* * * * *
Thomas had seen the bells in the window of an antique store in the Cape Cod village they were visiting. He'd ducked in, flipping Marcus off when he made a comment about gay men's obsession with antiques. Thomas got absorbed in the store, picking out some small prints of Cape Cod scenes done in pen and ink. A music box for his sister. He looked over some pieces of old farm equipment, knowing that when he went home for Christmas he'd describe to his dad how they were put together.
He wished he could take Marcus with him. Even if that was a possibility, he knew he wouldn't dare ask Marcus. He'd think Thomas was a lovesick idiot.
Knowing he was an idiot, he even found and bought something he thought Marcus would like.
Outside the store there was a sprung occasional chair, a relic from the nineteen twenties obviously beyond salability, too wo
rn to be anything but a place for patiently waiting husbands. That significance wasn't lost on Thomas as he came out and found Marcus sitting in it, his head propped on the headrest as he caught a cat nap in the sun.
He had an ankle balanced on his opposite knee, his slacks perfectly adjusted, one hand lying loosely on his knee, the other stretched along the chair arm.
He still wore his sunglasses, emphasizing the relaxed curve of his mouth, the slope of his cheekbones. Thomas suspected the female foot traffic along the sidewalk in front of the store had increased exponentially since Marcus had taken the seat. Thomas managed to scare off a covey of them lingering as he stepped out.
He heard their titters, their murmurs. "Figures. He's too gorgeous not to be gay. " He dropped to a squat by the chair. After a brief hesitation, he linked fingers with Marcus', for once trying not to care that they were on a public street. Marcus was much more relaxed about it, but then he hadn't grown up as Thomas had. Marcus had made his peace with his sexual orientation at fourteen. Even at seventeen, Thomas had been trying to bury any suspicion by being on every sports team he could find and taking girls to the prom, in order to give his mother photographs to share with relatives and linger over fondly.
Marcus opened his eyes behind the sunglasses and lifted his head, his sleepy glance going from their linked hands to Thomas' face in a way that made Thomas think of every illicit thing they'd done in the course of the weekend. It made him glad he'd dared to touch Marcus this way.
Get a grip. "Check these out. " He showed Marcus the bells, explained the use for them and their history for shopkeepers as Marcus straightened, touched them and experimented with the sound. "So you think he'll like them?"
"I'm sure he will. " Marcus squeezed his hand, conveying with the simple gesture his awareness of Thomas' rocky relationship with his father.
"I got you something too. " Thomas said it casually, even now wondering if he should have done it at all. Marcus had suits that cost as much as Thomas' entire wardrobe, starting with his first baby shoe until the present day.
"Yeah? Do I need to search you for it?"
When Marcus made a grab for him, Thomas fended him off with a grin and a forearm.
"Cut it out. Here. " The gift had its own container, a pewter incense house that he now pulled carefully from the protective cardboard box. "You can burn tobacco leaves in it to drive off that flowery shit you wear. "
That Thomas loved.
"Redneck Neanderthal. I'll just spray your deodorant around the apartment. Eau de
'I-am-not-gay', aka sweaty sock and pig wallow smell. " But Marcus tempered the too-close-to-home barb with a hand to Thomas' jaw. As Thomas looked down and opened the pewter box, Marcus' hand drifted to his hair, his nape.
He couldn't help it, he started to tense. Touching hands was one thing. This Cape Cod village was more open, but it wasn't New York City. If Marcus should try to kiss him here, on a busy street. . .
He'd tried to mask it, but his Master was too intuitive. Marcus dropped his touch, a brief flash of disappointment on his face before it was gone, replaced by polite interest in what Thomas was offering, making him feel like crap.
"Never mind," he mumbled. "I'll just show you at home. "
"No. " Marcus reached out, closed his hand over the incense container. "You'll show me now. " He lifted the hinged triangular top, blinked.
"It's stupid, nothing you have to wear. "
"Shut up, pet," Marcus said mildly, and the caress in the words, underlined by the gentle reproof, left Thomas silent with a whorl of confusing emotions in his lower abdomen.
Marcus lifted out the dragon tie pin and matching cufflinks. The craftsmanship was exceptional on the antique pieces. They were no bigger than a fingernail and had chips of jade for the eyes, the tiny scales individually sculpted by the long-dead artisan. But his art had lived on. No artist could hope for more than that, to know that when his bones were dust, two people would sit on a street corner and admire what he'd done.
"You remind me of a dragon. Your eyes. " Your heat. Your intensity.
"Sitting on a hoard of treasure?"
That made Thomas smile, the tension in his chest easing. "That's why I brave the flame. "
"No. No, it's not. " Marcus leaned forward then, caught Thomas' lips before he could draw back. He kissed him hard and thoroughly, his hand gripping the back of Thomas' neck so he couldn't move. He was gasping when Marcus at last pulled back.