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“Youuu… you’re pretty.” Victor slurred as he looked up at Henry. Henry couldn’t stop a smirk.
“Is that so?”
“Yes. Itssa fact,” Victor slumped back onto the wall. “I know sooo many facts. ‘nd you’re… you’re one of ‘em.” He gestured at Henry, or more like, he attempted to gesture at Henry, but only managed an uncoordinated flop of his arms.
Dear God, he was drunk. Henry was so happy to finally get Victor out of the dorm that he didn’t realize how overboard the man had gone with the drinking until he was staring at Victor trying- and failing- to stand upright.
His glasses had long since fallen off and were now safely tucked away in Henry’s pocket, as was Victor’s pocket watch. His overcoat was nearly forgotten at the bar- thank heavens for Henry’s quick thinking to grab it. There were plenty of people who wouldn’t turn down the finely stitched fabric or the contents of its pockets.
Henry had guided him to a window that was open, away from the brunt of the revelry. He had hoped Victor would benefit from the fresh air. It was a bit hard to tell as Victor’s eyes slammed shut and his breathing grew labored.
Henry reached out, to ask him what was wrong, but suddenly his eyes flew open and he made a mad lunge for the window. He began to expel the contents of his stomach into the garden below.
As he retched, Henry tied his unruly hair back in a spare hair clasp and kept him from falling out of the window and into his sick. The long hair was new, one of the many things that were new about Victor as of recent, borne out of his reluctance to visit a barber. His mother and Elizabeth had always kept it more closely cropped to his head back in Geneva, but now it brushed his shoulders and fell into his face in limp strands. Henry might need to step in and give him a trim soon.
Henry was pressed right up against Victor’s back, and alcohol was the only thing he could smell over Victor’s stomach acid and half-digested food. His waistcoat and dress shirt were stained with champagne and wine, and now his collar had speckles of vomit.
He was going to be so pissed in the morning.
Heat radiated off of Victor’s flushed and heaving body as the throwing up subsided and he bitterly spat out the last of the bile.
“Ughnhgh…” He moaned. “I think… I may have had a lapse in judgement… when I decided to have an extra glass of chardonnay.”
Henry barked a single laugh. “Indeed, that little flute is what made you contribute to the composting.” Victor huffed at him, unwilling to move.
“Stay still, I’ll get you some water.”
Henry ventured back to the bar while Victor mumbled something unintelligible. Upon returning, he was no longer hanging half outside, but instead had splayed himself quite dramatically across the window bench, arms cast over his eyes.
“Frankenstein? Do you still live?” Henry let a hand fall to Victor’s shoulder. A wordless groan emanated from his dry lips. Henry pulled up a footstool to seat himself, and tugged Victor upright.
“I’ll never drink anything ever again. I’m abstaining from liquids, Henry, I’m through with them.” He pledged.
“And you’re welcome to, after you have some water.” Henry said. Then he lifted the glass to Victor, and was met with a grimace.
“I haven’t the strength, dear Henry. Nor the will.”
“You’d be a fantastic thespian if you chose to pursue theatre. Drink.” Henry raised an eyebrow as he brought the cup to Victor’s mouth, and soon he was drinking greedily until there wasn’t a drop left.
“What would I do without you, Henry?” Victor said as his head went back into the bench cushions.
“I’m sure you’d manage to achieve a new degree of wallowing that was previously unknown to man,” Henry replied.
The gratitude on Victor’s face knit itself into a pout, and they fell into a silence. Laughter and conversation floated down the hall to the couple and mingled with the air around them. It was strangely lulling, and Henry found himself getting more comfortable than he anticipated in their little corner. He thought Victor had surely fallen asleep, with how much more inebriated he was, but he was proven wrong.
“When was the last time you went to mass?” Victor asked after a while.
Henry shifted to see Victor better, but the scientist was staring at the ceiling intently. Eloquently, Henry answered the unexpected question; “Huh?”
Victor had sobered up slightly, from the retching or the water or the air. His words still slurred but only on the tail end now.
“I don’t think I’ve been to chapel more than a dozen times since I’ve come to Ingolstadt. I’ll most likely be damned for it,” he said nonchalantly, as if he were remarking on the weather.
Words like that concerned Henry, ever so slightly. “I hardly think God would damn you for missing church, especially considering how sick you were.”
Victor frowned at that. “There are other sins that I don’t think can be atoned for, Henry.”
