Christmas in Williamsburg (Revised)
by Merry Amelie
Title: Christmas in Williamsburg (Revised)
Author: Merry Amelie
Archive: MA only
Category: Alternate Reality, Qui/Obi, Romance, Series, PWP
Rating: NC-17 (originally PG-13)
Summary: Quinn and Ian take a warm winter's vacation.
I'm posting Arcadia and Q/O drabbles to TPM 100.
Series: Academic Arcadia -- # 154 (the original PG-13 version was #7 in the series)
A chronological list of the series with the URLs can be found under the header 'Academic Arcadia' at the Master Apprentice ML.
My MA story page is here.
Feedback: Is treasured at MerryAmelie@aol.com.
Disclaimer: Mr. Lucas owns everything Star Wars. I'm not making any money.
For
My beta team: Nerowill, Emila-Wan, and Carol
Mali Wane for posting
My former betas: Alex, Ula, and Padawan Sue
To Alex, for all the happiness our friendship has given me.
This is my favorite Arcadia, from Christmas 2003.
Quinn walked into the apartment with two train tickets behind his back. He and Ian had just reunited after a Christmas Day spent with their respective families, and Quinn wanted them to have a celebration all their own now.
Ian was at his desk by the window and rose as soon as he heard the key in the door. He kissed his lover, noticing immediately the one-armed embrace Quinn gave him. "Something for me?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Something for us, lad," Quinn said, handing over the ticket holder.
"Amtrak," Ian sighed, a dreamy note in his voice. "Oh, Quinn -- The Colonial!"
"We're going to Williamsburg. I thought you might like to spend the weekend in Virginia."
"I'd just love it. My parents took us over the summer. I've never been there during the holiday season."
"Me neither. I've booked us a room at the Williamsburg Inn."
This information earned Quinn another kiss. "That's the place to stay. We were at one of the highway motels miles from the historic district."
Quinn ran a cheek through Ian's hair. "Well, now we'll be center stage."
The next day, they boarded the train at Penn Station with an acute sense of deja vu. Quinn had paid extra for Business Class again and watched as Ian settled in place near the window. Ian had even put his newspaper on the seat next to him.
"May I?" Quinn asked, embarrassed as a shiver coursed through him.
"Yes, of course," Ian answered playfully, clearing the paper away.
Once seated, Quinn said in a low voice, "This trip is a bit longer than the Massachusetts run, about six hours. Think we can get to know each other even better this time?"
Ian brushed Quinn's fingers discreetly. "I'm sure we can."
For all their teasing, this train ride was totally different from their first. Even with an armrest between them, they seemed to fill in each other's spaces. Their elbows shared the rest, legs spread out in front of them, thigh to thigh. Luckily for them, their proximity was indistinguishable at casual glance from that of travellers crowded together between lunch and luggage. They allowed themselves an occasional touch, under the pretext of changing positions, but behaved themselves, other than that.
This time, they had brought their own sandwiches, a healthier meal than the hot dogs they'd had on the way to the symposium. They headed over to the club car and sat across from each other, enjoying the views, especially the interior, while they ate.
After lunch, Ian brought out the travel Scrabble, and they commenced a fiercely fought linguistic duel. Both of them came up with seven-letter words in the course of the game, as was their wont.
Quinn grinned triumphantly as he put down 'fresher', the final 'r' forming 'bather' with the intersecting word 'bathe'. He gleefully added up his score: eighty-two with the fifty-point bonus. "I'm ahead by a hundred points now," Quinn crowed.
"Not for long," Ian answered gamely. Quinn's move had given him access to his own triple-word square, and he took full advantage of it by putting down 'saber' for a score of thirty-two. Respectable, but not good enough to catch Quinn, and Ian grew increasingly frustrated as his word 'council' languished on the rack.
The bonus points made Quinn's lead hard to surmount, and he hung on to win a few turns later. Ian already looked forward to their next game on the way back.
They returned to their seats with almost two hours left to the ride. Speaking quietly while getting out their laptops, they discussed their first joint paper on Hawthorne and Melville. Quinn was researching the former, Ian the latter.
"The thing that most intrigues me about them is the cross-pollination, their influence upon each other's work," Quinn said as he called up his files.
Eyes dancing, Ian said softly, "Cross-pollination, eh? They're not the only ones." He had leaned so close to Quinn that a few strands of their hair were entwined.
Quinn's face reddened; Ian's proximity and innuendo made a potent combination, indeed.
Quinn cleared his throat as he moved fractionally away from Ian; he needed all his wits about him for this conversation. "Since Hawthorne was fifteen years older than Melville, their relationship began on a master/apprentice note."
"But by the time Melville completed Moby-Dick, we can safely say the 'apprenticeship' was over. Hawthorne instantly recognized it as a masterwork." Ian's eyes shone blue as a Melville ocean.
Quinn grinned. "A case of the student surpassing his master?"
"Exactly." Ian flashed a cocky grin all his own.
"A bit competitive, are we? But I was never your professor."
