contains a LIME. Scurry away or enjoy, whichever the case may be . . .more mind droppings after the chapter . . .

Chapter One: Refuge From the Rain

London is Culture. Culture is London. Well . . .that is, to an extent . . .

How can this be put delicately? Well, tales have been told of beautiful, picturesque mountains that tower in small faceless countries. Dazzling cliffs and gullies remain cold stone for untold ages; beautiful, serene - and solid, stable rock to their cores. And then, one day, a tremor shakes the land . . .followed by another . . .and another . . .and suddenly the cool serene beauty is replaced by towering pillars of smoke and ash, and molten stone flows like blood.

All contained beneath a cool, brittle veneer . . .

London was very much the same in its layers of class, nobility, and wealth, in it’s opulence and despondency, in the gold gilded fortresses, and the muddy brown
allies. And beneath these burdens of humanity, beneath the lives of man, there raged
a war unlike any other. A war for peace some would claim, a war for blood jeered others. But war was war, and at its source laid that which had spawned so many others of its kind - land, pride, and power.

And this war was fought in the diseased alleyways, the drunken taverns, the palaces, and the sewers. Man went on about his way, and there in the shadows, we of the Courts killed and died. Our war was as invisible to Mother London as the wind was to the sparrow. . .

But as the wind may push the sparrow from his course, so too did our war act upon the lives of Man. We warped and twisted the sights of society until it was blind to us, and those who did see failed to meet longevity. And yet, with the introduction of two young men, in the year of our Lord 1864, my clever metaphor ends: for when in history has the sparrow fought against the wind and won?

Deep in the bustling heart of London lived the Williamsons, a rich, old family that had lived in opulence from the time of the meca’s birth. As a staple of London culture, their manners were exquisite, their breeding impeccable, and their merchant business successful enough to rival a Spaniard’s. In essence, they were perfection in the whirling twirling world of aristocracy. That is, until the advent of their third son, Nathaniel Jacob Williamson, a rebellious blemish on the crisp white linen of the family tree.

Now, to say this story is solely of one rebellious nobleman is a tragedy. Indeed, there would be no tale to tell if not for one manservant, a simple man by name James Clavell, whose life was about to become quite contrary to any meaning of the word "simple", and whose unspoken relation to aforementioned nobleman is fundamental to this tale.

The two boys - for truly, they were no more than boys at the escapade’s outset - had temperaments of night and day. Nathaniel wanted nothing more than an alleyway, a narrow side street that lead away from the shackles of Wealth and Prosperity, to the Real World beyond. He could touch it, he said, view it, but he could not truly live it

James, raised the son of a cook and butler, knew well the world of the lower classes, and was less idealistic of the affairs of the masses. But he humored Nathaniel, listened to his twisted accounts of how it would be, how wondrous their lives together could be, if only . . . "If only", James had long since decided, were the two cruelest words of man.

But, to the horror and ultimate disclaim of Nathaniel, there were no side streets, not for that weary duo. For them, it seemed impossible to slink away from the unerring culture of Wealth and Prosperity. The alleyways were blocked with stone and mortar, the rooftops held no solace, and the horses would not flee the bright lights of damnable perfection.

But it seemed that Fate experienced a brief and fleeting spell of levity. For upon those two suffering in quiet agony, those two that could never be, He showed His good humor.

For them, He opened the sewers.

~ From the memoirs of Sestania Blackwing, Captain of the Seelie Sidhe

* **

"Dammit! That’s my chest, not a cut of meat, you ass!" A young, well-to-do gentleman, dressed in the clothes that one so often finds a young well-to-do gentleman wearing, lay battered and bruised on an ancient work table in the barn’s dusty, shadow-ridden corner. His shirt and vest lay forgotten on the floor, discarded in the need to examine the flesh wound oozing from his side. A manservant of similar youth, and disparate temperament, bent over him with a needle and flagging patience.

"Perhaps, Master Williamson, if you did not find it necessary to go about in the slums at ungodly hours of the night, you would not find yourself embroiled in brawls that you - and I cannot doubt this more – "had no part in initiating," and thus you would not, how shall put this? Have your backside thoroughly beaten, which in turn would save me the trouble of rising at said ungodly hour to stitch you back together with my
less-than-complete medical expertise, and listen to your school girl whining over a few, simple, stitches," he punctuated the last few words with sharply tugged sutchers, each garnering a soft, strained whimper. James almost felt bad for his patient. But not quite.

