#augustinremi

He hasn’t heard Henry sing in months, not since long before those winters, and to hear it again sends thrilling warmth through George’s entire body. Henry, who has certainly been drinking just as much as George has, and whose tolerance is nowhere near as stout as he thinks it is, is no singer. The tune is wobbly, the words less than distinct – and, George is certain, not correct – but there’s such an infectious contentment under the melody that it sounds to George like one of the most beautiful things he has ever heard.

Henry finishes his song and sighs, happily. His hand grips tighter around George’s waist and he leans his head against him as they walk. In his affection, George can’t help himself. He stops.

“Love?”

George says nothing, just tugs Henry down into a shadowed, tree-covered spot off their path; Henry makes a quizzical noise, but George merely pulls forward, until they are both hidden from any person who might be making their way down even this quiet street. He steps into Henry, catching him close, so that they are face to face, his breath warm on his cheek. It is not a moment before George’s hand winds into Henry’s hair and he brings him in to a kiss.

They have done this so often before, gently, in quiet, hidden places, with abandon in George’s rooms, quickly, slowly, hard and delicate and always, always with love. Tonight, with the rough bark of a tree pressed against George’s back, and Henry’s thigh between his legs, it feels like the first time all over again. He breaks the kiss, breathing heavily, lets his palms hold Henry’s face between them.

“I love you,” he whispers, his lips brushing against Henry’s with every syllable. He can feel the smile that answers, and does not need to hear it to know that Henry responds the same. His hands roam lower, tracing the line of Henry’s neck, down to rest on his chest, fingers playing over the buttons there. He leans forward again, presses a kiss, a light and gentle bite to the corner of Henry’s mouth, and lowers, following the path down to press another at the edge of his jaw, and lower further still. They are close enough that he can feel the slight hitch of Henry’s breath, the quickening of his pulse when George sucks a small mark to the curve of his neck, just below where it might be covered in his shirt. He makes a low noise, quiet, so quiet that only Henry might hear it.

Henry responds with a low roll of his hips and a small chuckle that sends reverberations through his whole body.