"That's true," Ian admitted, "but you could have been." A wistful tone had crept into his voice as he remembered their Halloween conversation about possible ethical quandaries if they'd met earlier.
Quinn was silent for a while, considering Ian's words. Unbidden, images danced across his mind's eye: of Ian as the attentive learner, of himself as the devoted teacher. Something clicked within Quinn, as if it had all really happened.
His history with Ian, brief though it was so far, seemed to have hidden roots. Quinn had read about lovers sighing that they'd known each other forever, but he felt it viscerally. Over the months, they had told one another as much as they could about their past; was he the only one to take it a step further and imagine that he'd experienced it all firsthand?
Sometimes Quinn had dreams, bright and elusive, which he'd try to snatch into reality when he awakened. But he never succeeded in remembering them, beyond a vaguely futuristic atmosphere, and that he and Ian were together.
Ian had fallen asleep by his side, so Quinn spent the remainder of the trip pondering the deep roots Ian had put down inside him.
The Colonial pulled into the Williamsburg train station at three o'clock that afternoon. A few yards from the track was the cheapest of the hotels in the historic district, but it wasn't worth staying there for the convenience.
They set their sights on the Williamsburg Inn, a half mile away and strode toward it. Carrying only one duffel apiece, they had an easy walk to Francis Street. The temperature was in the 50s, the late afternoon sun pleasant on their faces. They smelled woodsmoke on the air, mingled with the scent of the box hedges bordering the lane.
Everything looked just as they remembered, save the addition of holiday ornaments adding color to the historic district. These were made of wood and evergreen; nothing shiny or modern intruded here.
Ian saw the hotel first, long before they got there: a graceful Regency-style structure, all white columns and elegance. As they strolled through the central archway under the flags, both of them thought of U.N. flags riding the breeze on Ian's class trip long ago.
They literally stepped into the 18th century, more so than they had thus far. The exteriors of Williamsburg houses were not that different from their modern counterparts, both built with wooden planks and shutters. But the interiors were where history revealed itself. Wing chairs, rugs rather than carpet, high wainscotting: in short, an English drawing room atmosphere.
They checked into a lovely second-floor room facing the gardens, also an authentic botanical replica of what was grown in colonial times. The room was done in Queen Anne cherrywood, highly polished, with enough dust traps to send a chambermaid scurrying for the day. Its appointments included an oversized, overstuffed bed, which the men eyed with immediate approval; flanking nightstands and a highboy; an expensively upholstered sofa and chairs made for sinking into; a desk large enough for the two academics to share comfortably; and the perfect finishing touch of fresh flowers from the gardens outside. The crowning glory was a marble fireplace that looked like it could heat the room without recourse to modern technology.
The bed had a massive canopy from which hung curtains of rich cream brocade. Ian was already thinking of drawing these hangings from the inside. After dinner at one of the taverns, that was exactly what they'd do. Perhaps even before.
They put their clothes in the highboy, then ventured into the bathroom and were not disappointed. Happily, the 18th century did stop at the door here. All the modern comforts were available: a marble shower big enough for two with a bench built in, twin sinks, and sconces for illumination. The modernity was not jarring because effort had been made to blend in with the colonial decor.
Ian winked at a delighted Quinn as he took a handful of tissues and scattered them over the bed-clothes. He then made reservations for the King's Arms tavern at 6, more than two hours away. When he looked at Quinn stretched out before him on the bed fully dressed like a sumptuous appetizer, Ian knew from his smile just how they'd spend the time.
Closing the curtains behind him, Ian crawled onto the lace coverlet and hovered above Quinn teasingly. Quinn pulled him down with a proprietary growl and captured Ian's mouth with a kiss. The enclosed bed wrapped around them like a cocoon, protecting and separating them from the rest of the world. They could barely see but knew each other's bodies so intimately that it wasn't necessary. It was warm in here with the hangings surrounding them in comforting walls of fabric. A new quiet pervaded their cozy haven, the only sounds quickened breathing amidst the rustle of clothes and covers being thrown aside.
When Quinn felt a bolster poking him in the ribs, he briefly let go of Ian, who grinned as he saw the grey shapes of extra pillows and shams sail off the bed and jostle the curtains, to the accompaniment of Quinn's put-upon mutters.
Love thrilled through Ian. Here he was in Williamsburg for the first time with the man he adored, and it was so much better than the family vacation when he was a child. He had been taken with the novelty of a bedwarmer then; now, he had a bigger and better version.
Quinn snugged his cheek to Ian's and sighed happily. "Now this is how to travel," he said, one hand ruffling Ian's hair. He pulled Ian more fully on top of him, eager to feel as much of him as possible.
Their chests and stomachs pressed together, a slight sweat easing the delicious friction. The temperature inside the bed-curtains, already higher than the rest of the room, increased around them with their growing excitement.
Ian closed his eyes at the sensation of Quinn hardening beneath him, his own erection pushing into the delightful heat. He gave a wet kiss to Quinn's cock with his own, feeling it jump against him. The generous amount of pre-come from both of them added some juicy fun to the mix, and Ian's incredible hips added even more, spreading the moisture all over their groins.
