Lavender & Gold - 2. The Man with the Velvet Voice

CHAPTER TWO

The Man with the Velvet Voice

Ben spent the rest of the week in his flat, reading over his scripts and replying to e-mails. Occasionally, Mark would send him a text, breaking the monotony.

Almost got caught busking illegally on the tube today. Fuck the police. M

Came up with an idea for a new song. Want to play it to you next time we meet. M

Len rang me earlier. Nightmare. M

I’ve had a bit to drink, just wanted to say I’m thinking about you. M

They did not arrive every day, nor did he get obnoxious or text again when Ben didn’t immediately reply.

Then rehearsals for The Crucible started, and Ben did not have much time to think about Mark, but the texts kept coming, every other day or so.

Hope rehearsals are going well. I’m working hard too, got a gig. Don’t work too hard, remember to take breaks for whisky. M

And Ben texted back, Where’s your gig? I probably can’t make it either way, but I’ll have a glass of whisky in your honour. BC

And then, on the play’s opening night, Break a leg x

Ben couldn’t have said why, but it made his heart leap, just a little.

He got stunning reviews. ‘Astoundingly cynical yet earnest performance,’ they said, and, ‘A deeply original and entirely sexy interpretation of John Proctor.’ The play itself was described with phrases such as ‘originality sans pretentiousness’, ‘stunning scenography’, and ‘riveting, clean-cut production’. It was as he had expected. Somewhere, there had been a twinge of fear that his audience would hate him, that the critics would gang up on him en masse, but they didn’t, and Ben found himself wholly unsurprised. That was. . . disappointing. Not the reviews—they were most welcome and made him happy—but his total lack of surprise made him feel strangely empty.

So on his first night off following the premiere, he cancelled his dinner plans with Sir Derek Jacobi and sent a text to Mark.

I miss you. Come over?

He attached his address, knowing full well what a risk he was taking. He and Mark had met twice. Objectively, rationally, it was very possible that he was simply a fame leacher, or worse, that he was planning to sell him out or blackmail him in some way, but Ben didn’t really believe that. He couldn’t. He knew with the utmost certainty that this boy, who had seduced him so completely without even trying, with his eyes and his hips and his music and his strange command of words, was the real deal.

Ben believed in people. He had a strong faith in humanity and people’s ability to be kind, decent and good. He hated that some part of him felt suspicious whenever someone he didn’t know approached him because he couldn’t know if they really wanted to get to know him or just latch onto his fame.

His mobile buzzed.

Sure. Working just now, but I can be there in a couple of hours. M

‘The little shit,’ Ben murmured fondly. ‘Playing hard to get now?’ He put his phone back in his pocket and went to take a shower. Then he strolled down to the shop, bought pasta, bacon, mince, tomatoes, fresh oregano and a bottle of Italian red and returned home to cook. When Mark arrived, the ragù bolognese was reducing and Ben had just put the pasta in the water.

‘Wow, loving the rugged look,’ said Mark, upon seeing Ben’s now rather messy mop of curls.

‘It’s for the play.’ Ben shrugged. ‘They asked me to grow out a beard for the part, too, but my facial hair growth is. . . unimpressive. So they glue one on every night. And you’re one to talk.’ He pointed to Mark’s hair, which was now blue, verging on turquoise. Mark only grinned.

‘So, this is where you live?’ he said, one eyebrow raised, as he walked into the sitting room.

‘Yup,’ said Ben. ‘Not what you expected?’

‘I dunno,’ Mark admitted. ‘I think I expected somewhere. . . bigger. Fancier. You know. Like an MTV Crib or something.’

‘I moved here when my acting career started to properly take off, about six or seven years ago now,’ said Ben, leading Mark through to the kitchen. ‘I suppose I could afford to move, but I don’t want to. I like it here.’

‘It’s nice,’ said Mark, nodding.

‘Have a seat.’ Ben indicated one of the bar stools by the breakfast bar. ‘Wine?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Mark. He looked around while Ben poured two generous glasses. ‘Smells good.’

‘I realise I didn’t ask. . . Have you eaten?’

Mark shook his head.

‘Good, there’s enough food cooking to feed a small army,’ said Ben with a smile.

Ben was an excellent cook, if he said so himself, and he was liable to. This was no oh-so-English spag bol he’d made. His bolognese was made entirely from scratch, with high quality organic beef, lightly smoked bacon, onion, garlic, finely chopped carrots and celery, fresh tomatoes, freshly ground black pepper, nutmeg, basil, thyme and oregano and a generous helping of decent red wine, plus the secret ingredient of dried lavender flowers. He left it to bubble for at least half an hour, and served it with wholewheat linguine cooked al dente and shredded parmesan.

