#also fucking hell adams forearms are difficult to draw

[solstheimtxt]

*trips and falls and all my wips fall out*

[storytellingape]

summer in the city

wherein Thomas likes the following: meatloaf, a shop in France, and wearing lingerie when he’s stressed out. 3000 words.

written for viv, and jeu who said a good way to de-stress was to imagine how your favourite character would handle stress. also not sure if i should post it on ao3 bec of its length.

When Thomas is eighteen, he spends an entire summer in Paris. The trip is funded by a wealthy aunt who favors him because she has no children of her own but also due to the fact Thomas reminds her of her late husband: fussy, mildly appraising, always needing to have the last word. It lasts all of nine weeks. Most of it is glorious. The rest of it is hot and muggy, leaving him dizzy and irritable in turns. 

Thomas develops a fisherman’s tan, uses all the wrong verbs, upsets some of the locals, and buys bread and soft cheeses to take back to his hotel every day of the week. He drinks coffee by the hour long, reads The Albatross in its original French, though he only comprehends about a third of it, and feebly grows a wispy mustache which he grooms with careful swipes of his fingers. 

In Paris, it is said that one can always find romance if one knows where to look, but Thomas instead finds a dress shop on the Rue de Rivoli, and his life is never the same again after.

*

Thomas starts dating Adam after the fifth and final time he comes by Harrods to return an item he’d bought. He’d asked to see a manager, and Thomas had given him his blandest most polite customer service face, which he only uses to cow difficult customers, rowdy children, and small misbehaving animals. Adam had asked him out a total of three times before Thomas accepted his invitation for coffee. 

After that followed a series of brazen attempts to get into Thomas’ trousers. 

Adam invited Thomas to his play’s opening night, bought him an expensive cashmere scarf when the weather started to turn, but Thomas didn’t start sleeping with him until well into their fourth month of ‘dating’ after Adam showed up at his flat with half-burnt soup in a thermos when he’d complained about having come down with a cold.

Adam comes by often enough that he leaves his rubbish behind: several hole-ridden shirts hang in Thomas’ closet, Adam’s battery-operated toothbrush now permanently resides in a water-spotted glass on the sink, and he always, without fail, borrows an umbrella only to lose it on the tube. There are many things to be said about Adam, and he can be something of an acquired taste, but if there’s something Thomas likes about him it’s his uncanny ability to remain largely unflappable even when faced with the outlandish and bizarre. 

“What the actual fuck,” Adam says when he walks in on Thomas in lingerie. “What the actual fuck.”

*

Adam has not seen Thomas in lingerie before because Thomas doesn’t make it a habit to totter around his flat in garter belts and heels. It’s something he does only on occasion, when he’s had a long week and he needs a respite from being, well, himself. He hangs up the suit and with each article of clothing peels a layer of artifice off his skin. 

In Paris, years ago, Thomas learned to cut his own hair after the heat made everything unbearable. But there he also learned to luxuriate, to enjoy himself for the sake of it, though he only allows himself the reprieve in small doses lest it overrules his life. 

There’s a shop on the Rue de Rivoli with the most beautiful silk lingerie, with pieces so delicate they feel like they’ve been woven out of dreams. He’d stumbled across the shop while searching vainly for a shorter route back to the hotel and found himself drawn to the statuesque mannequins posed behind the glass window, dressed elegantly in women’s knickers. Except these weren’t just regular knickers, made of cotton, bought from a multipack, for £9.50 from Marks & Spencer. 

Thomas has cousins, he attends a coed Catholic school, he’s seen his fair share of women’s underwear, but none of them had looked this fine, this beautiful. This expensive. 

He wondered what he’d look like in them. He wondered, briefly, if he’d look fine and beautiful too.

*

Adam likes coming over without warning to raid Thomas’ pantry. Thomas regrets ever giving him a spare key but Adam’s visits are not without its merits. He vacuums when Thomas is able to wheedle him into doing it, and he knows a little bit about plumbing for him to tinker with Thomas’ sink to get it working again. He’s Thomas own handyman; all he asks for payment is a hot meal and maybe some blowjobs.

