Strange removed his hand from Norrell’s hair, leaving Norrell in a panic that he had once again given offense. Yet Strange himself did not draw away. Instead, he settled his arm about Norrell’s middle and drew him back firmly. Norrell realized it to be an embrace some minutes later, halfway through a passage on the towers of Seven and a haircut the writer was denied.
“Mr Strange?” he asked, for this was at last enough to make him wonder at the tenor of their relations. Embraces were well and good, but an embrace such at this, with Strange pressed all up and down his back, was quite a heady experience, and it left Mr Norrell wondering if perhaps there was something he ought to do.
He twisted so that he could look up at Strange once more. Strange was giving him the most peculiar look, which Norrell could only describe as something beyond fondness. He could not remember such a look being turned on him in all his years, and he did not know what to make of it.
When Strange said nothing, Norrell tried once more. “Mr Strange? Is there something you wished?”
“There is,” Strange said, but he made no indication what it might be.
“Name it, sir, and if I can manage it, I shall.”
“Do you truly not know it already?” Strange asked, looking at Norrell with considerable surprize.
Norrell knew well the feeling of having missed some social cue, and detested it as much in the Darkness as he had in London society. “No, of course I do not, or I should not have asked!” he exclaimed, growing a bit upset. He wished to turn away, then, before this looming unknown were to reveal itself as some great joke at his expense. Surely Strange would not be so cruel.
But whatever he might have done or thought to do was halted by Strange’s hand cupping his jaw. Norrell blinked up at him as a rabbit might, frightened and intrigued all at once. “I am sorry, sir,” Strange said. “I had simply thought myself to have become a bit obvious.”
Norrell knew not what to say to that, and much of his ability to reason had already been diverted to thinking about the hand upon his face, and the fluttering in his chest. Was he perhaps taking ill? “No?” he said, when he realized an answer was required of him.
Strange laughed at that, although it held no mockery. Indeed, it held only that same peculiar fondness. “Then might I take a liberty, sir, and clarify this matter?”
“I think I would appreciate that.”
And then Strange kissed him, which was both the most surprizing thing in the world to Mr Norrell, and something that felt quite natural and ordinary. There was no way Norrell could interpret this gesture as fraternal, however, which threw him into considerable confusion and worry. He realized then that he had missed a great many signs, and he was not certain how. That he might have deliberately blinded himself did not occur to him, for those who make habit of self-deception seldom recognize it.
Strange drew back, which sent Norrell into yet another panic. For in his mind, affection was fickle, and was more likely to be withdrawn than it was to stay. Perhaps it was this fear that spurred him into action. He twisted himself halfway about, reached up, mimicked Strange’s touch upon his cheek, and then pressed his lips to Strange’s smile.
Strange continued to smile for several seconds before responding with a more heated press. It was still nothing that would have scandalized any but the most sheltered, but Mr Norrell had diligently hidden from the world long enough that it felt as though he had committed every known transgression in an instant. Surely, he thought, such sensations were at the very edge of human tolerance. He shivered, and shifted, and could not find a means of getting close enough to Strange. He needed to turn himself fully to face Strange so he would not have his head craned at such an uncomfortable angle, but doing that and remaining in contact with Strange seemed two mutually exclusive actions. And to break such a kiss would most likely result in Strange coming to his senses and then redoubling his efforts to disenchant them.
Then Strange broke the kiss, and Norrell could not stop the exclamation of loss he let out. Strange’s laugh gusted against his lips, and Norrell’s instinctual reaction to any such laughter was to cringe back in shame. He could only imagine what a man of the world such as Jonathan Strange, who had both been to war and been married (two states which seemed equally harrowing to Norrell), thought of his poor attempts.
Feeling sharply the indignity of his position, Norrell tried desperately to turn away, perhaps bury himself back in his book until Strange’s amusement died. Before he could do so, however, Strange caught him by the arm. “Sir, I fear you have misunderstood me. I do not laugh at you! I laugh at myself, for I have been in knots for weeks. For weeks! I had thought myself quite alone in my sentiments, and feared your reaction more than anything save what silence might do to me. I laugh out of relief.”
