Chapter Text
John Moore has given up trying to recall exactly when it was that he fell in love with his friend, and former co-student, the man that is the brilliant alienist Laszlo Kreizler. They met in college, and became companions there on day one, Laszlo a permanent fixture in John’s life. Laszlo was studious, prickly, and deceptively quiet even then, so that he did not have scores of friends as John did. It was obvious to both of them that John had the gift for making friends, but it had only helped in those years.
As far as John knew, Laszlo had never been jealous of these additional friendship, nor even of the one woman that John had come to love, Julia. Over time, John had allowed Kreizler to believe that the drinking he did, was entirely due to her. He had no way to explain to the other man, that in fact it was his own behavior toward John, that led him to such complete internal ruin. When over twenty years have gone by, how do you tell someone that they are your world, knowing they would deprive you of that presence if they knew?
John had rarely indulged his lusts for other men, though he did on occasion spend an hour or two with former soldiers turned bits of scarlet. As former soldiers, most of them were prone to wanting to take orders. The officers of across the ocean, back from their duty to the Queen and Country mainly remained in England, with enough funds not to need to resort to such means to stay alive. They had not migrated in hopes of finding a better life in the Land of Opportunity, only to discover as so many immigrants did, that America was not the place of plenty.
Giving orders though, was nothing John was interested in doing. John was an artist, a writer, a man that wanted only to capture items on paper or to be captured himself. No, soldiers very seldom fit that bill, and none had ever been able to replace Laszlo or his demeanor.
So, John had held on these many years, wanting something he could never have, with someone that would never even think to turn to him for more than his skills with brushes or investigation. It hurt, and down to his very core, but if these were the ways he might serve, then he would do them.
He’d hoped to at least divert Laszlo’s attention for a short while, give him something fresh and enjoyable to focus on, for that was a way to serve him, too. When he’d arrived, it had been to find that Laszlo had chosen to spend time with Sara, and he offered his friendly overture to Mary…who he could tell was likewise hurt by the outing taken by the other pair. For all her not speaking, Mary was smart, and lively, and appreciative of the company. They enjoyed themselves, and perhaps this was serving Laszlo as well, because Mary would be calmer when she returned to the house.
Upon that return, Laszlo has worn that expression of coolness that John knew so well, and hated above all things. John had accused him of being jealous, truly meaning about John being out with someone else, though again, he allowed Laszlo to believe otherwise. As expected, Laszlo had risen to the bait, and taken it to mean jealousy harbored due to some love he personally had for Mary. In some form of semi truce, Laszlo had requested John help him button his boots, and of course John had acquiesced.
In all honesty, it was not that way either. There had been no real reluctance on John’s part to kneel in front of Laszlo, and it was in fact a secret longing he held close to him almost every night of his life. It would not do to have his friend be aware of this though, so John had put on a slight show. Trying to give as good as he got, in this way, if not in the one he craved. He’d clasped the man’s foot in his hand, gently worked the button hook around each disk, and pushed it through with meticulous care.
Not addressing the possibility of being in love with Mary, however, Laszlo had thrown the Julia betrayal in his face, and John had been stricken anew by the kind of sting only Laszlo could inflict upon him. He had retaliated, telling the alienist to button his own boots, but only after the pointed statement had been made, “The question you should be asking is not why I push you away, but why you stay?”
Why, indeed? John knew, and bile role in his throat that afternoon after he left his friend’s side, bitterness only forced down by equal parts alcohol. God, if such a being in fact existed, then the deity knew that he wanted to remain at Laszlo’s feet. To button his boots, to kiss them, to wind his arms around the other man, to do more…Had he been able, he might have lingered there for an eternity. But, to allow Laszlo to mock him, and not put on a show of being angered over it, that was to court disaster.
His friend made his very living reading the intentions of others, getting beneath their skin, and deflecting anything that came to close to him. John alternately wanted to be that something close, that something that would push Laszo past a certain zone. And yet, he feared it above all other things. How could he not? He knew Laszlo had a habit of taking in the mistreated, but being an invert with feelings toward him, John was concerned would be too much.
Still, as he left Laszlo behind in the empty room, he paused on the threshold of leaving with his hat and coat in hand. Putting on neither, he fought a thousand old battles in his head, almost missing the sound of the steps that quietly carried the alienist up behind him. It was the hand on his, pressing the coat first, and then drawing it out. That was what roused him from his black study, and he caught his breath, letting it grow to be too much inside his chest.
