@areito as fitzwilliam darcy : darcy murmurs simeon’s name in his sleep, unaware sim's listening.
SPRING HAS BEGUN TO FADE, GIVING WAY TO THE GENTLE ARRIVAL OF SUMMER SUN, TO SIMEON'S DELIGHT. and he must admit, there are few places more beautiful to spend such days than the expansive grounds of pemberley, so seemingly endless that one could easily feel hundreds of miles away from another soul after but even a relatively short ride. it's a fact of which they've taken advantage more than once since sim's apparently sojourn to the country with his patron. more eager tongues of gossip may still wag in london, but not nearly as aggressively as if they were still in the ton's direct sights. besides, it was hardly the most unrealistic conclusion, to believe simeon had taken ill enough to require the rest. a delicate thing, they would think, an artist. truth be told, sim's constitution is more robust than most, but he would take any excuse to accompany darcy to his country home.
a fact he actively chooses not to examine too closely.
were he not so committed to ignoring the obvious, perhaps he would more clearly note how much of the friction between them has evaporated since leaving london. neither of them are strangers to simeon's dramatics, nor his somewhat petty tactics. how many times had he willfully – stubbornly – tempted the young heir back to the city by poisoning the gossip well? did you hear darcy's patronage was seen at another one of those scandalous parties? he allowed them to whisper, thereafter entirely expecting to be pulled from his next social gathering practically by the scruff. it invigorated him, knowing he could so affect the other man, despite the many heated arguments it caused between them.
here, in the country, other details have become invigorating. sim must admit how dearly he enjoys these rides into the trees, saddlebags laden with food and wine, to find a clearing cozy enough to drape blankets and enjoy their lunch until the draw of one another becomes too much to bear any longer. truth be told, he hungers far more for darcy than he ever does for their picnic. upon first arrival, he'd wondered if his heady desire would survive a less dramatic setting, without london society to stir the pot, to drive them to frequent conflict. but if anything, he only burns more. here, darcy seems far more in his element, and while he's not a man to affect full relaxation in almost any circumstance, at least some of the tension seemed to melt from him upon the moment of arrival. to watch him melt into his environment draws simeon like moth to flame. whatever attraction he felt in london now burns unavoidably behind his navel, in his cheeks and throat, such that he can no longer go even days without a taste, despite his tolerance of long absences in the city.
he cannot decide if he prefers nights in darcy's rooms, exploring each other ardently in the dark as though it were the first time, or afternoons like this beneath the sun, bare on one blanket with another draped around his waist as he lays in the warmth, feeling the sweat of exertion evaporate from his skin as he watches his slumbering companion. at the moment, biased as the opinion may be, he leans toward the latter. there's a peace here in the country quiet, with the soft breeze rustling through treetops and their horses grazing peacefully not far away, just beyond the shrubs that conceal them. the heir himself, who seems so rarely to properly rest, looks so beautifully peaceful that sim find himself wishing he could bottle the moment and drink in the memory at a later time when he most needs to quench his thoughts of the other man.
" simeon ... " the artist very nearly responds when darcy stirs and mumbles his name, until he actually looks at him and abruptly realizes that the man is still asleep, dreaming away in the balm of the sun. dreaming of him. the realization floods him with an unfamiliar heat that's becoming more familiar by the day – not the flame of pure desire, no, but something gentler, tamer, longer lasting, like the embers of a fire when it burns low.
his breath leaves him in a gentle shudder as his brow knits together. and then, he smiles, an innocent expression, entirely absent his usual calculation, a complete softening of his fine features rarely seen since he was but an adolescent. even now, the only witnesses are the finches picking at the leftover crumbs of bread from their lunch and the trees concealing their amorous afternoon. for a few moments, his gaze lingers on darcy's fine face, absent its usual dourness in the wake of a restful sleep, until finally, he cannot resist the temptation.
his fingers reach to brush that cheek up to his hairline, hesitating only briefly before brushing back the mess they've made of his dark locks. another breath sighs from him in tandem with a contented sigh from his lover and simeon swears he feels darcy's face tilt into his hand in his sleep. without knowing what compels him, he does something then that he's never done before. leaning down, his soft hand, stained with charcoal from his sketching, still cupped around the other man's head, sim presses his lips to darcy's brow. he inhales the familiar scent of him as he does and it pulls him in enough to make him linger, the tip of his nose resting where the thick of his hair begins. it takes him a few moments to pull away, and even when he does, he still tastes the salt of darcy's skin on his lips.
he'll remember that taste even two hours later, on their ride back to pemberley near dusk.
