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in sheer disbelief, the grief that bestows its roots deep inside his chest, the shoots that grow and grow until they become overbearing—too much—ceases in its confusing diplomacy, as a treaty commences now, in the searing touch of goldsmith's hand on his, burning. for once, breathing doesn't suffocate, not when the kindest blue eyes grace him with such forgiving mercy, that his knees tremble, jolly and perplexed, all the same, all-consuming, and there's life, a spark that ignites underneath his skin, a sizzle, mending brittle bones into imperfect perfection once more.
and silverman relishes the gentlest graze of their lips, daring one another to cross the crossed line, unsure if it's still allowed. smiling, oh-so-sweetly, when goldsmith envelops him in a bone-shattering hug, drawing their bodies closer. feeling the curves and edges and arches and bends of their souls intertwining, under the flicker of the light bulb, nosy footsteps wishing to pry, at such a moment of vulnerability, between two lovers no longer separated by cruel, callous fate. and like gravity, the world beneath shoeless feet continues spinning—yet silverman stops in his tracks, as honesty tumbles from quivering pilgrims, aching, "y-your grace..."
the gush of sharp air almost pierces, slices goldsmith's sanity into parts and fragments, as the sweetest calling from a beloved smashes the coldest walls and reckless hopelessness into ashes, into mere nothings—and there's this brazen delight, a consort of golden specks and the prettiest green from silverman's eyes, to wed itself around their fingers, another unspoken promise for the hereafter. he closes his eyes, scarlet spectacles colliding with the pallor of silverman's cheeks, brushing the button of his nose, and their laughter echoes in the encapsulating space, a crescendo of affection brimming, soaring.
"i've yearned to hear your voice calling for my name, silverman," breathless, goldsmith is, upon bearing his heart on the sleeves, broken and mended and ruined and healed. curious hands meandering. exploring. searching for another place to reside, and by then, they settle on the sides of the oculist's face, home, eternal. he treasures the zeal of skin on skin, brushing against the little mole under the left eye, as noted, as edged on the caffeine-stained portrait, drawn two years ago—when goldsmith was so certain, so in love and so smitten, that even before he regained his vision, these eyes would only see one person, and he alone—just him.
silverman takes it as a hint, some whimsical invitation, a destined intervention—to coquet, to ease the tension at the ends of goldsmith's fingers—where every touch on his body ignites waves and bumps so magnetic, so ecstatic, it's dizzyingly hypnotic. he ought to close his eyes only to savour it. he teases, again, for good measure, for sheer luck. tapping at goldsmith's chest, following the thundering rhythm, chuckling when the beat pulsates astray, echoing his own. "your grace, have you longed for my voice so dreadfully?"
involuntarily, goldsmith laughs—too. and he noses on silverman's cheeks, kisses faintly everywhere his mouth can reach, just so the ghost of his touch will linger with him, even when his body has to retreat somewhere far, someplace foreign after today, after tomorrow, after whenever—may they haunt his lover in sleep and wake, for he shall think about this blessed malediction for as long as they're together, for as short as they're apart—hopefully, god, please.
"i ought to hear your voice when i wake from slumber, every single morning, since you left. i yearned to hear you more than to see you. although it might sound like a lie, i grew so attached to your sweetest tone, the immense joy when you successfully uttered those difficult words, the determination in reading the treaties, when you kept asking me to explain in secular terms, and i would argue, proceed. they were never friendly, often confusing, but you made them sound so cordial, so... chummy," goldsmith chuckles at this, embarrassed almost, when silverman's head lolls back and forth, amused by the impromptu confession. but there's a shift in his voice, when another string of truth cascades, as he continues, "the memory of you talking to me, reading to me, was peckishly adamant in my mind. i couldn't forget, even if forced, more so tormented. i would never forget you."
fuchsia brushes along silverman's cheeks, glimmering like freckles and constellations on honeysilk skin, plunging south, scattering like wildfire across his neck, as he avoids goldsmith's attentive gaze, too sincere, reflecting his own feelings ricocheting. he asks, playing along, yet losing so much control of his hands, his legs, himself, "you and your mouth, your grace. such... such a deceitful heartbreaker."