“You’re not going to hell, Victor.”
“It’s a pity.” Victor rolled his shoulders back. “If I were already on my way to hades, I wouldn’t have to worry about sinning anymore. I could do as I pleased.”
Henry balked. “Stop that. You shouldn’t- you shouldn’t even say something like that. It’s nearly blasphemous.”
“Blasphemous…” Victor tasted the word in his mouth like he did his wine.” I don’t think you’re correct, Henry.”
Quicker than a drunken man would usually move, and before Henry could respond, Victor grabbed his hand and scooted off the bench, leading him farther into the recesses of the building.
“Hey- wait a moment- what are you-” Henry protested around corners until Victor was pulling him into a room and reaching behind him to shut the door as soon as they’d both crossed the threshold.
“Victor, why are we in here?” Henry pushed Victor out of his ditzy reverie, wedged between shelves of buckets and rags and mops. They weren’t in a room; they were in a closet.
Victor blinked, slowly. He swayed a little. Even in the dim lighting from the single candle Henry had grabbed, he could see the dark blush on Victor’s skin and his parted lips.
Shifting forwards, he fell into Henry and made them both thump against the door, which was thankfully far enough away from the party so that no one heard.
“I missed you… before… I’m glad you’re here now.” Victor pressed into Henry even more, and his hands slid up Henry’s sides and snaked around his neck in a loose hug. “I wish you could have been here sooner. I think I would have made better decisions.”
“I missed you too.” Henry hugged him back lightly, savoring the moment a bit more than he should have. Sober, Victor wasn’t a huggy person. It was nice to embrace him only for the sake of it.
Henry wanted to ask about the decisions Victor regretted, but he had asked before about how college was before he arrived, and Victor was quite tight-lipped on the subject. Considering tonight’s behavior, perhaps Victor discovered he had a drinking problem? But there was scarce any alcohol in his flat and classmates were shocked that Victor had attended this party.
What had happened? What had Victor done? What had made him sick and so, so terrified, and made him think he was hellbound?
The silence of Henry’s thinking was broken as Victor tipped his head up and slid his lips across Henry’s throat, kissing into the nook between where his neck and chin. Henry froze.
“Victor…” Henry trailed off. Not here, not in public. “You know that we can’t afford to get caught.” Henry pushed forward slightly, Victor only relenting enough to look him in the eyes as his slim fingers slipped underneath Henry’s cravat and exposed more freckled skin to the stale air.
“It’s been so long, Henry… so long without you…” Victor refuted. His work on Henry’s necktie was turning into the unbuttoning of buttons much faster than Henry would have liked.
Victor’s grip was stronger than Henry expected as he covered Victor’s hands with his own, pale fingers crooked into the silky fabric tightly. It would have been a comforting sign of Victor’s blooming health if Henry wasn’t nearing a panic. It had been a while. Years apart, plus the months it had taken for Victor’s sickness to subside.
Hurried mumbles were tumbling out of Victor’s mouth and weaving their way into Henry’s ears “It can be just like back home, Henry… I wanna feel you… again.”
Back home. Back home had been… shaking hands and shakier breath as they hid behind a tree in the middle of the woods where they were sure no one ever ventured. Pressing Victor into his bed once in a blue moon when Henry’s father was away and left the house empty. Slow and nervous kisses in places he’d never dare look at with other people around. Back home was safe- still scary- but safe.
It was not here.
Here, Henry would have to be an utmost idiot to even entertain the idea of acting on his sacrilegious thoughts. In Geneva he could be sure the doors couldn’t be opened and the noises they made couldn’t be heard. That wasn’t the case here… they could be discovered at any moment and Henry was sure if someone wanted into their little hideaway a key could be found or the thin door could be broken.
He said as much, summarized it at least, as he tried to squirm out from under Victor’s hands in the limited space. All that did was make Victor drop a hand down to click the lock behind Henry. When he could tell Victor was too gone to give in to reason, he decided to bargain. Victor was affecting him a dangerous amount and the heat pooling deep inside him was making itself known very quickly.
“Let’s get back to our dorm, yeah? We can go to bed there; it’ll be more comfortable.” Henry said.
Victor didn’t still. In fact, he renewed his efforts to strip Henry of his layers of clothing, working with fervor on the buckles of his waistcoat.