Mark was in awe. Upon the first bite, he closed his eyes and made a sound not entirely unlike what Ben imagined he might sound like in bed. The thought made him smile.

After dinner, they sat down in the sitting room to finish their wine.

‘Play’s going well, I hear,’ said Mark.

‘It is,’ Ben confirmed with a nod. ‘I love the theatre. There’s nothing like that live feeling, connecting directly with an audience. . . It’s fantastic. No retakes, no safety net, you just have to go for it.’

Mark nodded. ‘Same with live music,’ he said. ‘Recording a song is fun. You can get it just like you want it, over-dub your own voice, stick on effects. . . But it’s not the same as standing on a stage and having people watching you.’

‘Are you in a band?’

‘Not at the moment. I go it solo. Gigs are scarce, though. I need to get my break soon.’

Ben nodded slowly. They sat in silence for a bit, sipping their wine.

‘So,’ said Mark after a few moments, ‘missed me, did you?’

Ben remembered the wording of his text and smiled sheepishly. ‘I was getting really caught up,’ he said. ‘You know, in the reviews and the audience and the whole circus. Feels like talking to you. . . grounds me, somehow.’

Mark raised both eyebrows in astonishment. ‘Really? I do that?’

Ben nodded, looking away, feeling suddenly nervous. This surprised him. He didn’t really get nervous anymore. Not in that way. There was a surge of nervous energy right before going on stage, or just before shooting a difficult scene, but he generally turned that into pure performance power. He was in control of those nerves. These nerves, however, he seemed to have no say over. It felt good, not to be in control. Not to have plans.

Mark set down his wine glass and edged closer. Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his hand to Ben’s cheek and touched it lightly. Ben’s eyes fluttered shut as Mark’s delicate fingers journeyed into his dark locks, stroking and tugging just a little bit. He took Ben’s glass out of his hand, placing it on the coffee table. Ben felt him move closer still, and then his breath was right next to his ear.

‘Is this okay?’ Mark whispered.

Ben nodded. Swallowed. ‘Yeah.’ All the same, he was wholly unprepared for what happened next. Mark kissed him very gently on the cheek, and then he put his arms around him, pulling him close, just hugging him.

It had been a while since anyone had really hugged Ben. He’d been hugged on stage and film, as part of the act, and there had been the buddy-sort of hugs from fellow actors following performances or cool, staged hugs with chat show hosts, but being hugged by another human being just because. . . That had definitely been a while.

Ben relaxed into Mark’s embrace, putting his arms around him in turn.

‘You looked like you needed it,’ Mark mumbled into his shoulder.

Ben nodded. ‘I think I did.’

They sat like that for a while, and then Mark pulled back. Ben studied his face, frowning slightly. The boy with the lavender eyes stared back, expression unreadable.

‘What is it you want from me?’ Ben asked after a moment.

Mark cocked his head to one side. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean. . . ’ Ben looked away, frowning still. He was unsure of what he wanted to say and how he wanted to say it—a foreign feeling for a man who made his living saying the right things in the right way. ‘I don’t believe you’re just here with me because of who I am.’

‘Of course I am,’ said Mark. Ben looked up abruptly. ‘No, not like that, silly,’ Mark continued. ‘I’m not here because you’re famous, because you’re an actor or because you’re rich. I’m here because of who you are.’

‘Which is?’

‘A fucking massively hot, talented, interesting, magnificent human being whom I’d give anything to get to know properly. I wanna get inside your head. I want to know how you tick. And, I admit, your head isn’t the only thing I’d like to get inside.’ He flashed a wicked grin, and Ben laughed outright at the cheesiness of his words. Then he grew serious again, swallowing and looking down at Mark’s hand, resting on his arm. Ben covered it with his own, slightly larger one.

‘I can’t be your boyfriend,’ he said quietly.

‘Because you’re not gay?’ asked Mark.

‘No,’ said Ben. ‘It’s nothing to do with me, my convictions or my attractions—and I am attracted to you. It’s to do with the business I work in, and the very public life I’m forced to lead. Hollywood may pretend to be liberal and openminded, but if I were to be in an openly homosexual relationship, I might lose everything I’ve worked for. That’s probably selfish, but. . .’ He grimaced, and looked up at Mark’s face. ‘For now, I’m free of paparazzi, no one’s following me around and the gossip about me is just that; gossip. But if I were to. . . be with you, you’d have to be like a dirty little secret and I think you deserve better than that.’

