Archive of Our Own ^beta

In the days and days John spent listening to Alonzo’s story, he had gazed with rapt fascination at the speaker, watching his lips as they formed words too terrible to hear. He glanced sometimes at his eyes, which were brown, and which the fire sometimes lit up in beautiful hues of flickering gold. Alonzo, when he was not looking into the fire, contemplating the horrors of which he told, would catch the gaze of John, and hold him there, trapped.

Between Melmoth’s appearance and his strange and horrible disappearance, there were few moments John and Alonzo spent apart. Theirs were hours of rapidly thumping hearts, of anxiety and held breaths. They only parted when night came, and when each lay to rest (though not to sleep), they could only think of the dark fate of Melmoth the Wanderer.

As they walked back from the cliff over which Melmoth must have flung himself, Alonzo rested a rough hand on the small of John’s back to steady him. John, who had been shaking slightly as he walked, let himself be steadied, finding comfort in the firmness of Alonzo at his side. He let out a long, quaking breath.

That night, John and Alonzo were reluctant to leave each other, but did so anyway and slept in their own apartments.

The next morning they sat at the table for breakfast together, and, at first, drank their tea in silence. John tried to set his teacup in its saucer quietly, but failed, for he was still anxious from the events he had gone through. His hand shook at the last moment, and the resulting clink caused Alonzo to start and look up in surprise. John stared down at his cup for a moment, before, sensing Alonzo’s eyes on him, he said, “Do you s’pose it’s… truly all over?”

Alonzo, who had not spoken since rising from bed, coughed into his hand before replying. “I believe so.” His voice was gravelly with sleep.

“Do you?” John asked.

“I do.”

John nodded, seemingly to solidify this idea in his own head. The rest of breakfast was silent still, but the tone had shifted to something altogether more agreeable.

…

At the end of the day, they found themselves together in Alonzo’s apartment. They had retired there after dinner, for the two of them, unconsciously, found themselves most comfortable there. They had spent most of their time in the house in that room, and so it felt the most like home, even to John.

They were sitting in chairs by the fire, as they had when Alonzo was telling his story, but now they talked idly, of books and weather and anything that wasn’t Melmoth. It was another cold and stormy night, rain beating against the windows and wind howling across the sides of the house. But thick brocade curtains covered the windows, and with the fire, the apartment was warm and comfortable.

At length, John spoke up. “You know what I could do with tonight?”

Alonzo raised his eyebrows in acknowledgement.

“Wine. Lots of it.”

Alonzo chuckled in reply, and said, “I am sure I could go for the same, dear John.”

John had wine brought up. They began with half glasses, warmed them over candles and had small sips, sitting back and letting the flavours seep into their mouths. The house had many an old, old vintage, some even from the time when Melmoth the Wanderer was the same age as John and Alonzo now. They try not to think of that too much. John only thought of the warmth of the fire, the flavours of the wine, Alonzo’s fingers gripping his glass.

Their glasses were only empty for split seconds, before one or the other of the two leaned forward to take a bottle and refill them. It’s not long before John was feeling a little drunk. Drunkenness, he thought, comes on so pleasantly with wine. He said as much to Alonzo.

“Hm,” Alonzo replied, cocking his head to the side in inebriated contemplation.

“It’s so, soft. And warm, and slow. It is as if, it is so slow that you cannot tell in one moment whether you are more intoxicated than the last. But you are certainly getting drunker,” explained John. He sank further back into his chair, humming low in his throat. The fire had burnt down now, was really only coals, bright red and burning into John’s retinas.

Somehow they ended up in Alonzo’s bed, slumped against the headboard, passing a bottle back and forth. They’ve definitely drunk too much now, and are showing signs of slowing down. John caught himself staring at Alonzo’s lips around the bore of the bottle, and is too drunk at this point to tear his eyes away like he might have usually. Alonzo’s lips were dark compared to his skin, and John thought that they were entirely too sensual where they rested on the bottle. Alonzo must be doing it on purpose, he thought. He did not let himself dwell too much on that, or why Alonzo might be doing it. Instead, he flung his hand out for the bottle and nudged Alonzo with his shoulder. The neck of the bottle was warm where Alonzo has been holding it. When John pressed his lips to it to drink, it was warm there too. He did not let himself dwell on that either.

“So much talk of love,” he said suddenly, “These past few days.”

“Yes, love. And sin,” Alonzo said.

“And sin,” John echoed. There was something tight and anxious fluttering in his throat. He chanced a look at Alonzo, and was struck by his eyes. Not even his eyes: his eyelids, heavy with drink, and his eyelashes, which were thick and long and black. He realised now that he had never paid much attention to Alonzo’s eyelashes. He had been too caught up in the eyes themselves, the beautiful brown of them.

“Do you… sin,” Alonzo slurred, and the question felt loaded.

“I do not- I mean, I am sure we all do,” replied John, shifting a little. The movement meant that now there was more of him and Alonzo touching, upper arms pressed against each other.

“Not many do as much as I,” said Alonzo. He leaned forward suddenly, and John, not expecting it, fell to the side where he had been leaning. He managed to keep the bottle upright, thankfully. Alonzo’s back was right in front of his face, and John took a moment to gather himself before beginning the arduous task of sitting back up. He pushed the bottle at Alonzo, pressing it against his chest, and after Alonzo had taken it, clawed at Alonzo’s shoulder to drag himself upright again.

“Oh?”

“Remember, John? I was borne of sin. Abominable from my very birth, as the Superior said. My very existence is sin. There is nothing I can do about it.”

Suddenly, all of Christian discourse seemed not the make sense to John. “But,” he said, with a clarity that only comes when alcohol has robbed the mind of repression, “You have not done anything. It is not your fault.” His brow was furrowed.