Ian grinding off against him was one of Quinn's favorite turn-ons, his lad's aggressive fire going straight to his cock. An Ian in motion was tough to capture, but Quinn did it with his lips. He couldn't tame him -- never that -- but he could kiss him to orgasm, once that sensuous mouth was his.
His restless seeking stopped by Quinn's kiss, Ian gave it his all. He poured his love, lust, and joy into Quinn, feeling his orgasm inevitably follow.
Quinn bucked up into Ian, luxuriating in his come, as he thrust his way to his own orgasm.
They were lost to the world on a flood of sensation.
They resurfaced barely in time for a shower that was quicker than they would have liked and set out for Duke of Gloucester Street. By now it was dark and the lamps were lit, casting the roads in a soft glow so different from the harsh electric light that illuminated the streets at home. They brushed fingers when no passersby were near and shoulders otherwise.
They arrived at the tavern five minutes early but were seated immediately in the heart of the room next to the fireplace. Their darkwood table had grooves in it from years of use, which made it more attractive to them. A single candle in a hurricane lamp adorned the center so that every time they looked at each other it was filtered through candlelight. The flicker of light, the soft crackling of the fire, the lazy cadence of the surrounding conversations: all blended to keep them comfortably relaxed.
A costumed server brought a basket filled with hot muffins, biscuits, and savory rolls, and took their order from the bill of fare.
Quinn descended on a sweet potato muffin with delight. "I still remember these from fifteen years ago! Haven't been able to find them elsewhere, at least not like this..." He trailed off as he bit into the muffin, a beatific look on his face.
With an endorsement like that, Ian just had to try one, too. "You're not kidding," he said, only after he'd devoured the whole thing.
"Where do you want to go first tomorrow, lad?" Quinn was already on his second muffin.
"Let's start with the Governor's Palace. There's always a crowd, but first thing in the morning you can get in fairly quickly."
"So we're to ask for a wake-up call on our vacation?" Quinn's countenance went from pleased to peeved so fast that his lips got a workout they weren't expecting so soon after the deep kisses of this afternoon's idyll.
Quinn's sullen expression almost swayed Ian, but the thought of waiting in line two hours to see the palace was enough to harden his resolve. "You'll thank me when you see the crowds later in the day." In the dimness of the candlelight, Ian patted Quinn's hand on the side of the table by the fire.
"All right," Quinn said, trying to grumble despite the gleam of delight in his eyes from Ian's discreet caress. Negotiations about the time of the call were clearly in order. "How 'bout 9?"
Ian's snorting laugh did nothing to reassure Quinn. "Dream on, lazybones." Ian winked to soften his words. "After we shower and eat breakfast, we'd be lucky to get there by 10:30. 8 o'clock is the perfect time for the call."
Since Quinn had padded his request shamelessly, they were now in accord. "Fair enough," he said out loud, with just enough of a grin to let Ian know he'd been played. Luckily for Quinn, the first course arrived in time to cut off the acerbic remark poised on Ian's tongue.
Peanut soup, another colonial specialty, sat in front of them. Ian had tried it as a child and deemed it 'liquid peanut butter', a definite compliment then. However, his more sophisticated adult taste buds now found it a bit oily and over-rich.
"Give me a Reese's instead anytime," Ian said with a shrug.
Quinn took a spoonful. "At least it's warm. The nights here are chilly at this time of year." The temperature had gone down at least fifteen degrees since they had arrived in town.
Two pairs of eyes drifted to the fire only a few feet away from them. "We've got the best seats in the house," Ian said consideringly. "Let's use our own fireplace tonight."
"I like the way you think, lad." Thoroughly warmed inside and out, Quinn sat basking in the company and the welcoming colonial atmosphere.
A balladeer with a lute strolled to the center of the room, about five yards from their table, and started to play The Lass and the Lamp. His voice was soft yet rich, providing a perfect background for both dining and conversation.
The men drank their hard apple cider, pressed on the premises, and listened to the lyrics. The singer encouraged his audience to drum the beat on their tables.
The performance reminded Ian of his plans for the upcoming semester. "I've decided to include some 18th century poetry in my Intro Lit course this time."
"The gift shop might have recordings. That's a good way to ease into it," Quinn said, his voice a soft drawl as he relaxed into his chair.
The pumpkin-crusted salmon exceeded their expectations, the flavors complementing each other nicely. Conversation ceased temporarily as they ate and listened to the music.
Quinn reflected on how quickly they had adopted a colonial frame of mind. Surrounded by candles, pewter, gowns, and breeches, the past seemed more real than the present. The laptop he'd brought in his duffel was the anachronism here.
Quinn had always felt a little out of step with his own time, a sense of disconnectedness that had followed him since childhood. Perhaps it was in part due to his literary interests, spanning the centuries with an effortless inclusivity. As an only child, his focus had determined his reality to a large extent. His curiosity and talent had set him apart as well; a preternaturally mature boy, he was more comfortable in adult company than that of his peers. He harbored no regrets about his past, though; it was not possible, when all he'd been through had brought him to Ian.