"i never wished to hurt you, silverman. it was never my intention. everything i said was the utmost truth. trust me, and that shall only be my humblest request."
"but you could've broken my heart without attempting to, your grace. you could've said things you wouldn't mean, and i would still believe they did."
"how so?"
"by wanting to see my face first after the surgery. by loving me at night and calling me yours. by bethrothing someone else in the pretence of alliances, status, wealth, or some sort..."
"dear, i would never," goldsmith immediately assures, sensing another impending doom in his bosom, cracking bones and stomping on constricting lungs. forehead against forehead, as his thumbs draw circles around silverman's cheeks—when tears fall, he shatters. he repeats, trying to prove a point, wanting silverman to believe, stay, "cross my heart, and i shall die if this is a lie—because, darling, my love, it isn't."
silverman prays he won't be affected by these bittersweet untruths. but the certitude arrives in leaflet waves and tremendous ripples, along the skin and the prickle in the heart, when he blinks away the tears, so furiously, saying, "but everyone was talking about it. your duty as the duke. marriage with a respectable lady would benefit many parties, as your responsibility is to assure the peace and security of your lineage with someone as powerful—lady beatrice—or other beautiful women in london, and not—" never me.
realisation hits goldsmith directly at his core, like brick walls fallen from such a fragile foundation. new cracks appear in these once-locked chambers, overflowing with relentless guilt and stifling remorse, now open, only for the beholder of the keys. he gathers silverman in his arms, kissing the crown of his head, wishing he could take all his pain away, just so he would stop bleeding from within—because they're standing on a pool of crimson, adjoined by this ache so nauseating, that goldsmith holds on, and latches onto his dearest, with all his might, until his knuckles turn white, until he mumbles his name and other fond callings alike.
"silverman," goldsmith calls, and he hears the solemnity in that voice. "owen," the duke singsongs, carefully, tenderly, foolishly—and silverman freezes, before he melts, and melts, and melts. it's the first time goldsmith has ever addressed him that way, and it's so intimate, so close that it feels so elusive, so—fleeting.
"my sincerest apologies for the outlandish things you heard in my manor two years ago. i wasn't aware that some people ran their mouths and told fraudulent stories about my life. but i wish to inform you, my dear, that it's absolutely impossible to have eyes on anyone else when they've been on you ever since the first day—ever since you came into my life, late as ever."
he laughs—silverman shouldn't, but he does, and it's infuriating, even to his own regard. goldsmith's smile challenges the mellow sunlight from the open windows. fond rays alight in the ebony of his silk-like hair, in the chasm of those blue, pretty eyes.
"selfishly, i want to believe you," he says, dejected. there's surrender, in his arms wrapping around the duke's neck, pulling him close, nuzzling at the spot his heart jumps upon contact, smelling like cedar and wood and comfort. "i want to believe you've chosen me then, and will choose me even now."
goldsmith takes the oculist's hands, guiding them to his chest, where the first pledge transpires. "i shall be the happiest man alive if you believe, that i would've given the london sun and all its rains to you, my love."
the duke follows him, with his lips, with his hands, tasting and touching, until silverman's no longer breathing, for a reason so tantalisingly addictive—that he foolishly agrees, because there was love then, and there's love now—will always be.
it's peaceful, yet again. the distant chatter from the villagers, the screams and laughter from the kids playing, the pots clanking and the glasses clinking, somewhere, somewhere in one's house; this normalcy makes goldsmith crave to stay. holding onto silverman so openly, without prejudice and fear of concerns so uncanny, seeing the light in those eyes and the curly golden locks, the mole and the pink of his lips. a greedy man, he has become, for this man who stole his love at first sight—how ironic.