“Need you, Henry. Need you… so bad… so much…” Victor’s breath hitched, and he leaned forward to ghost his mouth over Henry’s ear. “I barely remember… how you felt inside me… have to feel you again.”
Henry could feel blood rushing to his face, blooming across his cheeks and down his neck, and venturing much farther southward at the notion. Since when did Victor talk like that? Never before had Henry heard any words remotely filthy come from his mouth. Noises, sure, but Henry was always responsible for those. Yet somehow Victor was capable of breathy sounds that only alleviated what he was whispering in Henry’s ear.
“I’ll make you feel so good… you- you make me feel so good, Henry… I miss how full you make me… miss the way it feels when you- ”
“Victor!” Henry hissed before his trembling knees could betray him and buckle. “We can’t. I’d love to, but we can’t. Not here.” He repeated.
“Why not?” Victor practically whined as he futilely tugged at Henry’s lapels.
“Victor, I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“But,” Henry continued, “it’s too dangerous here, we’re in a closet. I don’t even have anything to open you up with. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Victor stilled. Somewhere, underneath the fog in his head, his sense was trying to break through. It didn’t succeed. Henry didn’t blame him, of course. The heady scent of booze and the stuffy closet and they pressure of their bodies on each other was making Henry regret wearing a pair of his tighter-fitting pants that night.
“I don’t care if it hurts.”
“I do.” Henry said, firmly.
Huffing angrily, Victor renewed his struggles against Henry’s clothes. “Then touch me, let me feel you- just do something, please, please, Henry, it’s been so long…”
He continued like that, divvying Henry out of his overcoat and waistcoat and untucking his shirt from his pants. He was struggling with Henry’s waistband when his hand brushed the tent over Henry’s crotch, and the dam of self-restraint broke inside him.
Henry surged forward, making Victor’s back thump against the wall of the closet and an excited breath leave his lungs.
“Promise me you’ll be quiet.” Henry asked, demanded, before he began fumbling with the hooks of Victor’s belt.
“Promise- I promise- missed you so much-” Victor practically chanted as Henry manipulated the fabric around Victor’s hips, alleviating some of the god-awful pressure he’d been enduring.
Being this close, Henry could feel how thin Victor was more than ever. He took the time to glide his palms up Victor’s torso. Bumps and ridges of each rib protruded sickeningly under the ghost-pale skin that desperately needed to see the sunlight. And it had been even worse a few months ago.
Showing up in Ingolstadt as a surprise, the image of Victor in his head was still the Victor he had seen years ago. And yes, he’d always been slim, and pale, and looked sickly. But the wraith Henry met shivering in the streets that night truly was sickly. Victor’s hair was unkempt and grease-slicked, his clothing hung off of him like it was made for a man twice his size. Henry could, and did, lift Victor with barely as much difficulty as lifting a potato sack.
There were some nights… he needed to hold Victor’s wrist to assure himself Victor’s pulse didn’t stutter out. He looked more corpse than man with his eyes closed. He was barely more man than corpse when his eyes were open.
Henry used to have the idea that he could love anything better. If he nursed a bird carefully enough its broken wing would right itself, so why couldn’t he make Victor better by kissing the haunted look out of his eyes? But he wasn’t gaining any more weight like the doctor said he needed to and Henry was scared. Henry was scared that Victor wasn’t ever going to be like he was back in Geneva. Here he was a muted, dull version with most of the bad traits swallowing up the good. Maybe Henry should try to-
Long fingers clasped around the sides of Henry’s face, caressing his cheeks. Victor played with stray strands of hair that had escaped Henry’s ribbon and framed his face. “Are you alright?” he said, a tender look overpowering his arousal for a moment.
The downcast, lost-in-thought expression on Henry’s face vanished as Victor brought him back to reality. Right now Victor had the most energy he’s had for ages, and Henry would be damned if he ruined this with his worries. This was a good sign, he decided. A wonderful sign that wouldn’t wait any longer for him to hesitate.
Victor’s gasp as Henry began stroking him was cut off as soon as it started, Henry’s lips encasing his and swallowing down his noises. Every movement, every twist of his wrist and every twitch of his fingers brought a new sound bubbling out of Victor’s throat that Henry had to muffle. As he moved lower to mouth at Victor’s collarbone, his free hand came up to silence the desperate cries. Victor was never quiet.