Breath, passing the high neckline of his starched shirt, that came next. “You want to stay.” It wasn’t a question, and it was done much too close to be a friendly overture from a man that defied the conventions, but seldom enough to allow himself to be exposed. “I spoke in haste.” It wasn’t an apology, but it might be the closest thing of which Laszlo was capable. He pulled the coat from John’s yielding fingers, doing the same with his hat. Setting them on the console table, his fingers then interlocked with John’s, leading him toward the staircase only a few feet away.
“Laszlo, I…” Can’t. Won’t. Neither of those things. Shouldn’t. Yes, that was the crux of it. He was shaking his head with false denial, but as Laszlo led him by the hand, he naturally followed. Inside, he knew he had no choice. Where Laszlo wished him to be, John would go.
It was a silent progression up the stairs, and despite Laszlo releasing his hand as he walked ahead, John continued in his wake. His ears were ringing, his throat was dry, but he did not hesitate. Laszlo opened the door to his suite of rooms, waiting for John to cross the barrier, still without saying anything word.
Once John made it into the domain, Laszlo shut the door, locking it forcefully behind them. He lifted his left hand, flattening John’s back against the wooden surface, and crowding him with his body. Head bowing forward, he grazed his lips against the plane of John’s jawline, beard lightly intensifying the experience after each press, each breath. “Why do you do it, John? You do it for no one else, and you believe I cannot see that.” He wasn’t mocking now, but there was a definite tone of triumph, one combined with command as he expected an answer they both already knew.
John drew in breaths through his nose, expelling them as slowly as he could, so he did not hyperventilate. It was happening. Twenty years of suppressed feelings were being forced to the surface by a few well-placed words, and Laszlo’s physical presence. John attempted one final denial, refusing to turn his face toward the kisses with which Laszlo was marking him, not letting his hands stray from clenched fists at his own sides. “I have done nothing. I am…your friend.” To his ears, the last word sounded so puny, so lacking in truth compared to how he honestly felt for this man.
“You’re right. You have done nothing. And I have waited, years in fact. Waited to see, to hold…” Laslzo slid his fingers across the smooth surface of John’s chest, across the expensive linen shirt and waistcoat, upward to the collar that he deftly began to detach with the one hand. “To claim.” The collar came away, and Laszlo dropped it like so much clutter on the floor, managed the single button behind it, then encircled the plaid tie and coiled it loosely around his hand. Things had gone too far, and both knew there was no returning from this.
“Undress. I want you. Now.” Laszlo withdrew his hand, and turned his back to John, only that he might walk across to the winged back chair sitting diagonally from his bed. Here, he sank, laying his hands against the rests as he waited for John to comply.
Hardly breathing now, John stepped away from the door, trying to keep some composure. It was deteriorating rapidly, however, and when his eyes finally met Laszlo’s again, he gave in. It was but the work of a few moments, releasing the buttons of the crimson waistcoat, removing the tie, the linen shirt, the pinstripe trousers, and finally his undergarments. He kept his eyes on Laszlo, a touch defiant, but also marking whether the other man’s coolness would in someway melt. To his distress, it did not appear to be so.
Laszlo lifted his hand, pointing to the ground at his feet, both now resting against the elegant Aubusson rug where John’s clothing had been strewn. Like a man in a trance, but senses much too heightened for that to be true, John followed the directive. His knees did not buckle, but it was not far off, his hands cautious as he used them to touch lightly upon Laszlo’s thighs. The material there was just as fine as what John wore, if more subdued, and he turned his head to rest his cheek along one of them.
Laszlo’s fingers moved, gently stroking down into the cropped darkness of John’s hair, his voice holding a tightness that went against the tender care he appeared to be trying to give John. “Tell me. All of it.”
Less a demand now, but as if something was about to snap, and John could feel the muscles in his legs tense under his cheek. Fearing that Laszlo would rise, knock him away, and demand they never speak of this again, John could not refuse him. Gripping the man’s trousers, John lifted his face, eyes full of yearning and beseeching need to be understood in his voice.
”There is no room in my body for anything but you. My arms love you, my ears adore you, my knees shake with blind affection. I may not be a smart man, but I know what love is. I have loved you always. I would follow you anywhere. To hell, if I must. If I am not with you, I am nothing.” The plea to not be turned away was there in the strain of tone, and the tension draining color from his fingers. John was not a small man, nor a weak man, but at that moment he had never felt more unsteady or susceptible to pain.
Laszlo’s statement was less clipped than normal, the resonance deeper, and while he did not smile, it was obvious he intended John to be comforted. “You are wrong, John. Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed. I have let you fear, for too long. The passion you now show, proves that you are mine. You are not nothing, nor have you ever been. With this case, it is possible we have indeed descended into the Inferno, but my punishment would be gladly endured, if it comes at the price of my sins with you.”