"You have the bedside manner of a mortician," Nathaniel complained wearily.

"Yes, well, I try" James said abruptly, turning away from the makeshift examination table to close up a sewing kit. He spoke swiftly as he stuffed equipment back into the chest "You should really be getting inside, Master Williamson, your fiancée is staying the night, I assume you’ve forgotten, yes?" A horrible woman, James thought savagely, all acrylic and corset. "Your parents were apoplectic when you failed to show for dinner" He continued in a clipped voice "And I must say, if you want to regain any favor with them you should -" he was cut off gently as warm hands wrapped around his waist from behind.

"Don’t call me that, James" came the soft whisper, that not minutes ago had been voicing pained protests, "Not when we’re alone." Nathaniel’s lips brushed his ear as he spoke, and the hot breath sent icy hot slivers of anticipation through him. James melted back into the touch without thinking. These quiet moments sent worries of the outside world from his mind like a startled horse. Who cares what they think, what they’d do if they knew? It didn’t matter; nothing mattered besides the strong, familiar arms wrapped around his waist, and the man they belonged to. The security in Nate’s body leant itself to the other man, making such defiant thoughts possible.

"Yes, Nate, you’re right," James said, smiling gently and turning around in the embrace. "Habit, you know?" A cruel habit made necessary by the unscrupulous demands of society.

He gently brushed an errant strand of hair from his lover’s face. Nate was beautiful in these moments: his skin a shade or two tanner than deemed appropriate, mahogany hair that was an inch or two too long, and honey eyes that lingered on his manservant for a second or two longer than one should observe the help. What could he possibly see in me? James wondered, not for the first time. His own build was narrow, his hair black, skin pale, and his eyes a plain, basic brown. And, not for the first time, he dismissed the thought, and gladly took the deep affection for what it was.

Nate’s honey eyes lit up as he leaned forward to nuzzle the smaller man’s neck. "How long has it been, love?"

James gasped softly as Nate brought him close, kneading his back and gently letting playful kisses fall on his neck.

"Weeks." The reply was breathless, and a soft groan followed the words as Nate tugged the shirt from his britches and slid a cold hand against his skin. The shock was enough to restore a flicker of reality. "We . . .oh God." His hands went to Nate’s naked shoulders as the other man gently slid a thigh between his legs. "Nate, no, we can’t . . .if your family . . ." But James was barley listening to himself, which meant Nate was long past
hearing him.

Nate let his lips trail up to his face, finally coming to rest on the other man’s lips. Their mouths brushed gently as Nate spoke, "And what would my family be doing in the barn at such an "ungodly hour"?"

James mumbled something that may have been a protest, but Nate had never heard a protest voiced in such a desperate, needy tone, so he took his instincts and ran with them. He kissed the smaller man in full, his tongue delving past James’ lips, kissing deeply and filling the barn with soft wet noises and muted groans. James’ arms wrapped needfully around Nate’s shoulders bringing him closer still, and the security of the other man’s
hands on his own waist did not leave him. When they pulled apart both were
breathless and aching with need.

"God, do you have any idea how much I’ve missed this?" Nate’s eyes lidded
heavily as he spoke. "It’s been so long . . .I’ve missed you. . ." he trailed off as deft fingers set to work on the buttons of the other man’s shirt.

"Stop." James’ voice was weak and his eyes slipped closed with a satisfied sigh even as he spoke, but Nate paused, concern deep in his face. James eyes fluttered open and his voice was as smooth as black velvet when he spoke, "Not here, the loft."

Nate smiled widely, "Such a romantic."

They’d been boys the first time they laid together, right there in that very loft. Both had reached adolescence with similar confusion and lack of interest in the opposite gender. Throughout childhood, they’d been the closest of friends: both raised in the same household, it seemed unimportant to the pair that one was of nobility and the other no more than a servant’s whelp.

So amidst the hay and horses, one hot summer night, the boyhood friendship had progressed to something more. Curiosity and confused emotions won out over what they’d been taught as propriety, and they’d kissed. And kissing lead to touching, and touching lead to more touching, and that had lead to love making.

The first time had been awkward and painful, and resulted in James acquiring
a slight limp that lasted only a few days and went largely unnoticed. That resulted in Nate apologizing profusely for weeks to come. But over the course of years and a multitude of secret meetings, they’d learned. Oh yes, they’d learned.

