slashababy | Fic: "The Gift" for kiltsandlollies in the 2009 Lotrips Slashab (Reply)

Title: The Gift
Recipient:

itstonedme
Pairing: Ian/Dom, (Dom/Orlando implied)
Rating: PG
Summary: Modern-day AU. A nephew gives his uncle a special Christmas present.
Notes: Against the recommendation of one of my betas, I have decided not to change the verb "mif," something that doesn't appear in any dictionaries it seems, but which I gladly give to all as a Christmas present. Along with its partner, "tif", I think it should belong among the terms that describe how black and orange pekoe tea is served. "Mif" refers to the practice of putting the milk into the cup first, then adding the tea; "tif" is the reverse, and there are those with strong opinions on which makes tea taste better. So practise its verb usage all you wish and perhaps we will see it added in about three years time to a dictionary somewhere. And to my special Slasha recipient, my fondest wishes that you enjoy this little story.
Post-reveal notes Special thanks for the read-through and insights by

stormatdusk and

tweedle_.

Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred, or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.

"Here you go."

There's a delicate chime of china, of cups greeting saucers, as Orlando places Ian's afternoon tea on the side table next to him. "Tea for Uncle," he says, miffing Ian's cup and passing it, then bending over to where Ian's companion of a decade lies basking in a coveted beam of afternoon sun. "And a biscuit for Tilda. What a good girl," he adds in those loopy tones reserved for dogs of the much-loved pedigree. A heavy, rhythmic thumping beats the carpet in reply to this unexpected generosity.

Ian lifts his cup and blows across it gently before taking a careful sip. "I've often wondered why a dog will drop itself into whatever shaft of sunlight it can find, no matter if it is a mere ray," he says.

"On some level, they must know they need it," Orlando replies, and he begins to tidy several of the books scattered about Ian's chair.

"I feel that way about a particular Highland Park single malt," Ian considers.

"Hmmm," Orlando acknowledges, fussing at Ian's feet. "I feel that way about a particular sexual favour, but that's probably more than you need to know."

Ian harrumphs good-naturedly and turns towards all the tidying going on around him. "You're worse than your mother," he tsks, not unpleasantly.

"Well, we can't have you tripping over them. Or me. Or Tilda. Yes, we're talking about you," he croons as the heavy thumping starts up again.

The door buzzer sounds in the front hallway and the dog's ears go up with a low woof. "Stay," Orlando mouths, a hand up, and Tilda's eyes go from hand to doorway, hand to doorway, but she remains put.

"That would be Dominic, I suspect," Ian says, setting the saucer down. He folds the blanket laying across his lap and drops it onto the stack of books Orlando's built. "How do I look?"

Leaning over, Orlando presses a kiss to Ian's cheek and gently takes his hand. "Very handsome, very dapper, and you needn't think that matters. I'll let him in, but I'm going to run along. I'll pick you up tomorrow about three. Dinner is around six."

Ian sits forward all at once. "Orlando!" he blurts urgently. "You are such a good boy!" and he clutches at his nephew's hand, overwhelmed with sudden sentamentality at his nephew's departure. He immediately hears himself and is embarrassed. "What I think I meant to say," he smiles, somewhat abashed, "is that you've become a good man, and I'm forever grateful for all the ways you spoil me."

Orlando's heart tears a little, as it always does at moments like this. He finds the needy sweetness of the aged a balm that forgives all past wrongs, and it reminds him of life's finiteness, even though in his uncle's case, there are no wrongs to pardon. Nor is there any indication that many long years should not yet stretch ahead for Ian, for he is hale and feisty, with a mental sharpness that engages Orlando in long and pleasant hours of conversation and debate.

"I know that, Ian," he says with a hand to his uncle's cheek. He steps away and buttons his jacket, coiling a scarf about his neck. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Dom is shifting on his feet when Orlando opens the front door, muffled against the cold, his eyes twinkling with the tear-raised sparkle of a crisp winter afternoon.

"Did you walk or take the bus?" Orlando asks as he ushers him in.