he is goo in the duke's embrace. resting his hands atop his, around the waist, where they should be. and silverman treasures the junctures when their lips speak words can't utter, in sincerity and overwhelming affection—their eyes profess feelings so sacred, shared only between the two.
maybe then, goldsmith finally understands, that these eyes have only begun serving their purpose—to look at silverman's own, green and enchanting and beautiful.
perhaps now, silverman understands, having the duke here, away from the ruckus of city life, makes him see the world differently—one that assures him, that he will always be loved even in the dark, under the warmest october sunlight, blessing them yellow.
it feels a lot like forever here—just the two of them, finding each other again, and again, and again, until fate argues they won't, and destiny beseeches another hurdle.
but until then—this feels a lot like forever, like home.
the moment spirals into a daze—as one article of clothing comes off, prying fingers, quavering, grazing the canvas of bare skin, never marked by anyone else since that day, never desired to be someone else's. then another one, and another, until they're bare on the bed. fallen like angels, loved like the gods. a squeak so deafening, eliciting uproars of the giddiest laughter from them both. it's a lot like teenagers falling in love for the first time—the only time it happens, they reckon—this carefree urge to consume, perversely infatuated, helplessly captivated. so much languid happiness, in the twined tendrils of their limbs on limbs against the coarse linen sheets, moving hands eager to savour, to wonder about forgotten places, territories allowed to conquer.
when goldsmith hovers above silverman, their groins touching, teasing, greeting, a moan escapes, throaty and needy and frantic—yet goldsmith showers him with kisses meant to heal, to comfort, that he wants this only with him, that there shall be no lady or a gentleman underneath, beyond or by his side other than him.
and it's mind-boggling—to witness such profound sincerity, implored in the frost of those magnetising eyes, spoken only nectarine truths against his throat, sensing the jolt in his rickety pulse, every time goldsmith is near. he smiles then. silverman smiles too.
"have i told you how ravishing you are, silverman?"
silverman jokes, allowing his hands to reach everywhere goldsmith is—along his bottom lip, the cut on his eyebrow, the sharpness of his jaw. "i acquire no such memory, my grace."
surprised, goldsmith is. he has never spoken his wonderment for the oculist's dangerous charm. it's a grave sin of its own. "you must know how beautiful you are," he continues, pleased. "i experienced severe palpitations whenever you took my blinds off, silverman, more so when you were close. oh, the control you had on me, the spell you cast; i'm endlessly bewitched."
silverman watches goldsmith in disbelief, attempting to comprehend this side of the duke he never knew existed with vigorous wonderment, in a body so rigid from duties, tense from responsibilities; he's silly and goofy and so impeccably real that he's bamboozled, once more, by his audacity to be so... flirtatious.
"your grace, you ought to cease with such flirtations..."
"can't you handle it, my dear?"
"it's snobbishly overbearing!"
"i was only telling the truth!"
"you can keep your truths to yourself, then!"
there are tickles and pinches on the tender skin of the waist, the lines of toned chest, and there's laughter too, a string that pulls them towards each other, becoming gravity, flouting destinies without their names written side by side on paper, or treaties, or anywhere—because this is the happiness so overdue, two years too late, yet two years more and beyond.
goldsmith whispers, tracing the shell of silverman's ear with his tongue, loving how the oculist squirms from the unexpected intrusion. he braces himself for the best and the worst, as he says, "but there's one truth i shan't keep to myself forever, my dear."
"and that is?"
he looks at silverman as if he hangs the sun from the bluest skies, dangles the moon along the vast night sky—when he professes, "that i love you, owen. i've loved you. and i still do. i love you."
the ring of his name in goldsmith's voice, a chime from the distant wedding bells, sometime soon, perhaps later, is groundbreaking. the trajectory of silverman's life changes instantly—as the universe hears the duke's confession. it's now wistful manifestations, no longer only earnest wishes. so he cradles goldsmith so tenderly, smiling, of gratitude, of acceptance, of peace. fresh tears well in his eyes; by the second, he places his heart on a silver platter—as compensation, as a gift for his sweetheart. only the truth, he answers, no longer fearful, stripped of doubts. "i love you too, my grace."
