With Everything I Have

by Cooper, R.

  With Everything I Have

  R. Cooper

  Published at Smashwords

  Copyright 2013

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  “Sebastian.” Peter stood on the other side of the door in what might have once been crisp, white shirtsleeves. He wasn’t wearing a dinner jacket but his trousers were coal black and there was a cravat at his throat in the same shade. He was too pale for such a dark colour but there was something striking in how he always dressed so plainly. Despite the ancient claims of his family, there was more Norman than Saxon evident in the lean, handsome lines of him. Peter’s face could have been the work of an artist, fine cheekbones and slender nose, full lips, and eyes the shade of Scottish whiskey. Ornament was not necessary.

  His eyebrows were what made him a real man of flesh. They were too serious, bordering on thick despite the slight arch over the right one. His brows were the same dark brown as his hair, which someone, probably Smythe, who doubled as a valet when required, had tried to hold in place with pomade.

  A curl had strayed into Peter’s face despite Smythe’s best efforts. It nearly covered the grease mark by Peter’s ear.

  Sebastian gave a long sigh and tried not to glance too obviously at Peter’s half-dressed state. He didn’t get to see Peter dressed for the evening nearly as often as he’d like. Peter’s shirt had been cut to fit his body, emphasizing his slim hips and the startling breadth of his shoulders yet Peter seemed entirely unconscious of the effect he could have had if he ever chose to venture out into society dressed in his finest evening wear.

  “I can see that you at least tried to remember that you had an engagement tonight.” Sebastian smiled as he said it, unsurprised in the extreme that Peter had once again failed to appear at a party where he’d been expected.

  Peter froze. In the gas-lit hallway, flames seemed to dance from the brass fixtures to his eyes and back again.

  Sebastian was possibly in a cup too deep and indulging his love of poetry, but it had been a long night and Peter looked impossibly fetching in his stark black and white attire. Peter, of course, knew nothing of it and widened his eyes when he caught Sebastian’s stare.

  Peter looked away first, what could have been guilt darkening his cheeks. When he turned back his gaze lingered on Sebastian’s far more decorative choice in evening wear; his tight waistcoat, the perfectly starched cut of his collar against his throat. Unlike Peter, Sebastian was often to be found dressed in his best. Unlike Peter, Sebastian had been at Harold’s dinner party.

  Sebastian took a moment to give Peter another considering glance, this time with a mind to Peter’s health more than his clothes. Sebastian was considered something of a dandy in most circles—he couldn’t help liking bright colours and soft fabrics any more than he could help having the good taste and admirable figure to wear them well. Tonight he’d chosen a green paisley silk waistcoat, with a jade pin in his cravat, and a rich velvet coat with a purple lining. He was willing to admit his choices were a touch dramatic but they had suited his mood. Sebastian had been of a mind to be noticed when he had dressed for the dinner, and jade made his eyes look clear and green as a cucumber. Warm brown skin from a Jamaican grandmother meant he could often wear the colours others couldn’t and he delighted in doing so. Only his hair was safe from his peacocking impulses. That, he kept short and parted slightly off-center, the waves smoothed down with oil. His beard and mustache were small and carefully groomed.

  Peter was always clean shaven, Sebastian suspected more due to convenience than Smythe’s skill with a razor. Not that he blamed Smythe, the man was a butler not a valet, although in Peter’s unusual household the servants all seemed to do a little bit of everything.

  Perhaps Peter was thinking of his staff, long since retired for the night, when he frowned in Sebastian’s direction and then out at the hallway leading to his bedchamber.

  “What are you doing here?” Peter had shadows under his eyes and grease along the beds of his fingernails. How he’d kept his shirt clean was a mystery.

  Sebastian put a hand out and leaned against the doorjamb, just shy of standing too close to Peter. “That’s what I was planning on asking you. You were supposed to be somewhere tonight, remember?” He had no doubt that Peter remembered. Peter had even dressed for the occasion. “You’re fortunate Harold is one of the few men in London who is familiar with your habits.”