"Walked. Hey," he adds softly, leaning in, and Orlando curls a hand around his neck and pulls him into a kiss, a leisurely and openly wet welcome.

"Hey," Orlando replies, resting his forehead against Dom's, rubbing his nose along Dom's cheek and up over the bridge. "Thank you for this. You're a real mate."

Dom's grin is impish. "I just hope that when I'm his age, there'll be someone like you in my life."

"Yeah, well, and you," Orlando smiles and leaves it at that as he releases him. Pulling on his gloves, he says, "He's in the front room. Tea's there too. I'll catch up with you later."

After the door has clicked shut, Dom toes off his boots and pads to the entrance of the livingroom. "'Lo, Ian," he says.

Ian draws a steadying breath. "Dominic," he exhales, eyes crinkling into a smile. "Come in, don't be shy. Yes, and this would be Tilda; she's a friendly old fool, much like her master."

Tilda has already started across the room, head down and tail swaying, and Dom leans over to massage her ears. "Hello, sweetheart," he tells her, and scent registered, purpose deemed benign, she returns to her sunbeam.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Ian offers.

"Ta, perhaps a little later," Dom replies. He goes to Ian, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. "I brought you a tin of biscuits, the kind with little Christmas scenes iced on top."

"Thank you, that was very thoughtful," Ian murmurs, taking the tin and placing it next to the now toppled books Orlando sought to best him on. The outdoor cold is on Dom's lips and clothing and he asks, "Is it that fresh out today?"

"It's the wind," Dom replies. "Rather nasty bitch, pardon my saying."

He steps back and unwinds his scarf, laying it across the arm of a nearby chair, then unzips his jacket, which he places on top. He stops for a moment, looking about the room. It's small, filled with the type of sentimental clutter found in the homes of those who have lived long enough to collect it. Many frames hang on the walls, and Dom walks over to study them more closely. Some are citations, some are of holidays, but most are career photographs, of Ian in younger years, some of him in costume on stage, others where he is greeted by faces Dom knows, although most he doesn't.

"You met the Queen?" he asks of one photograph, enchanted, because he knows this, but seeing the proof is still impressive.

"Look at how young I was," Ian laughs. "And terrified. Lovely woman. That was one of the Royal Variety Performances; I think the play was Richard III, final act, final scene, if memory serves me."

Dom nods, not doubting for an instant that Ian remembers exactly which play, act and scene, and probably all of his lines as well. He continues on, taking his time to inspect all of the photographs, commenting on some before turning back to Ian.

"So," he says.

"Yes," replies Ian, smiling wanly, his hands lapped over each other.

Dom walks back to where he's left his jacket. He pulls his sweater over his head, his t-shirt following, then unzips his jeans, which are added to the pile growing on the arm of the chair, finally his pants and socks. He walks over to Ian and stands, expectantly, hands loose at his sides.

Well, Ian thinks, not really so shy, then.

"You okay with this?" Dom asks.

Ian smiles quickly, his lips pressing in one corner, then the other. "Yes, quite," he says. He moves his legs apart to make room but otherwise continues to sit a little awkwardly.

"It's okay, Ian," Dom says gently, stepping forward so that his knees abut the edge of the chair, Ian's legs flanking him. He takes Ian's hand in his, squeezing it. "Go for it."

Ian hesitates for a moment, then lets go of Dom's hand and pats the thigh of one trousered leg. "Well then, put your foot here, if you would oblige an old man. If you need to, you can rest your hand on my shoulder for balance, I won't mind."

Dom places his foot atop Ian's leg, but his balance is good and he keeps his hands at his side. As he stands with his bits dangling before Orlando's elderly and completely clothed uncle, he thinks this might be the most naked he's ever felt. A flush that he knows will mottle his chest and cheeks has already started.

Ian rests both hands on Dom's ankle, leaving them there for a moment before beginning to stroke along the arch, the top of the foot, the narrow back of the ankle. Dom inhales sharply.

"A little ticklish, perhaps?" Ian smiles.

"Under my foot, yeah," Dom laughs breathlessly.