Quinn resurfaced from his ponderings to feel Ian's knees pressed up against his own under the table. He heard the refrain, "My own true love and me," and looked into Ian's eyes, brimming with joy in the low light of the single candle. The song flowed over them as they continued eating with secret smiles on their faces.
The meal's finishing touch was a trifle made of cake, vanilla custard, and rum. Quinn was sure Ian had deliberately gotten a bit of custard on the bow of his lip as a taste of things to come and had to ruthlessly suppress the urge to lick it off. Replete, the men sat back and enjoyed the ambience of the King's Arms.
When they settled the bill, their server directed them to the gambols going on at Chowning's Tavern down the street. Quinn smiled when he saw the anticipatory glint in Ian's eyes.
Chowning's had a completely different atmosphere from the refined King's Arms: it was a bit boisterous at this time of night. The patrons looked like they had knocked back a few pints and were ready to play. There were old-fashioned board games on the tables which required instructions, so the men were drawn to the dartboard on the far wall. Both of them had surprisingly good aim, and when they stopped for the night, the tally was 4-3 in Ian's favor.
When they moved out of the lamplight to begin their walk home, Quinn slipped off his jacket and slid it over Ian's shoulders. Ian did not object, knowing that Quinn would simply shrug it off, and settled for placing his hand briefly on the small of Quinn's back.
Ian started a fire of their own as soon as they'd returned to the room. They changed into their flannel pajamas and curled up side by side in each other's arms on an oversized sofa by the fireplace.
Nothing was as warm as this, Ian mused, lying here with Quinn wrapped around him, a checkered quilt over them both, basking in the heat thrown off by the flames. Every so often, one of them would kiss the other or nuzzle into him.
"How do you like our holiday so far?" Quinn asked, voice muffled by Ian's neck.
"Nice..." Ian breathed, but it was unclear whether he was talking about their day or Quinn's snuggling.
Quinn chuckled, realizing that this was not the best time for meaningful conversation. He settled back in to kissing those bits of Ian's skin accessible to him. Quinn heard the gentle murmurs of appreciation as he dusted pecks along Ian's brow.
Eventually, Ian raised his face for a proper kiss, flaring banked heat into passion. He could feel the nudge of the eager cock pushing into his flannel-covered hip as Quinn deepened the kiss.
"Touch me," Quinn pleaded.
Ian could never resist that note in his voice and unsnapped both pairs of pajama bottoms as fast as he could with his melindo ('lover' in Quenya) wrapped firmly around him. He cradled Quinn's cock in his hand, relishing its heat and heft. His rhythm was set by Quinn's grunts, and he was as hard as he'd made his lover in no time.
Ian resisted kissing his lips with an effort, knowing Quinn needed all the air he could get. He contented himself with kisses on his chin and neck instead. Feeling the onrush of orgasm in straining tendons, he intensified his caresses.
With a curl of Ian's fingers, Quinn was coming into the soft flannel of his lad's pajamas, the perfect fabric to absorb his semen before it could reach the sofa. Ian held him close through the tremors, his left hand petting Quinn's hair. He tried to focus on Quinn, despite the way his lover's orgasms set him off. His erection butted into Quinn's stomach, but Ian was powerless to stop it.
By the time Quinn reached over to touch him, Ian was a few strokes away from orgasm himself. His cock surged into Quinn's hand, desperate for those big fingers to close around it. He yelped when he felt calluses catch on his tender skin, but somehow it excited him further. Oh, how he tried to hang on to get more of that blissful pressure, but Quinn's firm grip was too much for him. He came into that beloved hand, relaxing as his sensitive skin was surrounded by tenderness.
Sleep proved more irresistible than showering, so they wiped away the worst of the mess with tissues, then creaked off to bed.
Thanks to the bed-curtains blocking the sunlight, they were able to sleep until Ian answered the wake-up call, annoyed that the phone was on his nightstand. Quinn stirred without quite surfacing, and Ian set himself the delightful task of awakening him. Scattered nuzzles on his ribs earned Ian a purr; fingertips brushing over his chest evoked a grunt: Quinn was rousing all too fast. When Ian licked his cheek, Quinn's eyes cracked open and his arms wrapped firmly around Ian. After ten minutes of sloppy kisses and sloppier caresses, they managed to convince each other to get up.
Still sated from his orgasm last night, Quinn stepped into the shower after his lad. The double-sized enclosure was made for someone of his stature, especially if he was lucky enough to have company. Though the edge was off, he could never keep his hands off Ian, so there was plenty of delicious groping in the guise of cleaning.
Despite all this, they were dressed and out the door by 8:45. Grabbing ginger cookies on the way to the palace in lieu of breakfast, they strode past the strollers to get there bright and early.
The Governor's Palace was an imposing Georgian brick structure, with two adjacent wings flanking it. They grinned at each other as their docent introduced herself and started her lecture; she had the same ease at entertaining a group of people that their own profession demanded. She designated an elderly gentleman to present a petition to the Governor, a conceit they had enjoyed on their previous visits, and the group set off on the tour.