  “I had planned to go,” Peter immediately excused himself, looking more than a little like a fox during a hunt. Sebastian imagined that was how Peter felt too, hunted. Even a harmless gathering of friends seemed instill in Peter a fear that was hard to explain. He followed through on only a third of the invitations he dared to accept and was generally a wreck afterward.

  “At least you aren’t pretending that your work kept you.” If he hadn’t been carrying a heavy basket, Sebastian would have crossed his arms. As it was he attempted a stern look that Peter didn’t seem to notice.

  That was a deception; Peter noticed everything. It was the reason he claimed to find the company of others so wearying. He said he saw and heard too much and felt as though felt he had to be on guard for everything. After years of knowing him and seeing his exhaustion in the days following such events, Sebastian no longer questioned it.

  He did, however, hate the cause of Peter’s fears with every shred of his being and remained resolved to counter it with all of his strength. So he dropped his teasing manner and lowered his voice.

  “They missed seeing you,” he offered. He had also missed seeing Peter, but that went without saying. The words he did finally speak were only a fraction of what he could have said but he took his time, considering precisely what he wanted to convey, weighing out compliments that wouldn’t put that wary expression back on Peter’s face. “But I see you got as far as getting dressed. You look good.”

  Peter gave the smallest negative shake of his head and swept his gaze down, most likely noticing the basket of food or possibly reconsidering Sebastian’s extravagant colour and fabric choices. Whichever it was, he finally pursed his lips and pulled a watch from his pocket to check the time.

  “It’s after midnight!” Peter seemed astonished. “How did you get in? Is Smythe still awake?” He pushed out a breath that stirred his loose lock of hair. “The man works too hard.”

  Sebastian let a smile emerge at Peter’s concern for the old man but shook his head. “Smythe gave me a key to the servant’s entrance a long time ago, Peter. How else did you think I was getting in here yet keeping up with your odd hours?” There was a bar across the front door to Peter’s townhouse at night or Smythe probably would have given Sebastian a key to that door as well.

  Peter’s eyebrows went up. Sebastian had surprised him again. That was twice in one night. It was almost worth celebrating, though he did wonder how Peter had assumed Sebastian had been walking into his house morning, noon, and night for all these years. He’d thought Peter had known. Peter’s household was most unusual for many reasons, not the least of which was the freedoms his servants granted Sebastian. But then, the servants had known Sebastian practically since he’d been in short pants.

  “I could give it back.” Sebastian started to dig around in his coat for the key but Peter stopped him, putting a hand on his arm then quickly withdrawing it.

  “No, no. It’s good that you have it.” Peter stepped back with no warning, holding still as Sebastian p
assed him to enter his suite of rooms. He dithered for a moment before closing the door behind Sebastian then followed after him.

  The smell of lemon furniture polish was the first thing Sebastian always noticed. Peter’s rooms were nearly wall to wall glossy oak cabinets and brass fixtures for a multitude of lights. There were telephones on more than one table. For some that would have been an ostentatious sign of wealth. With Peter it was a sign of how rarely he left his home, although Peter was in possession of a considerable fortune. It was the one good thing Peter’s father had left him.

  Sebastian noticed a computing machine. Peter must have had it installed recently. Sebastian could not imagine what he used it for. Avoiding face to face communication by using the clacking keyboard might suit Peter’s tastes but Peter could be impatient, and it would have been faster to walk a letter across town that it was to use something dependent on the city’s telephone wires. Queen Victoria could have walked a message over faster.

  The rest of the series of rooms were connected by doorways, each with sliding doors that had never been closed in Sebastian’s memory. Sebastian ignored the sitting room and went straight to the bedchamber. He dropped the basket on the desk in Peter’s bedroom, the one before the curtained balcony that Peter never used, and shoved aside some heavy tools and a few grease-stained rags. Then he swept across to Peter’s bed, being sure to first grab the half-empty bottle of wine in the basket and take it with him. He pulled out the cork with his teeth, spat it out, and took one last drink before handing the bottle over to Peter.