Alonzo slumped back against the headboard. “It does not matter.”

“Does it not?”

“Of course not. Not if I committed no other sin consciously or unconsciously, not if I did as many good deeds as I could, could I erase that.”

“But- do you really believe that?” John asked, “Your whole story, all your stories, seemed to be so- so questioning of Catholicism. Not all that that the church says is sin, is sin…” He trailed off, and paused, looking intently at Alonzo. “Besides, have you not said the same yourself? Of- particular things the church condemns?”

Alonzo took a moment to comprehend the words, and as he did, a sly smile slowly broke out across his face. John suddenly felt he had said too much, implied something too dangerous, despite, of course, the fact that Alonzo had referenced it before far less obliquely.

“Ah, you remember that, do you? Even so far in the throes of drink?”

John, flushed already, felt himself turn a shade darker. He did not speak. Alonzo rested a hand on John’s chest, hot skin against hot skin. John did not remember when he had undone the first two buttons of his shirt. When Alonzo spoke next, his lips were very close to John’s ear.

“The virtues of nature are always deemed vices in a convent?”

John was not aware of the moment Alonzo’s hand left his chest, only of the cold absence of it.

“I have to admit,” Alonzo said, “Saying that, the first time, almost felt too much. On top of the story of Fra Paulo and that youth…”

“For you to describe… that, so fearlessly, as a virtue…” John’s voice was quieter now than it had been the whole evening.

“The virtues of nature are always deemed vices in a convent…” Alonzo repeated, seeming to enjoy the feel of the words in his mouth. “We are not in a convent now.”

“No indeed,” said John, and this felt dangerous, so dangerous, but also like the most natural thing in the world. He took another swig of wine, and he was sure, this time, that it was Alonzo who was watching his lips. When he had placed the wine on the chest of drawers beside the bed, Alonzo’s hand was back on his chest: high up, the tips of his fingers resting against the base of John’s neck. Slowly, so slowly, John brought his hands up to undo the third button on his shirt. He rests a hand on the one Alonzo is resting on his chest.

When their lips met, they were dry and hot, and John could not help but think that this was the opposite of their first meeting in the cold, wet ocean. It was water that brought them together, and now they have been brought together anew. Now, Alonzo did not hold him to save his life, but simply to hold him.

Well. The kisses were dry at first, dry like candle flames and parchment. They were dry when they were chaste, just quick crushes of hot lips against hot lips, just as far as John had gone with women before this point. The kisses stopped being dry quickly, when John felt Alonzo’s tongue press between his lips and into his mouth. He gasped, and Alonzo used this to his advantage, pushing his tongue further into John’s open mouth. John, getting over his surprise, participated eagerly. The haze of wine, Alonzo’s body on his, Alonzo’s tongue in his mouth… John, if he had conscious thoughts to spare, would have thought this was the best he had felt, perhaps ever.

John’s hands rested lightly at the curve of Alonzo’s back. Alonzo’s weight pressed him into the yielding mattress, and as they continued kissing, John could feel himself hardening against Alonzo’s leg where it was slotted between his own. He thought he could feel Alonzo’s length too, pressed against the crease where his leg met his pelvis. Alonzo was kissing him like he wanted to bruise him. John would let him.

The rain still beat at the window, steadfast and hard and showing no sign of stopping, but neither John nor Alonzo knew or cared.

Everything inside the apartment was warm: the candle flames and the fire, Alonzo and John’s flesh, even the colours, the red brocade curtains, the red bed covering, the insides of mouths, the flush of cheeks, the lips pressed red by kisses. Outside, it was all cold. Cold, wet rain, blue night, freezing, thrashing ocean by the cliff.

Alonzo was a force like the ocean against John: he pushed and pulled and thrust and caught John up in his currents. This time, he was not saving him from the ocean, he was damning him, pulling him down with him to drown. According to certain churches, at least…

Alonzo was crushing him, bruising him, rending him apart.

And then John felt Alonzo’s hands against the fastenings on his breeches. He gasped, pulling away from Alonzo’s mouth, body shuddering. “God, yes, please,” he murmured into Alonzo’s ear, clutching at his neck and collar.

Alonzo’s hands were hot on John’s cock, such a contrast to the cold hands on John in the water. Cold, numb hands, unfeeling almost, on John’s unconscious body… now, they were both burning and hypersensitive.

Alonzo’s strokes had John bucking his hips up like a man possessed and biting at his knuckles in an attempt to cut off his moans. He was lying half under and half out from the blanket and comforter. The why he’s framed by the deep red sheets, he could be the subject of some baroque painting, and where his naked form was twisted and his mouth was open in ecstasy, in this other context (too refined, too mainstream for any explicit depictions of sexuality), he might be the victim of a painful death.

John put the tips of his fingers on Alonzo’s rising wrist, letting out, “Please, Alonzo, slow down.”

Alonzo does, taking his hand away, and then John looked down just in time to see him leaning down and taking John’s cock into his mouth. The heat encasing him was like nothing he’s ever felt. He thrust his hips up unbidden.

When John was close to climax he looked down at Alonzo again, and was reminded of the beaten youth in Alonzo’s story. Alonzo’s lips were bright red against his cock, red like that poor boy covered in blood. With the thought of that youthful form so barbarously mangled in punishment for the sin that he is committing right now, John came into Alonzo’s waiting throat.

In the slowing, cooling aftermath, Alonzo rested his head on John's hip, where John could feel his breath on his softening cock. As he continued looking down lazily at the scene, he noticed (moments before he was going to check if Alonzo had even finished) that there’s a wet patch in Alonzo’s own breeches, and his hand is still tucked inside the crotch of them.

“Tell me,” Alonzo said, barely murmuring, breathing the words onto John’s cock, “How something as good as that can be a sin.”