The intentionally daunting display of muskets on the entranceway ceiling was as highly polished and impressive as they remembered. The dark wood gleamed as brightly as the metal it surrounded.
The rooms of the palace were open and airy with high ceilings, the windows reaching to within a few feet of them. Intricate fretwork was everywhere: lintel, wainscotting, cornice. Quinn mused that one didn't see this level of detail in modern construction, even for the rich.
The first-floor rooms were formal affairs, designed to impress heads of state. The furnishings were roped off, to protect them from the wear and tear of hordes of visitors.
Ian noticed the unfamiliar arrangement of silverware in the main dining room: fork and knife flanked each delicate china plate on a bed of cream damask, but the spoon was placed above the plate. The long sweep of table was set for a banquet's dessert course, as if the guests had just left briefly to dance in the ballroom. A fanciful collection of sugared jellies brought color to the table.
The ballroom was the modern-day tourists' next stop as well. The blue-painted room was, if possible, more ornate than what they'd seen so far. Enormous Neoclassical paintings graced the walls, imposing marble fireplaces caught Quinn's eye and made him think of the Ian-Quinn-sized one in their room, which he quite preferred.
A figured harpsichord had Ian itching to try it; he'd played the piano since the age of ten and wanted to hear the different harmonics for himself. He looked up to chandeliers boasting several hundred pieces of glass and imagined the music swelling to the ceiling.
The grand staircase, all carved dark wood, took them up to the bedrooms on the second floor. They stayed near the front of the group to hear the guide's history lesson and listen to her answer questions.
The bedrooms were done in the same grand style as the receiving rooms downstairs. The docent informed them that the rugs merely surrounded the beds and did not extend underneath them, an example of colonial ingenuity comparable to using leaf tables as space-savers.
Quinn's thoughts drifted to Ian's consideration for his big frame at home. The teak coffee table by the couch in the apartment had a drop-leaf design; when Quinn had first visited, both leaves were up and the surface was covered with papers. Quinn couldn't remember the last time the leaves had been used, though. This kindness had given Quinn's long legs about a foot of extra space in which to stretch.
Quinn snapped to attention when they entered the Governor's bedroom. He noted that the cream hangings on their four-poster at the Inn were apparently inspired by the bed in this room. The differentials were thousands of dollars and historical accuracy. Every item found here was a museum-quality piece: rugs, candelabras, desks, and chairs. In fact, all of Williamsburg formed one huge museum in itself.
Quinn ducked his head charmingly when the docent looked at him and said, "Sir, you would have been quite uncomfortable in an 18th-century bed. Look at the length of it; it's much shorter than the beds of today." The group had transferred their attention to the bed by now, instead of Quinn, with the exception of Ian, who was grinning wickedly at him. The guide continued, "It was common for people to sleep sitting up in colonial times, with their backs against the headboard. Average heights were less in those days too, in part due to poor nutrition."
When they'd covered the sections of the palace open to guests, they wandered out into the gardens in back. They'd grown used to low light during the tour and were dazzled by the sunny day. Topiaries, flowers, and outbuildings greeted their gaze.
Eyes dancing, Ian led Quinn to the maze; he had fond memories of getting lost in here as a child and enjoying every minute of it. As soon as they were behind the first hedge, Quinn grabbed Ian for a hard, quick kiss.
"Mmm. I've been waiting forever to do that, lad," he breathed into Ian's ear.
Grateful for Quinn's acute hearing, as well as his impulsiveness, Ian relaxed into his embrace. They were surrounded by walls of greenery, the sharp scent of evergreen permeating the air, a carpet of green at their feet. The maze muffled the noise of the other visitors as they explored the yard and gave them the illusion of being in a world all their own, much as their enclosed bed had earlier.
Ian pulled Quinn's head down for a kiss of his own, taking full advantage of their first private moments since leaving the room that morning. They stayed in each other's arms for a few minutes, resting against one another and kissing occasionally.
Quinn said, "I can't believe the docent singled me out because of my height back there. It was embarrassing. The only one I want to discuss beds with is you."
Ian patted his shoulder. "She didn't mean to upset you; you just served as a handy illustration of her point." Quinn chuckled. "I certainly got a lot out of it," Ian added mischievously.
Quinn cocked his head when he heard people entering the maze, then walked forward with Ian, setting a pace that those behind were too slow to match. After a few attempts, they found the center and were rewarded by seeing the flash of a sundial in a little clearing.
The men relaxed on a bench for a while, Ian tucked under Quinn's arm. They had the place to themselves since no one else had discovered the center yet.
"All this opulence makes me glad to live in our little apartment, lad." Quinn's hand caressed Ian's denim-clad thigh.
Ian chuckled. "I can imagine. I'm the one who exiled your steel shelves to your parents' garage."
"They did their job, Ian, and not a spot of rust on them." Quinn patted Ian's knee to show he was teasing him.