As the two men fumbled their way towards the loft, both were frustrated to find it nearly impossible to scale a ladder and undress at the same time. At least safely.

"Hey! Slow down!" Nate chided gently as James’ leg slipped on a rung, nearly sending him to the ground, "We’ve got plenty of time." The smile was reassuring - no, it was much more than reassuring. It was simple in form and complex in meaning. It was all James ever need know.

As they reached the loft, Nate spread an old blanket across the scratchy hay. James sighed as he laid down on it. This had gone forgotten the first time as well. It had been hard to discern the fingernail marks from the scratches left by rubbing hay.

Nate laid down against him gently, dropping deep, wet kisses along the smaller man’s neck. A sigh against the wet saliva made James shiver in the cool, rain soaked smell of October.

"I’ve missed you." The confession flowed from James’ lips like an endearment. He ran his fingers aimlessly across Nate’s back as the other man bent over him. "God, I’ve missed you and - ahh!" Nate’s hands had dropped lower, gently caressing the bulge through the rough fabric of James’ britches. "Missed that too," he muttered shakily into his lover’s shoulder.

From there, the two explored each other’s bodies with an intensity and need that hadn’t flagged since that first night nearly five years past. Clothes slid from sinewy bodies like shed skin, a small vile of oil was fumbled from its secret hiding place in a hollowed beam, soft whimpers rapidly turned to moans . . . to Nate’s ears, his lover’s sounds were music.

On James’ slick chest glittered a pendant wrought of sterling. Though the necklace shimmered in the foggy night, Nate’s hands and eyes moved over it without truly seeing it; a thousand times before he had laid eyes on it, and now, compared with the backdrop of his lovely, arching manservant, Nate was hardly wasting time admiring the snaking metal. And James, likewise accustomed to the pendant that never left his neck, barely took notice of it as Nate’s hands moved along his body in tender reverence.

Hot skin against skin as they joined, slow at first - pain was long forgotten memory - until sheer need forced them into a passionate rhythm. Theirs was the tempo of tides.

Soft strangled moans as they came, Nate quickly following James over the edge into mindless, trembling passion. The barn was as reverently silent as the two men made love.

Afterwards, as always, Nate held James closely and talked quietly of what could be . . . if only.

"I’ve heard that this isn’t all that uncommon in Singapore," Nate said hopefully, "I mean, perhaps there it wouldn’t be so hard, you know?" A hand was lazily tracing its way across James’ spine.

James nodded contently, just enjoying his place nestled in the crook of Nate’s shoulder, his tousled, hay-speckled hair resting on his lover’s chest. He knew - oh how well he knew! - that they would never see Singapore. Hell, they may never see Manchester, let alone the far off wonders of the Indian Oceans. But that was a logical thought. And logic
had no place in their solace made of hay.

So, rather than crush the paradise that existed only in the moments between breaths, in the idealistic mind that only doomed lover could lay claim to, James said, "I’ve always wanted to see the Orient."

Nate nodded in agreement, and then launched into a wild account of how they would escape the demands of society, buy their way aboard a Spaniard’s ship, pirate their way across the wild seas, battle off the Royal Navy, and then live happily ever after amidst the caring, understanding people of Singapore.

"If only I could get money together without Father knowing." Nate scowled as he ran his fingers over the smaller man’s pendant.

Somewhere, deep in the city, a clock chimed the fourth hour of the new day.

James sighed deeply and slowly roused himself. It would be nice, just once, to sleep in Nate’s arms and wake with him. But such luxuries were entirely too dangerous. As he tried to untangle himself, Nate playfully pulled him down atop him, holding him chest to chest.

"Up for another round?" He grinned.

James grinned back, blushing lightly. Gods, they’d been sleeping together for years now, modesty shouldn’t have been an issue.

"We can’t," James said, smiling as he spoke, "Everyone will be about in an hour’s time, we can’t afford the risk."

"An hour?" Nate asked, arching an eyebrow, "You give me too much credit, love."

James rolled his eyes, and reluctantly disengaged himself from the other man’s arms. Deftly, he stepped around the loft, picking up a sock here, a shirt there. Nate laid back on the cloak for several long moments, watching the smaller man dress. After a few minutes, he sighed and resigned himself to the need for clothing.

"Where’s my shirt?" Nate asked, confused. James looked back over his shoulder to see his lover sitting on the battered blanket, hay in his hair, shirtless, and more or less suffering from post-sex dementia

He grinned deeply as tucked his necklace beneath his shirt. "Down below man, remember? Dangerous ally? Attempted burglary? Bleeding side?"