Mark shifted a bit next to him, and then he was sitting on his knees on the floor, looking up into Ben’s face, the look in his eyes earnest and intense. ‘Let me make my own decisions,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend. I’m not asking you to forsake all others, or even to date me. I’m not asking for birthdays and Christmases and meet the fucking family. Okay? I’m just—’ He bit his lower lip, glancing away for a moment. Then he met Ben’s gaze again, his eyes full of determination. ‘I’m done window shopping. I’d like to try you on. See if you’re my size. Maybe borrow you for a bit.’

Ben smiled, in spite of himself. He really did have a way with words, this kid. He cupped Mark’s face in his hands and leaned forward to kiss his forehead, but Mark moved his head and captured his lips instead. This time, the kiss was not gentle or hesitant. It was hot and demanding, and any and all protests Ben might have had (he’s so young, he’s a man, we have feelings for each other and I can’t give him what he really wants) died on his lips, and were swallowed whole by Mark’s insisting mouth.

Before he knew it, Mark was in his lap, hands in his hair, tongue deep inside his mouth, probing, tasting, and Ben’s body seemed to be acting of its own accord. He slipped his arms around Mark’s waist, gripping at his shirt, and then Mark was nibbling on his lower lip and Ben released an indecent sounding moan. Mark kissed a trail from his mouth to his neck and up to his earlobe, which he took into his mouth and sucked on, and Ben closed his eyes, lost to the sensation.

‘Do you have any idea,’ Mark whispered, ‘how long I’ve wanted to do this?’

‘For about as long as I’ve wanted you to, I reckon,’ Ben murmured.

‘And how long’s that?’

‘Since you walked up to me at that party. . .’ Ben had dropped his voice to the lowest register it would reach.

‘God, your voice!’ Mark groaned. ‘It’s obscene, like velvet on naked skin. When I’m alone and I want to see you, I look up clips of you on YouTube and just listen to your voice while I get myself off.’

His words sent a shudder through Ben’s body. He felt like knowing this should have freaked him out, but all he could think about just then was the image of Mark lying on his bed in his tiny flat, pleasuring himself. That thought, combined with the feeling of Mark in his lap, made Ben rock hard. Mark must have felt it because he chuckled.

‘So,’ he whispered, ‘what would you like me to do?’

Ben’s brain was hardly able to form coherent thought, let alone formulate a sentence at this point. He swallowed twice, as if that would make him better able to think. It did not. So all he managed was, ‘Want. You.’

‘Yeah, I think we’ve established that,’ Mark murmured, letting his hand drop down between Ben’s legs, palming him through his trousers. ‘But in what way?’

Ben gasped. ‘I. . . You’re the one. . . with experience,’ he panted.

‘Well, what do you like?’

Mark’s hand was making it completely impossible to think at all, so Ben grasped his wrist with a low growl and held it still. ‘You do realise that asking a straight man what he likes in bed is a bit like asking a blind man what his favourite colour is,’ he said, with great effort. ‘Shagging for me has mostly involved inserting my cock somewhere and thrusting until I come. I’m not so. . . sophisticated. With a woman, it’s mostly about her, as it should be since she’s harder to get off.’

‘You said you’d been with men before,’ Mark reminded him.

‘Yeah, at uni. I can’t remember what we did then. . .’

Mark smirked. ‘Well, then. More fun for me.’

* * *

Ben didn’t often curse in conversation. He wasn’t opposed to it, and he would do it if it seemed fitting or appropriate, but he wasn’t the type to use such language indiscriminately, as filler or punctuation. He might have been when he was younger, but being in the public eye for so long broke the habit.

Now, however, in his own home, on his bed, with Mark nestled between his legs, sucking and biting at his nipples while his hand snaked its way down his stomach towards the lining of his pants, profanities flowed from Ben’s lips like a river. When the hand finally reached its destination, Ben was squirming under his touch, words failing him, dissolving into sounds of pleasure.

Mark pulled Ben’s pants down to his knees, kissing a trail down his stomach before pausing, looking up at Ben with mischievous eyes. ‘Do you want it?’ he asked softly. Ben nodded vigorously. He didn’t think he’d wanted anything more intensely in his life. ‘Ask me for it,’ Mark said.

‘Want your mouth,’ Ben managed. ‘Fuck, please. . .’

Mark obliged, with enthusiasm, and Ben threw his head back with a grateful sigh. Mark teased and played, before taking him in to the hilt, and Ben thought that this must be what heaven felt like. Heaven was Mark’s mouth and hands, his lidded eyes looking at Ben through his lashes, and his voice sending vibrations through Ben’s body as he made small sounds, as though he were enjoying administering this treatment as much as Ben enjoyed receiving it. This was, of course, impossible, because no other feeling in the world could match what Ben was currently feeling. There was no felicity superior to this.

Heaven.

