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It turns out that, for all the fuss that was made about it, this dance is actually very boring.
This is only just barely a surprise; any event that requires chaperones is an event that Lindsay generally doesn't look forward to. But it is true. Lindsay has had maybe a bit too much to drink, by now — he's accustomed to Bacchanal rites; the feeling is hardly unfamiliar — and successfully slipped away from his chaperone, and yet it is still boring.
"In six months, when you're married and your husband is off at sea, and your old friend Leo is staying at your house to keep you company, I'll be able to touch you as much as I like."
"And by then I'll have had plenty of time to acquire more bruises."
He puts his head on Leo's shoulder and keeps it there for a moment. "And will I get a chance to leave bruises on you? —we'll need to be more careful in the Society, there'll be someone to see the bruises under my clothes now."
"Only when your husband's at home and you can't pass them off as bruises he made, but yes. And of course you can always leave bruises on me."
"You have no idea how tempted I am to take you up on that now, but —" a kiss on Leo's cheek, even if someone saw it it could be easily passed off as friendly — "not the place. And not the time."
"No. But someday, once you're married." He plays idly with a bit of Lindsay's hair. "The Society has instructed me to ask you how you're planning to get Bacchus's blessing on your marriage."
"I was planning to make the offerings alone tonight, I didn't think I could manage to arrange for them to be there.
You could join me, if you wanted to."
"Even if it isn't important to Bacchus, it's important to me that I do it. You don't have to come if you don't want to."
"Of course I'm going to come. Even if the rituals aren't important, you are."
"Further, I have been to enough Society meetings to guess that your offering to Bacchus might in some way involve my prick."
They can talk about poetry and the new monograph by a pseudonymous author who is definitely not Leo until the evening!
And in the evening Lindsay brings Leo into his room with a bottle of wine and locks the door and kneels on the ground and kisses him, long and slow.
Leo is kneeling, small and graceful and obedient, his hands behind his back and a look of peace on his face. Most of the time Leo seems almost nondynamic: eccentric, unworldly, concerned with books far more than with social games.
But when Lindsay kisses him he arranges himself as if to say: "I am yours, do as you want with me."
He loves his Leo so very much.
He's still on his knees, but the way he's holding his shoulders, where he puts his hands, the line of his back, all of them say dominant.
He kisses Leo over and over and over, hums into Leo's mouth.
Leo hisses.
He shouldn't say I love you, Lindsay, because it's a ritual and only the proper words should be said, but he is thinking it very hard.
He doesn't say good boy, for the same reaction, but it's clear in his face.
One kiss, two, three, and then he stands and takes a bundle of paper — letters exchanged when he was a child, the sheet music from his first pianoforte exercises — and a lit candle, and kneels again, and kisses Leo and holds the papers up to the flame, one by one.
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