What Thomas doesn’t like is that sometimes Adam shows up in the middle of the night and creeps into his bed, which is how he finds out that Thomas sometimes likes wearing knickers to sleep. It’s nothing sexual; Thomas just finds them snug and comfortable, and extremely flattering to his physique besides. If he happens to chafe himself rubbing too vigorously on the bed covers then that’s none of Adam’s business; his interests are many and varied, some people collect porcelain dolls, Thomas collects luxury lingerie to wear on his down time. 

But he’s in a fresh pair with pretty ribbons when Adam slides under the covers and spoons him, jarring Thomas out of sleep when Adam snuffs a hot breath down his neck and squeezes his ribs firmly. Another thing about Adam: he’s not afraid to show physical affection, even in public. He’s kissed Thomas before in the middle of the street, groped him on the tube, licked his ear in an Indian restaurant while waiting for dessert, his breath reeking of curry. On their first date, he put an arm around Thomas’ waist under the guise of reaching for the door.

“Hey,” Adam mumbles, soft, kissing down Thomas’ collarbones, parting his shirt. “You really asleep? Or are you just pretending?”

Thomas used to kick him whenever he did this but several bruises to the shin later and it no longer warrants a violent reaction. But then Adam cups his hip, then his thigh, then his cock, still soft in sleep and covered in a thin layer of silk, and Thomas snaps his eyes open.

“Babe,” Adam says carefully, and in the dark, his voice echoes throughout every corner of the room. “What are you wearing?”

“I can explain,” Thomas says, but Adam is already peeling back the covers, flicking the bedside lamp on to peer at Thomas’ lap. He raises an eyebrow. Then the other one. “Huh,” he says.

“Look,” Thomas begins to say, already pointing a finger. He wants to die.

“Is this for me?” Adam interrupts, grinning. “Were you planning on seducing me and then fell asleep?” 

“Not everything I do is for your sake,” Thomas replies, but then he catches the intent way Adam is staring at his lap, and it’s either the ribbons that has him so deeply fascinated or the fact that the waistline of Thomas’ pretty knickers catches low on Thomas’ hips. Thomas hasn’t trimmed himself in recent weeks so there’s a conservative little patch of forest peeking out of relevant corners of his underwear and Thomas, he decides to run with it, better to let Adam think this is a seduction tactic than Thomas’ secret hobby and predilection: that lingerie makes him feel incredibly beautiful and so outside of himself that it’s the only way he knows how to relax aside from getting the fucking of his life. 

There are things Thomas would only talk to his therapist about, then there’s this. He’ll take this to the grave with him and murder anyone who knows. All right, maybe not murder, he’s not a psychopath. Adam is sweet when he wants to be, and he makes Thomas laugh. He knows what colour Thomas’ eyes are, has memorized all of his food allergies which is a list almost as long as his arm. Thomas will spare him. Blackmail, then. 

Thomas spreads his legs slowly, not missing the way Adam’s eyes widen considerably, his jaw unhinging as he stares and stares and stares. He knows how to use his body to his advantage, and Adam is easy to wind up.

“Would you like to touch it, Adam?” 

“Yeah,” Adam pants. “Hell yeah.”

*

The second time Adam encounters Thomas in knickers, Thomas is in the bath, with one foot hooked over the side of the tub, and a hand furiously gripping his favourite dildo which he’s pumping into himself with such focused intensity he doesn’t hear the door creak open.  

The water has all but drained, leaving Thomas in a pair of clingy translucent panties, uncomfortable if not for the fact it deeply arouses him.

It had been that kind of day: a long earful from his manager prompted some boxed wine, Puccini’s La Boheme as performed by the Berlin Philharmonic, and he’d walked around his living room for a bit, naked except for the panties, admiring himself in all reflective surfaces including the window which he leaves slightly ajar because he likes the sound of birds, before drawing himself a warm bath full of luxuriant bath oils and petals. He doesn’t take the panties off and eats expensive cuts of cheese off an inflatable tray. 