Of course, that just encouraged Ian to give Quinn a long, quip-quelling kiss. "Well," he drawled, speaking against Quinn's lips, "I can personally guarantee you that we'll never have a rust problem with the teak, either."
Quinn snorted and was about to answer in the same vein, when he was distracted by an enticing aroma drifting towards them from the yard that demanded investigation.
They ambled back through the maze, this time getting it right on the first try. Since it was already lunchtime, there was a long line of people in front of the outbuilding housing the kitchen. The hardships of colonial cooking became clear with a demonstration, in which bread was made from scratch. There were no shortcuts, and it was a full-time job for many people just to put food on the table in the course of a day.
Thankfully, there were prepared meals for hungry tourists to buy. The men chose mulled cider and meat pasties and took them to a nearby bench next to a bed of camellias.
After their impromptu lunch, the men explored the outbuildings: necessaries, worksheds, and the like. In some, they had enough privacy and room to steal a kiss or two; in others, they were crowded by the tools used in maintaining the grounds.
On the way back to the Inn, they saw a horse-drawn carriage festooned with white ribbons and flowers waiting near Bruton Parish Church. They slipped inside to witness the wedding in progress.
The first seven rows were taken up by family and friends; well-wishers sat further back. The men quietly eased into a pew near the doors and settled in to watch the service. The bride wore a cream gown with a delicate tracery of lace as adornment; the groom managed to carry off his blue morning coat, breeches, and leggings. The bridesmaids had evergreen and cranberry dresses to celebrate the season.
While the couple plighted their troth, Ian looked over to find Quinn whispering the words of the ceremony, just as he himself was doing. Their fingers intertwined, hidden between their thighs, as they shared the happiness of the newlyweds.
They walked home in a happy daze, reliving the wedding, daring to imagine themselves as grooms at the Bruton altar.
Quinn got the fire going, then joined his lad under the covers of their bed, on his back with Ian pressing into his side. He ran his fingers through Ian's copper hair, blond streaks visible thanks to time in the sun. "This is just what we needed after a hard semester."
"It's so peaceful here. Last time I came, my mom had us running from place to place, trying to see everything in two days." Ian rubbed Quinn's chest in small circles.
"Sounds more like work than a proper vacation. I always liked going to the beach or camping instead of frenetic museum-hopping." Quinn began a leisurely exploration of Ian's hairline, using fingertips and mouth, movements slowing as he drifted off to sleep with Ian joining him.
A couple of hours later, Ian was woken by the grumbling of Quinn's stomach under his ear. He chuckled, thinking Quinn was even more reliable than a wakeup call, at least when it came to mealtimes.
Quinn loved waking to his grinning laddie. He smiled back as his stomach rumbled again. "Guess it's dinnertime, eh?"
A few kisses later, they got up to dress, then went downstairs to the lobby. Although they hadn't been able to arrive on Christmas Day, Williamsburg celebrated all twelve days of Christmas. Their eyes were caught by the wassail bowl by the fireplace, surrounded by couches for thirsty guests. A fifteen-foot-high Christmas tree decorated with small velvet bows and wooden ornaments stood proudly nearby. A costumed server smiled at them as she gave out mugs of hot spiced wine.
The men sat sipping the wine by the fireside, gazing contemplatively at the tree. They roused to attention when a group of fresh-faced children entered the room, bringing the evening air with them, and started to sing carols popular in previous centuries: Greensleeves, Good King Wenceslas, The Holly and the Ivy.
After the performance, they strolled over to Christiana Campbell's Tavern. The half-mile walk to Duke of Gloucester Street sharpened their appetite, so they were happy to be seated within fifteen minutes, despite their lack of reservations.
They had brown ale that night, which went beautifully with the Welsh rarebit that caught their eye. The dish consisted of melted cheddar cheese blended with beer and came with toast for dipping.
They lingered over this simple fare, eager to hear the evening's entertainment. A young woman ambled around the tavern playing her flute. The bustle of the servers, the hum of chatter, the clear thread of the melody: all left them totally content.
"Do you have plans for tomorrow?" Ian asked after a sip of ale.
Quinn nodded. "What do you think of looking at the various crafts and workshops?" He was already halfway done with his rarebit.
"Good idea. When I was here last, we ran out of time to see the smithies, so let's make sure to stop by." Ian spooned some of his melted cheese onto Quinn's plate, grinning into colonial blue eyes.
"My favorite was Geddy's Foundry; I liked watching them pour and work the molten metal, then turn it into the most useful and beautiful objects." Quinn left unspoken his desire to visit the Golden Ball afterwards to get matching rings. These would have to be worn on chains tucked under their shirts until they decided to tell their families about their relationship.
"That does sound interesting; let's go there first." Ian could tell that Quinn had a surprise in store for him by the tone of his lover's voice.
On their walk home, they were treated to a fireworks display on the green. Red, white, blue, and green sparklers lit up the sky in holiday celebration.
They returned to their room, and Quinn started a merry blaze going, smiling as he saw Ian rooting through his duffel bag. He brought out his own gift for Ian and pulled him down to the sofa for a kiss as he pressed it into his hands.