When he felt his climax coming on, Ben reluctantly pulled out of Mark’s mouth. He didn’t want it to be over. He propped himself up on an elbow and reached down to cup Mark’s cheek, pulling him to him to kiss him deeply, tasting himself on his lips. Mark lay down on top of him, hands roaming across Ben’s naked body. Ben wanted very much to reciprocate, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to make Mark feel as good as Mark had just made him.

All the same, Ben ran his hands down Mark’s slim torso (he was leaner than he would have expected, though the contours of his ribs were clearly visible) and pushed his pants down to reveal his cock, which was already rock hard and leaking. He stroked it slowly, and Mark gasped.

‘Oh, Ben. . .’ Mark moaned. ‘Please. . . Will you fuck me?’

Ben groaned deep in his throat. ‘You’re asking me that?’ he murmured. ‘Really? Jesus fucking Christ, I’m aching for it!’

Mark smirked down at him. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Wanted to hear you say it. Say it again?’

‘I want to fuck you, Mark.’ Ben let his voice drop in the way he knew Mark liked so well. ‘I want to bury myself in you, bollocks deep. I want to shape you on the inside. We’ll do it any way you like, hard, gently, you can ride me, I don’t care, I just need you.’ He should have felt silly saying things like that, but he somehow did not.

Mark closed his eyes, a visible shudder going through his body as Ben spoke. ‘Have you got condoms? Lube?’

‘Nightstand,’ said Ben.

It was better than Ben could ever have imagined. As Mark lowered himself onto him, Ben cried out in pure ecstasy. The boy knew what he was doing. A seasoned veteran, graduated summa cum laude, with emphasis on ‘cum’, from the University of Ride-you-until-your-eyes-roll-up. Ben grasped his hips tightly, thrusting up into him, loving how Mark threw his head back, moaned, cried out, swore loudly. Ben had been right; some of the sounds of pleasure Mark was making were remarkably similar to the ones he’d made at dinner.

It was rough and fast. That was okay. They were both ready, very ready. And then it was over, and Mark collapsed on top of him. Ben caressed the back of his neck with gentle fingers.

‘I want to do more for you next time,’ he murmured.

‘Oh?’ said Mark breathlessly. ‘So there will be a next time?’

‘Of course there will bloody well be a next time!’ Ben growled. ‘Not letting you just disappear. . .’

‘I have no intention to,’ said Mark, and Ben kissed his neck softly.

‘Oh, hey, you said something about a new song in your texts,’ said Ben.

Mark propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at him. ‘Yeah, but I haven’t got my guitar.’

‘I have a guitar,’ said Ben. ‘In the study. Play me your new song?’

‘Yeah, I don’t know about you, but I don’t think I can actually move for a little while,’ said Mark, flashing a wicked grin. ‘God, feels like you’re still in me. . .’

‘That can be arranged,’ said Ben with a smirk. ‘I’ll need half an hour or so, though. I’m an old man.’

Mark laughed and leaned down to kiss him. It was gentle and sweet, and Ben sighed happily.

‘Just sing it, then,’ he murmured when Mark pulled away.

Mark smiled. ‘All right.’ He cleared his throat and put on a theatrical voice. ‘Ladies and jellyspoons, this is a new tune called Gold.’

Then he sang, softly. He forgot the lyrics a couple of times and just hummed the melody instead. ‘Eyes of gold gleam like sunlight on the sea. A galaxy of colour means you’re far away from me. But I wonder, hmm hmm hmm, if you were free maybe you’d take the time. . . The time to let me in to see what’s going on in your mind, what genius I might find, but as it is you’re somewhere out of reach, but not out of sight. . . Because want travels faster than light, and what I want I think you know. I want you to dig a hole in me and make a home, somewhere you can be safe and whole and never alone, no never alone. . .’

‘That’s beautiful,’ said Ben softly.

‘I don’t have to embarrass myself by explaining it, do I?’

Ben shook his head, smiling. He blinked back a tear and cleared his throat. ‘This is dangerous,’ he said sombrely. ‘If that’s how you feel. . .’ He trailed off.

‘Are you trying to tell me you don’t?’ said Mark, cocking an eyebrow.

Ben let out a deep sigh. ‘This is bad.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it can never work.’

Mark shook his head. ‘No use thinking about it. Can’t we just. . . see what happens? You know, just live?’

Ben sighed, and then opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a consonant, Mark’s lips were on his again, and his words died away, replaced with want and desire and longing. When Mark pulled away again, his eyebrow was raised in challenge. Ben did not rise to meet it. Instead, he pushed Mark off him enough that he could turn out the lights and settled against him, arm draped over his waist, and drifted off to sleep.

Whatever this was, whatever it was becoming, it felt right.