  A fine Burgundy, his favorite and Peter’s too. Peter hummed his gratitude at him before tearing into the basket. Peter himself had a scent that was a mix of bay rum and the same grease on his cheek. He hummed appreciatively again around his first mouthful of bread.

  “I haven’t eaten, thank you,” Peter mumbled after a dry swallow and took a quick drink from the bottle.

  “Harold and Maisie were concerned you would forget to eat. You see I’m not the only one.” Sebastian grinned to show teeth. Peter slowed enough to shrug away the uncomfortable thought of someone’s well-meant regard for him and continued to eat his cold supper.

  Sebastian was not done in his attempt to remind Peter that he was loved and his absence always keenly felt. “Aside from the delicious food, the party was charming. A small gathering, mostly fellows from school. You would have enjoyed yourself once you relaxed.” The Burgundy would have helped. Sebastian leaned back on the bed, supporting himself on his elbows for a moment. “They asked after you.”

  Peter made a stubborn face, closing his mouth tight. Sebastian didn’t know what it meant and didn’t ask. He was no longer in the mood to be clever and too tired and tipsy to attempt it. He liked socializing but there were limits, and a party full of people who thought of him, perhaps rightfully, as Peter’s public face had been taxing.

  Peter was ready to argue the simple point. “My autowagons. That’s what they asked about,” he remarked around the last of the chicken. He’d eaten fast, even for him. Somewhere in this room or down in converted house where he built his autos there was probably a lunch tray that he had forgotten to eat.

  Sebastian felt his mouth tighten into a straight line, more at the truth in the words than at Peter skipping a meal or two. Peter always remembered to eat eventually, but nothing would ever convince him that people wanted anything from him except for one of his creations. It was especially irksome that at the moment he was right.

  Nevertheless Sebastian straightened while Peter disappeared into another room to clean up. “Your autos are rapidly becoming a status symbol. Harold is the envy of many for owning one, so naturally people asked about them. They go farther and faster than anything else out there. Soon I expect them to fly.” Sebastian wasn’t entirely kidding. “The fact that you make so few only makes them more valuable. Of course people long to get their hands on one.”

  “You have three,” Sebastian remarked matter-of-factly as he came back into the room, “I gave you three.”

  Sebastian tugged his coat closer to his body. “Yes. Well.” Why he felt so naked at that statement and not Peter was something Sebastian didn’t understand. Perhaps it was because Peter did not leave his house and so did not live in a London that knew Sebastian owned three Aucourtes and looked at him with smug knowledge gleaming in their eyes.

  “You never drive them.” Peter stopped in front of him, giving Sebastian a confused, hurt stare before he passed on. He went back to his desk and sat in the chair though he did not resume work on anything on its surface.

  The glimpse of buried feeling in Peter’s expression gave Sebastian pain in the region of his heart. “I’m not much of a driver,” he excused himself, too quiet even to his own ears. The argument was an old one but that did not stop Peter from going still. He shot Sebastian a glance that was too dark and too brief for Sebastian to interpret. Peter’s shoulders remained stiff and tense. Then he turned back to his work, taking up a sketch pad.

  “You are a fine driver.” Peter’s tone was equally hard to follow. It could have been the wine or the late hour, but Sebastian had often been in here late and occasionally very drunk indeed, so he didn’t think so. Peter was being unusually enigmatic. Something was bothering him.

  “If the situation calls for it,” Sebastian answered at last, “though I have no objections to your driving, you know that.” He leaned back onto his elbows again when Peter sighed and seemed to relax. Sebastian let Peter stare at his sketches for a while, then leaned up enough to shrug off his coat and adjust his cuffs. Peter instantly looked over, not as at ease as he seemed.