And oh, what it did to Henry. What Victor did to Henry. His hands hiked up Henry’s shirt, dancing across his chest, raking his nails across the wide expanse of skin hard enough to leave raised streaks. Occasionally a nipple was caught in between those devilish fingers and Henry’s hips jolted forward, rutting against Victor’s thigh and giving Henry relief that he immediately became addicted to.
The dignified young men lost all semblance of their respectable upbringing and now fell into a messy, desperate need. They felt as if it would eat them alive if they didn’t get more, now, harder, faster-
Henry needed to clamp his mouth back over Victor’s. It was the only thing that could shut him up enough so that Henry didn’t feel the need to press his ear to the door and make sure there weren’t footsteps nearby. He was pretty sure if he stopped moving for even one second, Victor would never forgive him. He’d never forgive himself for taking away the sweet friction between his groin and Victor’s pantleg.
Goodness, he was reduced to a bundle of lust and nothing else when they got like this.
Henry threaded his fingers into Victor’s mussed hair to keep his head still. He tugged, sharply, at the dark strands and reveled in Victor’s subsequent whine.
“Henry…” Victor murmured between kisses and gasps. “Henry… so close…”
That much was obvious. His legs were shaking enough so that Henry was supporting most of his weight. His length throbbed and leaked obscenely under Henry’s ministrations, and if he wasn’t pinned against the wall Henry knew his hips would be bucking into his hand. They were sure trying, coordination be damned.
His desperation was partly Henry’s fault. Reasonably, he would have gotten Victor over and done with as quick as possible so he could hurry home and sleep the shame away. It was the wisest decision given the time frame Henry knew they were undoubtedly on, but he had to admit that he loved Victor squirming underneath him. He loved the little aborted noises and the frustrated way his hands would map out Henry’s torso. His reason seemed to be taking a small vacation, and whether it was funded by Henry’s own drinking or his dick was anyone’s guess. Probably a little bit of both.
It mattered not because Henry found himself stringing Victor out to the point where he couldn’t vocalize cohesive words. He was forced to express his need to Henry with half moans and adventurous, twitching fingers. He feebly tugged on Henry’s shirt violently enough to threaten the seams, when he wasn’t digging his blunted nails into the soft skin of his back. At one point he threw an arm to the side and knocked over half a shelf of bottles, making Henry cringe at the noise.
“I know, I know,” Henry breathed. “Come on for me, you can do it.”
Henry tightened his fist as he mercifully resumed his fervor, and Victor might as well have been electrocuted with how his body trembled and tipped over the edge. He let his head thunk against the wall for his release, and Henry worked him through every second until the aftershocks of pleasure bled into burning, uncomfortable throbbing all along his lower half.
Dark spots bloomed across Victor’s neck as Henry turned his attention to his clavicle, biting and then smoothing over the agitated skin with his tongue. When Victor’s breath lost its hitch, Henry stepped back and set to fixing his clothes, his hair, brushing the tears and sweat from his face with his clean hand.
He fished a handkerchief out of one of their abandoned coats to wipe the spunk off of both of them, and Victor hissed as the silk glided over his still-sensitive member. Henry almost had Victor’s tie restored to its previously perfect loops when Victor pulled him into another kiss. Henry moaned as Victor pulled his lip between his teeth.
“You seem to still need some attention, dear Henry.” Victor smiled into the kiss as his hands traveled to grope at Henry’s flagging erection.
“Mmph- We should really, probably, go home first, and then- oough-”
Henry’s protests faltered into nothing as Victor massaged between his thighs with those impossibly deft hands. He was sure he was going to leave indents in the wooden shelving with his fingernails.
“Victor…” Henry was breathless, embarrassingly so after such little time actually being touched. He had to agree with Victor. It had been so long. Handling himself in the dark of his room, alone, was never the same as being able to have Victor around him.
It was never the same as having Victor kiss down his stomach and lave at the fine strawberry blond trail that led him lower, and lower, and soon he finally wormed his hands into Henry’s underclothes and pulled them down, letting Henry’s cock bob upwards in freedom. Henry gasped at the movement, and gasped again when Victor licked a stripe all the way from his swollen base to his flushed tip.
“Do you still wish to go home? You may have been right-”
“Don’t dare even consider stopping, Frankenstein.” Henry restlessly interrupted. He peered down, and Victor was looking up at him, smirking as cunningly as he could manage in the dregs of his drunken stupor.