Ian's hands smooth up Dom's calf, one hand clasping the firm round muscle, the other floating over the flat, hairy plane of the shin; then they cup the knee before sliding, one large hand each side, along Dom's thigh to his groin. The back of his hand nudges Dom's balls, but he doesn't linger there, instead removing his hands completely.

"Other leg now," Ian says kindly.

Dom repositions and the inspection repeats. "You have lovely legs, Dominic. Odd thing to hear about oneself, isn't it."

Dom laughs, grateful for the chance to lighten how quiet the room suddenly seems. "Not usually what's admired about me first," he says a little cheekily, "but I'll take it."

Ian laughs. "All right, you can put your foot down. Now if you'd be so kind as to turn around."

Once Dom has turned, Ian places his hands upon the orbs of his ass, sliding beneath and over them, thumbs just teasing the crease. "Such skin," Ian admires. "So smooth."

And it's a revelation to Dom, this comment, about something that he's sometimes considered but never truly understood: that the youthful quality of his skin -- which is all he's ever been inside, really, all he's ever known -- will one day be over, undoubtedly sooner than he would like. He suddenly perceives the years to come in a very personal way and realizing this, knows that he will always remember this moment.

Ian leans forward so that he can stretch his arms up along Dom's back, over the muscles and ridges of his spine, the peaks of his shoulder blades and the odd imperfection in the texture of skin until he reaches the crests of Dom's shoulders and the vertebrae of his neck. "Very nice," he says quietly when he's done. "Turn back around."

Dom shivers, for the rabbity gentleness of Ian's palms and fingers has raised gooseflesh everywhere.

"Are you cold?" Ian asks.

"'M'fine," Dom answers. "It's just, you know...the strangeness, that's all. Not unpleasant, mind."

"We can stop," Ian says.

"No," Dom says quickly, and he looks down at Ian, smiling. "I don't want to."

Ian places his hands on Dom's hips and rests them there for a moment. "You have a delightfully compact form, Dominic. I was an underdeveloped gangly thing at your age, no meat on me at all. Every way I turned could take out an eye."

Dom snickers.

"It's true. Do you visit the gym?"

"Nah," Dom laughs. "I just walk and lift lager."

"Ah, a pilsener man." Ian's hands have begun to move again, inwards to close over the pelvic wings, and Dom's skin crawls beneath his fingers.

"Sorry," Dom mutters. "I can't control that, no matter how I try."

"There's no need to apologize," Ian says, "but I won't worry you right there anymore." He reaches down and very gently captures Dom's balls in one hand.

For a moment, Dom stiffens, bleating out a little noise, and his eyes close. Fuck, he thinks, because his cock now wants to start a conversation, and his eyes fly open, trying to capture any thought, anything in the room that might distract: the mantle clock, being at the doctor's office, the antimacassar on Ian's chair and every other chair in the room, perhaps he could count them. Because the thought that this is Orlando's uncle measuring the heft of his gonads isn't helping very much.

"I shan't be long," Ian tells him and then sighs as he cups the ripe fullness within his palm, remembering. "Oh, my dear Dominic. You don't want to know what age does to one's bollocks."

Despite the maelstrom churning within his head, Dom suspects he'll remember that thought forever, as well.

Ian releases him, but only temporarily, for his hand closes around Dom's thickening cock, still hanging respectfully but teasing a lift. "Very nice, Dominic," Ian muses.

"Ta, sorry," Dom whispers, torn between the compliment and his cock's betrayal.

"No, it's to be expected," Ian comforts. "And I see you have taken to paying homage to our beloved Prince Albert," he continues, fingers lightly toying with the curved barbell piercing Dom's cockhead. "Did you know this arose from the fashion of the time?"

Dom would like to squirm, but he shows his manners. "Really?" he exhales.

"The gentlemen of the day would hook this little part," and Ian fingers the silver loop, "to a fastening on their trousers so as not to seem unsightly, given the tightness of their legwear. However, I presume that is not your reason, and whatever that reason may be, I would rather not know." His lips purse into a mischievious pout, and he removes his hand. "There, that wasn't so bad now, was it?" His hands close on Dom's waist. "Please kneel, if you would."