They opened their presents simultaneously, caught up in the boyish glee of their first Christmas together. A leather-banded Aldera watch for Quinn and a top-of-the-line shaver for Ian, so advanced it was all but sentient.
Quinn saw the inscription 'Love always, your Ian' on the casing, and hugged Ian to him for a long moment. Ian then clasped the brown strap around Quinn's wrist, taking the opportunity to nuzzle his hand while he did so.
Quinn stretched out his arm in the firelight. "It's a fine treat. Thanks, love."
Ian began investigating the seemingly boundless capabilities of his new shaver and looked up at Quinn with a raised eyebrow. "So you like me clean-shaven, do you?" he asked teasingly.
Quinn ran his fingers over Ian's cheeks and chin. "I love this late-day stubble, I'd enjoy whiskers on you, and I'll like your baby-smooth cheeks after a shave. You always look good to me."
Ian's eyes shone. "How about giving me the first shave?"
Quinn's arms wrapped around Ian from behind as they stood in front of the bathroom mirror. He glided the shaver over the curves of Ian's face carefully, lingering on the dimple.
Finally, Ian reached up to turn it off and said, "You should do this for me every morning."
"I'd like to, but then we'd never get to work on time." Quinn chuckled, nuzzling Ian's newly shaven cheek to prove his point.
Both of them were still chuckling as they washed up for the night.
Later in bed, naked and nestled in each other's arms, Quinn shyly broached the subject of the wedding they'd seen at Bruton Parish Church that afternoon.
"I felt so close to you in church today, lad. I-I wonder if you'd consider wearing my ring on a chain."
Ian could feel the rush of heat to Quinn's face as he lay on Ian's chest. Cupping his face to lock eyes with him, Ian said, "Oh, yes! And you'll wear mine?" At Quinn's nod, Ian bent to kiss him and was swept up in Quinn's fervent embrace.
The next day, after a quick breakfast at the Inn, they headed out to look at the craft shops, with one essential stop in mind --the jeweler's for their rings. First, they visited the places they'd overlooked with their parents. Their understanding grew with each facet of colonial life they viewed: hammered and cast metal at the foundry; gazettes and pamphlets at the printer's; hand-sewn shoes at the cobbler's.
They decided to invest in two pairs of high, buckled boots, perfect for hiking the frequently muddy trails near their home. Since custom craftsmanship took time, the boots would be sent to them by parcel post.
The fanciful feathered hats and powdered periwigs at the milliner's left them grateful that tastes had changed in the intervening centuries.
A reproduction of a peruke with a fall of long chestnut hair dusted in white powder caught Ian's eye and he picked it up, turning it in his hands. "Quinn, will you try this on for me? I think it suits you."
Obligingly, Quinn donned the wig, barely suppressing a laugh as he faced Ian. The sight raised gooseflesh on Ian's arms, and after checking to see that they were unobserved, Quinn ran his big hands up and down them until the bumps had subsided.
Looking into the mirror, Quinn had to fight off a shiver of his own. For some reason, the long hair did seem to suit him and even felt familiar. Quinn had never had hair longer than his collar, yet the sense of rightness was unmistakable. He took the peruke off before turning towards Ian again.
Ian said wonderingly, "It looked like it belonged on you."
"I know, lad." Quinn could not continue because the metaphysics of the situation were too convoluted. The wig was available for sale, but he chose not to buy it, nor did Ian press him. They did not discuss it further by unspoken accord, realizing that what had happened was beyond their ken.
The cool air cleared their heads as they walked to the Golden Ball to purchase rings. Plain gold bands of medium width caught their eye, and they were able to watch while their rings were engraved with an entwined Q and I. Ian chose diamond-cut rope chains on which to hang them.
When they went outside, Quinn led Ian to one of the many quiet little gardens that dotted the area. It was surrounded by hedges and accessible only by a white wooden gate set inconspicuously amidst the greenery. After Quinn closed the latch, the garden became their own little piece of the world. It had a contemplative feel, as if generations had used it to gather their thoughts.
Wordlessly, they took the rings and chains out of their boxes and assembled them. Impulsively kneeling in the soft grass, they slipped them over each other's heads, a fine tremor in their fingers.
"I'll love you forever," Ian whispered.
"I'm yours" was Quinn's simple reply.
Their foreheads pressed together for a long moment, then they kissed even longer.
Finally, Ian dared to say it, "I feel married."
A hush came over them at the power of that word. These two men, the least political of creatures, had felt the primal sense of connection that underpinned marriage vows everywhere.
"As do I, lad. As do I." An excruciating mixture of happiness and apprehension resonated in Quinn's voice.
They sat in the garden for a few minutes, collecting themselves before re-entering the wider world. Hands clasped, they leaned on each other and gradually came back down to earth. As they left the garden, they made sure that the rings were hidden, their bittersweet emotions reflected in their eyes.
They opted for lunch next, a good opportunity to adjust to their new closeness. The Shields Tavern was nearby, and they lingered there for more than an hour over veal madeira and bread pudding. They talked much less than usual, reflecting on the magnitude of what they'd just done.