Adam could have walked in at any given moment but he chose to do so when Thomas is having a wank, which is really rather typical. Adam does what he wants, whenever he wants. This makes him very unpredictable, a trait Thomas is both wary of and attracted to; he needs that volatility in the humdrum of everyday life. His therapist says so. Thomas knows so. 

“I feel like this is one of those fever dreams,” Adam says later as he’s sliding into Thomas and then fucking him in short little jerks, running his hands down his ribs and squeezing the backs of his thighs. Thomas’ panties are clinging dearly to one ankle and then Adam tugs them off completely and starts putting his back into fucking him. Thomas forgets his last name, the year, the current Prime Minister. He comes with Adam’s cock buried almost painfully into the hilt, his own trapped between the noisy friction of their bodies. 

Adam rubs at his forearms and licks his neck until he comes to. Afterwards, he orders them takeaway and they eat lo mein with forks because they’re heathens who don’t know any better. 

Adam tells him about his day, his legs thrown over Thomas’ knees on the sofa. “So, guess what. I got a really sweet gig today. Got cast in a beer commercial, of all things. A fucking beer commercial. Like I’m not trying to complain or anything, money is money, but I’m a recovering alcoholic. It’s not very on-brand, you know?”

Thomas tells him about his day. “I got into a row with my new boss,” he says, staring morosely at the last piece of dumpling. “I don’t think he likes any of my ideas.”

Adam stops eating abruptly, slurping on a greasy string of noodle with a loud noise. He nods his head and shrugs. “You know where he lives?” he asks cautiously, because say what you want about him but he’s the type to think kicking the shit out of something is somehow the magical answer to everything. He wears his heart on his sleeve and sometimes lets that rule him.

Thomas looks at him, horrified by the implication.

“I’m joking, I’m joking! Jesus,” Adam laughs, but then he turns serious eyes on Thomas again when they lapse into a long silence. “But seriously, if you want me to intimidate him a little bit…” he nudges Thomas with a foot. 

Thomas pinches him in the big toe, but Adam, he just laughs and laughs.

*

Thomas doesn’t get the promotion. Nigel Bannerman does. 

Thomas takes the rest of the day off and puts on his best pair of lingerie and he gets a little bit tipsy on cheap red wine while listening to strings of Monteverdi issued by an ancient iPod perched on the coffee table. He’s on his second glass of wine when Adam walks in, swinging a bag onto the floor before taking off his clothes. He leaves them in an unruly pile on the floor and then he’s down to just his undershirt and boxers. 

Then he catches Thomas in the act. Or, rather, there’s nothing to catch, really, because Thomas only happens to be drinking wine and eating crackers with cheese. In lingerie. His legs are crossed primly, he’s wearing garter belts to hold up his stockings, and his bralette is sheer enough that it does a poor job of hiding his peaking nipples. He’s not doing anything outrageous but Thomas still has to tamp down the urge to throw himself out the window, the only other alternative being to throw himself in the path of a speeding train. 

“I can explain,” he says.

“I feel like this keeps happening,” Adam interrupts him. “Not that it’s a bad thing. You look great by the way. It’s just that — wow, look at the legs on you. You shave today, baby? Wow.” Adam blinks, then kneels next to him on the sofa. 

Thomas frowns at him. Adam is the only one he can frown at openly without intimidating completely. That or Adam is starting to get comfortable around him; he’s stopped showering after sex.

Adam takes in the surrounding mess of half-eaten crackers and cheese, the crumbs on the cushions, and makes a thoughtful noise in his throat. “You had a bad day at work?”

Thomas frowns even harder. His entire face twitches; it’s practically a tic. He can be easy to read sometimes, more so when he’s dressed down in expensive lingerie and trying his best to look dignified despite it.

“Is this about the promotion?” Adam hazards a guess, and when Thomas says nothing for a really long while, Adam sighs and opens his arms, wrapping them around Thomas and squeezing his shoulders awkwardly. He smells like meatloaf but not in a bad way. 