“I do not understand what you are saying to me!” Norrell cried.
“I am saying that I love you, sir, and have done for years.”
Re: FILL: A Newly Woken World (2/4)
“Mr Strange?” he asked, for this was at last enough to make him wonder at the tenor of their relations. Embraces were well and good, but an embrace such at this, with Strange pressed all up and down his back, was quite a heady experience, and it left Mr Norrell wondering if perhaps there was something he ought to do.
He twisted so that he could look up at Strange once more. Strange was giving him the most peculiar look, which Norrell could only describe as something beyond fondness. He could not remember such a look being turned on him in all his years, and he did not know what to make of it.
When Strange said nothing, Norrell tried once more. “Mr Strange? Is there something you wished?”
“There is,” Strange said, but he made no indication what it might be.
“Name it, sir, and if I can manage it, I shall.”
“Do you truly not know it already?” Strange asked, looking at Norrell with considerable surprize.
Norrell knew well the feeling of having missed some social cue, and detested it as much in the Darkness as he had in London society. “No, of course I do not, or I should not have asked!” he exclaimed, growing a bit upset. He wished to turn away, then, before this looming unknown were to reveal itself as some great joke at his expense. Surely Strange would not be so cruel.
But whatever he might have done or thought to do was halted by Strange’s hand cupping his jaw. Norrell blinked up at him as a rabbit might, frightened and intrigued all at once. “I am sorry, sir,” Strange said. “I had simply thought myself to have become a bit obvious.”
Norrell knew not what to say to that, and much of his ability to reason had already been diverted to thinking about the hand upon his face, and the fluttering in his chest. Was he perhaps taking ill? “No?” he said, when he realized an answer was required of him.
Strange laughed at that, although it held no mockery. Indeed, it held only that same peculiar fondness. “Then might I take a liberty, sir, and clarify this matter?”
“I think I would appreciate that.”
And then Strange kissed him, which was both the most surprizing thing in the world to Mr Norrell, and something that felt quite natural and ordinary. There was no way Norrell could interpret this gesture as fraternal, however, which threw him into considerable confusion and worry. He realized then that he had missed a great many signs, and he was not certain how. That he might have deliberately blinded himself did not occur to him, for those who make habit of self-deception seldom recognize it.
Strange drew back, which sent Norrell into yet another panic. For in his mind, affection was fickle, and was more likely to be withdrawn than it was to stay. Perhaps it was this fear that spurred him into action. He twisted himself halfway about, reached up, mimicked Strange’s touch upon his cheek, and then pressed his lips to Strange’s smile.
Strange continued to smile for several seconds before responding with a more heated press. It was still nothing that would have scandalized any but the most sheltered, but Mr Norrell had diligently hidden from the world long enough that it felt as though he had committed every known transgression in an instant. Surely, he thought, such sensations were at the very edge of human tolerance. He shivered, and shifted, and could not find a means of getting close enough to Strange. He needed to turn himself fully to face Strange so he would not have his head craned at such an uncomfortable angle, but doing that and remaining in contact with Strange seemed two mutually exclusive actions. And to break such a kiss would most likely result in Strange coming to his senses and then redoubling his efforts to disenchant them.
Then Strange broke the kiss, and Norrell could not stop the exclamation of loss he let out. Strange’s laugh gusted against his lips, and Norrell’s instinctual reaction to any such laughter was to cringe back in shame. He could only imagine what a man of the world such as Jonathan Strange, who had both been to war and been married (two states which seemed equally harrowing to Norrell), thought of his poor attempts.
Feeling sharply the indignity of his position, Norrell tried desperately to turn away, perhaps bury himself back in his book until Strange’s amusement died. Before he could do so, however, Strange caught him by the arm. “Sir, I fear you have misunderstood me. I do not laugh at you! I laugh at myself, for I have been in knots for weeks. For weeks! I had thought myself quite alone in my sentiments, and feared your reaction more than anything save what silence might do to me. I laugh out of relief.”
“I do not understand what you are saying to me!” Norrell cried.
“I am saying that I love you, sir, and have done for years.”