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It would be just the two of them, reading silently, in wingbacks on either side of a crackling hearth, the only sound, the only light. Only mere feet, just the length of a rug, would separate them, but it would feel like miles. It would be a Romantic for Edward, no doubt. He has a passion for them. Keats. Or Shelley. Maybe Byron, dark and broody. John prefers Robert Burns and was practically raised on Walter Scott, but it would be the psalms tonight for him.
They would steal glances of each other over the top of their books for what would feel like ages until John would catch Edward's gaze, his dark eyes illuminated by the firelight. Edward would shut his book and cross the room to John in quick and agile strides, would fall to his knees in front of John, would take his face his hands. Edward would kiss him. John would put his hand in Edward's chocolate tresses.
"You must be Edward. The new hire in the history department?" John says, extending a hand. "John Irving, Religious Studies."
"Call me Ned." He clasps John's hand in his own, flashes a friendly smile.
Dear John,
Hi John,
Dear John,
Do you want to meet for coffee? Texting might be easier. Here's my number—
"John, sugar?" Ned asks.
John blinks at him. "Sugar?"
It's just the two of them in the history department kitchen. Ned is standing at the counter, holding John's favourite mug in his hand.
"In your tea."
"Oh, yes. Thank you."
"Sometimes I wonder where you go when you get like that."
"Nowhere special, I promise."
Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth—
for your love is more delightful than wine.
sorry! didn't see this! how does 5 sound?
John wakes with a start, sweaty and bewildered. The room is still dark. He reaches for his phone. Not even 3 yet. Chocolate tresses, he thinks in revulsion, did I really?
Edward,
Per my last email—
A country estate. The wiley, windy moors. The Highlands. The American Frontier. A ship to Australia. An Arctic tundra. Your arms.
Do you really want to know where I go?
huh?
Nvm
In his dreams, John can kiss him and, oh, how he does.
I cry your mercy—pity—love! Aye, love!
If the pavement wasn't so hard under his feet, if the lights of the passing cars weren't so bright, if the chilly midnight air wasn't nipping at his nose... Maybe John has had more than a little too much to drink but maybe if he had more he could pretend this was just another one of his dreams. He could loop his arm through Ned's like they were two Victorian gentlemen on a stroll, after a night at the theatre.
Had he had one like that before?
Ned is looking at him through his lashes. He could do it. He could push him against the wall behind him and kiss him. He doesn't.
did I do something the other night?
if i did im sorry
can we talk?
"What do you mean?" George asks, and sips his over-priced coffee, leaving an arch of foam on his upper lip. John thumbs at the tag of his teabag.
"I mean what I've just told you," He tries to keep his voice steady. "that my dreams have turned into erotic sex fantasies about Ned."
George with his foam mustache, places a sympathetic hand on John's arm. "'Erotic sex fantasies' is a bit of a redundancy, isn't it?"
John feels like he's going to pieces.
Can we meet tomorrow and talk?
yeah. everything okay? I can call
Better in person.
ok. coffee?
Sure.
Yours,
Ned
Love,
Ned
Love,
John
"I was wearing a cravat?" Edward laughs.
"Yes, and you looked quite dashing in it."
"Oh did I?" Edward grins, eyebrows raised. John leans forward and kisses him.
How beautiful you are, my darling!
Oh, how beautiful!
Your eyes are doves.
How handsome you are, my beloved!
Oh, how charming!
And our bed is verdant.