Thomas happens to like it because the thing about meatloaf is you can eat it even when it’s already cold and it’ll still be good. Meatloaf goes well with anything, bread, beans, potatoes, eggs, and maybe that’s why Thomas likes Adam so much; he can be a prick, but so can Thomas, they can drive each other crazy toe-to-toe but when things get rough Adam’ll stand his ground and still be there to hound and annoy and bugger the hell out of Thomas, in more than the metaphorical sense, immovable as a statue. 

“You only whip out the panties when you’re sad,” Adam tells him, speaking into his hair, rubbing his back. 

Thomas pulls back from his loose embrace, spluttering and smacking him on the chest. First of all: how dare he.  Secondly: how dare he. “That— that isn’t remotely true at all! Don’t be stupid! Sometimes I wear them when I feel like it! It’s not some sort of therapy, or or means to cope with stress!”

Adam looks at him dubiously. “I know, all right? And it’s okay!” he all but yells. He softens his voice when Thomas goes all stiff in his arms, and not in the sexy way they both enjoy. “You can act like it’s a big fucking secret, but I practically live here, Thomas. I do the laundry from time to time. I’ve seen all manner of kinky shit in your sock drawer. Lingerie isn’t even the worst of it. It’s not even in the fucking top three.”

Thomas almost doesn’t respond. So: Adam’s seen the ball gag. Might as well move to Cornwall and become a fisherman. “So you don’t think it’s strange,” he says, after a pause, already dreading the answer. 

“I’ve been an alcoholic for most of my life,” Adam laughs. “Until recently. I’ve done my fair share of weird shit. Not that you enjoying lingerie is weird. I just mean that life is too short to get hung up on trivial shit, you know? I once stole a tuba from my high school marching band. I’ve woken up in my own pool of vomit and piss under a bridge. I was covered in blood. There was a whole fucking lot of it. And it wasn’t mine and I was—”

“Do you want to see the rest of my collection?” Thomas interrupts. “Of lingerie.” Not ball gags, though Thomas has a few of those. 

Adam looks at him quietly. He rubs the skin under his grisly stubble, a nervous habit though that could also mean he’s being coy. “Are you going to model them for me?” he asks hopefully.

*

“I bought this one in Luxembourg,” Thomas says, holding a delicate piece aloft, the one with lace trimmings. 

Adam swallows. “So are you going to put those on or is there more you’re going to show me?”

“More,” Thomas says.

Adam thumps his head against the pillows and groans.

*

When Thomas is eighteen, he enters a dress shop on the Rue de Rivoli with some measure of trepidation. He smells like sun and traffic, and he’s sweating through his shirt from the heat, itchy under the scalp where he’d tried giving himself a haircut. It’s 2003 and he’s on his gap year. He’s never even kissed a person before. He’s only ever dated one boy and held his hand in the dark of a cinema while worrying about getting popcorn stuck in his teeth.

When he sees the assortment of clothes displayed neatly at the back of the shop, his heart starts to race, his palms sweat. They’re meant for women, these fineries, but he can see himself wearing the best pieces, can imagine the smooth glide of stockings over his mosquito-bitten legs, delicate satin cups cushioning his soft chest. 

A saleslady asks him if he’s lost or needs help. In perfect French, Thomas replies, “I was just looking,” and for years that’s all he does.

*

Thomas uses some of his inheritance money to buy two plane tickets to France. He books a respectable hotel because now he can afford it, one with an actual view of the cityscape and not a concrete wall or masonry. He and Adam take turns buying baguettes and cheeses from the cafe across the street and Thomas shows Adam all his favourite places: the museums, the restaurants, the poorly-ventilated bookshops with wallpaper peeling on the walls and a fat orange cat sunning itself outside. They take long walks by the river. 

Eventually, because Thomas can’t help himself, he drags Adam to the shop on the Rue de Rivoli. The shopfront has  had several facelifts over the years but the gilded letters stand bright and gleaming against the setting Parisian sun: Sabine.

Thomas stands outside the door for half a minute, hesitating, then he shoves the door all the way open and a bell above him tinkles in welcome.