As if unaware, Nate’s hand went to his side and lightly brushed over the fresh wound, wincing slightly. James took pity on him, walked over and gently settled himself into the other man’s lap.

"You okay?" he asked gently, letting light fingers examine the stitches. "We didn’t . . .over stress anything, did we?"

Nate wasn’t paying attention. He let his arms slide around the younger man’s waist and pulled him close. James was aware that he was being studied with deep, amber eyes.

"I don’t want to go back," Nate said softy, holding the other man desperately in a chaste embrace. His voice quavered.

"I know, I know," James whispered back, letting slender fingers trail through the mahogany hair. There was nothing else to say. To say that everything would be all right would be a lie. In an hour, James would don his work clothes, get the help rallied to prepare breakfast, serve the Williamsons, and watch the man he loved flirt with dim-witted aristocrat that Nate would one day marry. It was his damnable, respectable duty to wed well, breed well, and find a household of his own. His birthright was inescapable.

"I never want to leave you," Nate whispered, his arms still tightly wrapped around James.

James smiled, tried his best to be comforting, "Then don’t." While Nate crafted fantasies and impossible adventures, James had devised ways that would stop the two from ever parting. If James was sent to work in Nate’s household after the wedding, they would be together. Yes, James would have to live with the fact that his lover went to bed each night with a woman he did not love, but they would be together, and that was all that mattered.

The two stayed intertwined, James securely locked in Nate’s embrace, both covered in hay and sweat, for several long and equally fleeting moments. The harsh cruel light of day was dawning, and their love could not stand the morning’s rays.

Slowly, James rose from the embrace, and gently pulled Nate upright. Their eyes locked, and Nate slowly pushed a strand of hair from the manservant’s face. The moment was perfect, frozen in time, beyond the piercing claws of reality. In those fugitive seconds, they were the only two left real; they were the only two that mattered.

Nate’s voice broke the delicate, porcelain perfection, "I lo-"

James fingers flew to the other’s mouth, effectively stopping the words.

"Don’t," James said hoarsely, his eyes suddenly wet. "I know, just . . .just don’t."

He did know, he knew it as truly as he knew dawn lead to day. It should have been the feelings he thought dangerous, not the simple word. But it was as if saying the words - giving them shape and form - would make their lives too tragic. The sad, hopeless situation would then be too much to bare, and the last vestige of sanity would be swept from beneath their feet, leaving them empty and hollow in a world that had never cared, governed by a Fate that saw entertainment in the pain of mortals.

James leaned forward and apologized in the form of a sweet, chaste kiss. "We mustn’t." His voice was steady and sure, belying his trembling hands, "We mustn’t, don’t you see?"

Nate closed his eyes and nodded forlornly, "I know . . . .It’s not fair"

James’ returned smile was sad. "No, 'tisn't."

It was a few minutes more before they parted, descending the loft’s ladder with masks that sank back into place without effort. They knew this pain so well, it’s prickling ache was almost numb.

Almost. But not quite.

They stood together on the stable’s threshold, both looking off into the foggy hint of day. Behind them stood their refuge, ahead the rain, and there on that line between them, time had ceased to be. James’ eyes became moist once more, and he blinked rapidly to clear them. His lover’s gaze, that woody, amber gaze, focused upon him and a soft rumble bid him goodbye: "I shall see you on the morrow, James"

James swallowed and looked to the fading stars, trying his best to forget the quiet, suffering need in his lover’s farewell. "Yes sir, Master Williamson, sleep yea well"

And the two men stepped away from refuge, towards the brightening light of day.

AN: Any of you that have read me before know that I’m one for long winded AN’s so bear with me, once in a while I say something important.

MAJOR and deep-felt thanks to my beta, Liz, the twisted half of Twisted Revolution, who so kindly beta’d this, and made sure my spelling checked out (which was a major task in itself) placed all those little things called ‘punctuation’ in my sentences, fixed grammar (HIL GRAMMAR!), and listened as I pondered various titles.

Update info and other random stuff can be found at my LJ . . as always, feel free to email/IM me, I love talking to people . . .-grin-

Anywho! I am a self admitted review-whore. Feed the habit. Help expedite the next chapter. Review.

-mutters- I will not beg, I will not beg, I will not beg . . . .