  “What’s bothering you?” Sebastian pressed him as lightly as he knew how. “Besides everything that usually bothers you, that is.” The list included pollution from the factories, traffic noise, and the way people talked about the weather when they didn’t know what else to say.

  “Nothing.” Peter was a terrible liar and Sebastian let him know it by snorting. Peter held onto his pencil with a resolute air, then exhaled carefully. “You’re here late.” He was not asking a question, but Sebastian waited, knowing that if forced to use words, Peter expressed himself in fits and starts like a rusty machine that didn’t see much use. Peter hummed and made some kind notation with a satisfied flick of his wrist. “There was nothing at the party to hold your attention.”

  It was another casual observation, or so Sebastian thought, until his lack of response made Peter glance up and the tip of Peter’s pencil snapped against the paper. Peter exclaimed, “Buggering fuck!” and tossed the pencil aside before grabbing another one. He stared hard at his pad of paper.

  Now that was interesting. Sebastian lolled his head to the side while he waited for his heart to slow its excited drumming. He was beginning to comprehend the situation and was not ashamed of the cautious warmth unfurling in his chest. “You are referring to Prudence Dawson,” he filled in, keeping Peter’s casual tone.

  Prudence Dawson was a nice girl who didn’t seem to mind Sebastian’s taste in waistcoats—as his mother would have described Sebastian’s more flamboyant traits. Sebastian could see why his mother kept throwing Prudence in his direction. Sebastian was getting older, nearly a quarter of a century now, and his romantic life was the talk of the city, but not in the way a mother might hope. She’d want grandchildren too if Sebastian could convince himself to give ladies a try. He didn’t think he would. He didn’t believe his mother truly thought he would either. Soon she might even give in the inevitable and shove willing young men in in front of him if Prudence failed to capture his interest. Anything to save Sebastian from the path he was currently on, which his mother thought a dead end. Until tonight, a part of Sebastian had been starting to believe that too. Then Peter had inquired ever so indirectly about dear little Prudence who just wanted the freedom to be with her beloved Mary.

  “I said no such name,” Peter remarked, scratching out a notation he must not have needed. He reached for the bottle with his other hand and dra
ined it. He licked dark red stains from his lips when he was finished.

  Sebastian sighed with more longing than he meant to. His family had a history of scandal but he might be the first to continually flout convention as he was. Sodomy was now legal after one too many famous names dragged through the gutter press and courtrooms but that didn’t mean the well-heeled and well-connected expected it to be tossed in their faces. Yet here he was, the owner of three Aucourtes and possessor to a key to Peter Aucourte’s home. If Sebastian did not know himself he would have assumed a lavender-tinted marriage between them as well.

  If only.

  “No, you didn’t,” he agreed at last, because Peter hadn’t said the name. Sebastian was probably spinning daydreams again. He toed off his shoes with a bit of effort and settled against the headboard of Peter’s bed. “But the talk of your autos was serious enough. You should make more. Charge more. People want things more when they have to pay dearly for them, and I believe we both know most of your fans now are boys you remember from school. I know I do.” He had a brief memory of their tormentors but shook it off and grinned at the thought of how they would kiss Peter’s boots now for a chance to own one of his autos. “Bleed them dry,” he advised ruthlessly. “Make them beg.”

  Peter’s laugh was rewarding. Sebastian helped himself to Peter’s pillows, piling them behind his back. He let the bay rum scent wash over him as he went on. “You’ve been building machines since we were in school. I can’t help being proud that your work is finally being recognized.”

  There were a few imitators, a smattering of competitors, but none came close to the quality that Peter put into each creation. Each new model was improved upon the last. His work was revolutionary… if only the roads could keep up. Most autowagons were barely faster than a carriage, driven by trained chauffeurs for slow drives around the park. Peter’s autos were meant for speed, and a road with holes in it, especially a twisting, narrow country road, was dangerous.