Every so often, they would catch a flash of gold when they looked at each other, which never failed to make them smile. Their vacation was looking more and more like a honeymoon.
After lunch, they tried to get back into the rhythm of sightseeing and set off for the apothecary shop. They watched intently as a costumed expert made 'pills' by grinding herbs to powder with a mortar and pestle, then cutting them in a press. Tonics appeared even more exotic: strangely colored admixtures of unfamiliar liquids stored in cloudy glass bottles.
When they came out onto Duke of Gloucester Street, music greeted them with a lively beat: a fife and drum corps was marching down the street towards them. Carols popular in the 18th century brightened the air, including a favorite of theirs: God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen. They'd never heard a version quite like that.
The corps passed by, and they were off on a bracing walk to the cooper's for a barrel-making demonstration. Each iron-banded barrel had to be watertight; practicality was important, since they were used by the taverns in the historic district.
When they had gambolled at Chowning's Tavern, the barkeep, upon seeing the breadth of Quinn's arms, had asked if he wanted the honor of tapping a hogshead of ale. Quinn had enjoyed the novel experience, and now he could see why he'd been asked: the men who worked here, as in the smithies, were all well-muscled and fit.
They walked towards the windmill nearby, which added a romantic touch to the landscape. The mill also turned out to be practical, providing the grain used for animal feed by farms in the area.
They went straight to their room upon returning to the Inn. As soon as the door had closed, they were in each other's arms, their names on one another's lips between kisses. Ian took off Quinn's ring and watched mesmerized as Quinn pressed both bands together. Ian's ring nested inside of Quinn's, thanks to his lover's broad fingers.
"Let me cradle you within the circle of my arms tonight, just like this," Quinn whispered, closing their hands over the concentric bands, then laying them aside so they could make love.
It felt like their wedding night already, and both of them were eager to celebrate it. Kiss after kiss made them hard as diamonds, so much so that when their erections dug into the tender flesh of stomach and thigh, it actually hurt a bit.
The only thing that got Quinn to disentangle was a frantic search for the lube in his nightstand. He thought he'd left it in the near corner of the top drawer, but it turned out to be between two pairs of rolled-up socks instead. He grabbed and uncapped it in one smooth move, preparing first Ian, then himself.
Ian pulled his thighs back with such a look of hunger that Quinn knew he was the only one who could ever satisfy him.
"Please." That one word spurred Quinn to action, and he lined up with Ian for his first thrust. The tip sank in, to both their groans. He drove in deeper with the next thrust, Ian closing around him in a perfect fit. Knowing he'd found Ian's prostate by his lad's shout, he did his best to spark it on every thrust. He could tell he succeeded from Ian's new vocabulary of growls and moans.
Ian felt his testicles tightening and grabbed Quinn's hand to finish himself off. He trembled when big fingers stroked him none too gently, surging into them as he came, gasping into Quinn's shoulder.
Quinn roared out his orgasm with a final thrust, then dropped onto Ian, causing both of them to grunt. He rolled off, chuckling wheezily when he landed on a bolster.
Ian smiled back indulgently, every inch the lovestruck groom on his wedding night.
Their honeymoon had begun in earnest.
A couple of hours later, Quinn roused from a sated doze with the most marvelous smile on his face and an armful of tousled Ian.
"This vacation just gets better and better, lad," Quinn said, his voice still a bit hoarse from their previous activities.
Ian kissed Quinn's ear and spoke into it. "You're amazing, you know that?"
Quinn's gentle laugh was self-deprecating. "Look who's talking." He tenderly curled a lock of Ian's hair around his forefinger.
They drifted off to sleep again, until Ian cracked open an eye long enough to look at the clock and realize they still had time for high tea in the Terrace Room downstairs. The men had a quick wash and dressed in jacket and tie.
The key word is miniature to describe a traditional English tea, and that's exactly what awaited them: an assortment of tiny cakes, tarts, and sandwiches, each more delicious than the last.
Ian sat back to enjoy watching Quinn eat, the little treats all but vanishing in his big hands. Their waiter had taken one look at him, and set off for more pastries.
Ian laughed merrily. "Now how did he know you'd want more?"
Quinn winked, a mischievous grin lighting his face. "I always want more, lad."
"And you'll always get it," Ian promised softly, eyes gleaming.
Quinn had green tea, Ian the pekoe, neither man using milk, lemon or sugar. They sipped it slowly and savored the lilliputian meal in front of them.
Ian sighed. "It's our last night here. Wish our workdays went this fast."
Quinn smiled at him, incapable of being truly unhappy after the momentous events of the morning. "It's been a wonderful vacation, but I don't mind returning to a new semester with you."
"Nor do I," Ian admitted grudgingly, a tiny pout enhancing his already delectable lips.
Since they'd eaten quite a bit, they decided to skip dinner and returned to their room. Settling in for the night, they both realized that Williamsburg was a historic site for them personally now, the scene of their own private vows.
They'd met thanks to Tolkien; they might have known there would be rings in their future together.
Archive