"david," goldsmith corrects, pecking his lips. when silverman halts in silence, in shock, he adds, "call me david when it's only us. i only favour you calling me by my name."
for one last time, silverman tests the waters. "only me?"
"only you," and goldsmith passes with just a try.
it's easier to breathe now. goldsmith doesn't know he hasn't been until this second. and it's easier now, everything is, when the anguish in his heart disappears, the moment silverman kisses him with similar fervour, chasing after his lips when he teases, again and again—because it's allowed, he's permitted.
he wants to live here, forever if possible; this home filled with scents of spirits, surgical and the freshest whiffs of sourdough, the muskiness of damp soil beneath overly polished dress shoes, washed sheets and dimly lit candles—like lavender, like silverman. goldmisth harbours no affection for the house back in the manor. the bed's too big, too enclosing. the walls scream the cries of death and solitude. the mirror fogs animosity. only a lonesome reflection staring back at his soul. questioning, despising the rift caused by farcical misunderstandings he couldn't atone for with regained eyesight.
the day passes slower. time stops at moments that matter the most: when silverman slips into dreamland, when goldsmith brews teabags in two cups as he watches from a distance, his sweetheart draped in slumber, rises when the smell of herbs and flowers penetrates the kind walls of the room. they sip and watch the world outside the window. goldsmith's hands are dormant around silverman's waist, moving when he moves, staying when he stays. kisses on the shoulder, the neck and everywhere, down to the spine, until the duke's lips reach places, that invite moans and groans and wails of pleasure to erupt—like fireworks, like specks and glitters, resounding in the ears.
goldsmith tells the oculist he loves him, especially wrapped in the tightest warmth, clenching around him as he thrusts, on cloud nine every time silverman takes him in.
and he hears the same i love you, as they catch their breaths through stolen exhales, from their swelling lips, etched on his heart like a forever tattoo, branded like an oath.
goldsmith stares into the captivating pair of green eyes—looking at the blue of his own—believing that one day, he will be on his knees and ask for his hand in marriage. it's a must. a long-time dream. yet he settles for something a little less daunting. he says, "let me stay here, at least for a few days, before i return to the manor and tell them about you, us."
when their hands interlocked once more, silverman questions, agitated for a split second, before he smiles, all-knowing. "us? will your parents ever bestow their blessings, my lord?"
with such unwavering confidence, goldsmith vows, "they shall."
there's peace in the smile silverman wears, and it makes his heart ache—in such a delicious way. "if my grace is certain, then i'll be too."
"love, aren't you afraid?"
"i am," silverman takes goldsmith's hands near to his lips. before long, he kisses the hills and valleys, pronouncing another promise. "but when you came here, when you found me again, even when i attempted to disappear from your life for good, i realised, i was more afraid of losing you the second time. i couldn't bear the possibility of it happening again. so i shall trust you, with my life, my grace. i believe in our love more than anything."
air doesn't circulate the duke's lungs, but gratitude instead. "love, i won't take your feelings for granted. i shall fight for us until we see the light of day. i truthfully, only wish to be with you for life, and our every other lifetime together."
and he whispers, once more, when love consumes his hands and limbs and bones and his everything—when silverman pulls him closer, waiting, "please, don't leave my sight ever again. losing you is deadlier than any demise, my angel."
"i won't," silverman assures, kissing the duke's forehead gently. "i'll be here with you. always."
and goldsmith kisses him, again and again, until he's breathless, no longer restless, only mindless, without the oculist's lips on his. "don't leave me."
one more kiss, and another, and another, until they're infinite. "never," silverman promises too.