“Perhaps, you could convince me to continue? After all, you transformed me into quite the begging whore for only your hands, and I’m offering a bit more.”
Bastard. Henry wasn’t a prideful man, not to an extent, but he still huffed at the notion. He was fairly sure Victor had the ability to transform into a begging whore all by himself.
Henry’s eyes softened nonetheless. “Please, dear Victor. I need you.”
Perhaps it was the desperate hoarseness of his voice, or the shallow forward thrusts of his pelvis that followed, but that was all the begging Victor had patience for.
And God, Henry could scream. He could scream at how Victor’s tongue swirled around before dipping into his slit, at how his fingers squeezed what his mouth wasn’t on. He could yell and cry at the enthusiasm with which Victor took Henry down his throat. It was so warm, a heavenly wet pressure that alleviated every thought from Henry’s mind save for ‘more’.
He had really missed this- not the just debauchery, per say- but Victor. Victor’s undivided attention when he was set to a task. Victor’s unwavering dedication to getting whatever he was set for.
Henry was drunk and getting his soul sucked out of his dick in a broom closet while half of their peers were partying down the hall, because of Victor. There was no other way you could have gotten Henry Clerval in this situation, not if you had all the money and wisdom in the world.
But Victor? Sacrilege and sodomy be damned, Henry would do whatever Victor’s siren song dictated.
If Henry couldn’t shriek to the heavens soon, he feared he was about to die. Victor had moved his hands to below Henry’s dick, where his balls sat previously ignored, and being stimulated in so many ways was driving Henry crazy. To keep himself quiet he shoved his arm up to his mouth and bit down on his shirt sleeve, the material scratching his tongue before it became dampened.
His other hand had found its way back into Victor’s hair, where it seemed to belong, and Henry nudged Victor into faster movements that went deeper. The noises that Victor was making around Henry’s length were positively ludicrous and only made Henry drive into him, out of need for more feeling and to muffle the noises. Or perhaps to make more of them, he was too far gone at this point to know which. He was ashamed to admit he didn’t quite care.
Henry’s eyes were blurring with the need for his apex and he couldn’t deal with the slow, meticulous habits Victor had during intimacy. It was wonderful, wonderful, when they had hours alone to spend in each other’s embrace and there were no worries of too loud a noise bringing attention to them. It was agony when Henry just needed a release so he could get them to seclusion and ravish Victor there.
Wine, sweat, chemicals; the air was sharp. Nails, teeth; Victor was sharper. He scraped the sensitive skin in his mouth and soothed over it with his tongue. He pinched and scratched at Henry’s thighs until the freckles there were hardly noticeable under the marks.
Later, in quiet contemplation, Henry would trace his fingers along the blemishes. He might feel conflicted. We’re they something to be proud of? Or not?
For now all it was doing was driving Henry mad. He was so close, so close, all he needed was a little bit more, and-
“Oh! Yes! Please, Victor, yes, just like- just like that-f-fuck…”
Victor finally took Henry as much as he could, until his nose was tickled by the coarse hair at his base. Henry could feel Victor’s throat constrict around his dick. He could feel his tongue press up against the underside, his breath stutter out of his nose as he held himself there for as long as he could.
An embarrassingly high-pitched keen left Henry’s throat, and before he knew it his vision was edging with fuzz as he spent down Victor’s throat.
An eternity later, he came back to himself and the dingy closet. There was a pleasant ache along his body, the well-sated aftereffects of indulging in the throes of passion. Tomorrow he was sure the part of his back that was being dug into by one of the shelves would protest.
Victor was still eye level with Henry’s nether regions, but he had slumped to rest his head upon Henry’s thigh and heave in gulps of air through his over-eager mouth. Henry let his legs fold to join him on the floor.
Sweat cooled until their skin was turned to goose flesh and their legs cramped up in the close quarters. Victor’s eyes had slipped closed as he leant against Henry, and Henry’s eyes watched him distractedly.
This was one of the only times the worry lines in Victor’s face went away. His premature crow’s feet lost their intensity, his eyebrows finally unknit, and his lips were more than the usual thin line. Victor was high-strung so much of the time, Henry thought it was only these moments that kept away his eventual snap.
Before they could fall asleep, Henry knocked Victor with his knee to rouse him. Clothes back on, legs as steady as they could get, Henry hauled him to his feet and out of the closet.
They really had to get home.