Dom complies so that he is now able to look at Ian directly. It's an interesting face, he finds, studying the lines, the hooded lids, the wisps of hair that appear so silken he wants to reach out to touch.

Ian's hands have begun to slide over his belly, thumbs pressing into the flesh below his navel, skirting around it and ascending. There is a weathered quality to them; any suppleness in the pads of his fingers has long since fled, but they are not abrasive, only...old.

"Do these things bring pleasure?" Ian smiles, fingering the tiny nipple ring over Dom's heart.

"They do," Dom replies, and this time he does squirm.

"Yes, I can see that," Ian admires. His hands resume their trek, fingering the ridges of Dom's collarbone, upwards along the tendons of his neck, the stubble of his jaw.

"Such a strong face," Ian whispers, thumbing the cheeks and brows. His fingers thread into the windblown, ragged streaked locks to cradle Dom's skull and he pauses, then leans forward, kissing Dom tenderly above one eye before sitting back.

What a kind face, Dom thinks as he watches a certain repose settle over Ian's features. A wise face, a face that's known the measure of a full life, he thinks; one whose smiled at queens of the royal kind and dying lovers of the other kind, turned its cheeks to cruel innuendo, broken into gaiety and tears.

"Ian," he whispers. "May I touch your face?"

Ian smiles, a blush of shyness flitting for an instant. "That would seem only fair," he says.

Dom's touch is tentative as he strokes along Ian's brow to the corner of one eye. "Smile," he asks. "I want to feel the lovely lines right here when you smile."

Ian does, and the crepey ridges dance beneath Dom's fingers. Suddenly Ian grips Dom's wrist and turns to press a fierce kiss into the palm.

"Thank you," he utters, struggling with his composure. "I had thought that the beauty of a young man's body was something that was lost to me forever, you know. Thank you for letting me experience it again."

An awkward quietness settles over them as they sort through their thoughts. Slowly Dom pushes forward, one hand sliding up Ian's arm. He laughs a little breathlessly. "There's still something you haven't yet experienced," he says, and he leans in to kiss at the edge of Ian's mouth, then the other corner. He mouths the bottom lip, sliding the very tip of his tongue along it. "C'mon, Ian. Not quite done yet," he breathes.

Ian parts his lips. The soft experience of a young man's mouth has been too long in his past; the frankness of taste and texture is unsettling although far from disagreeable. Dom presses more firmly, slipping inside, and as he slides along the edges of Ian's passive tongue, Ian jerks with a gasp.

"Find something?" Dom asks, his lips curling into a smile against Ian's.

Ian says nothing but opens his mouth, his tongue dipping shyly inside Dom's lips, along the velvety wet tip of the quivering tongue, exploring a little further until it bumps against the smooth round bead hiding there. He pulls back, gusting a small laugh. "You are full of surprises, Dominic. Where else do you keep all these little baubles and loops?"

"I think you've found them all now."

"I'm beginning to suspect Orlando is a very lucky man," Ian says, an eyebrow arching.

"I suspect you and I are the lucky ones, to have him," Dom replies.

They consider this in silence while dust motes circle above a sleeping dog and the mantle clock counts down the minutes of their visit, a tableau of youth in all its vigorous beauty and age in all its gratitude. The sun has moved through the opened curtains so that it now illuminates Ian's face, the icy, twinkling blue of his eyes, and Dom strokes his cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"What do you see?" he finally asks.

"Shadows on a good day, if the light is strong. Nothing more."

Dom nods at the truth of this answer. "You know, Ian," he says, his voice roughened by the start of unwitnessed tears, "I can picture this room filled with friends of mine and Orlando's, sort of your salon, yeah? Alive with ideas and stories. You shouldn't be removed from younger people, nor us from you. You have so much to tell us."

Ian smoothes his hands along Dom's face. "Well, maybe so," he says, but the thought is too overwhelming and novel for the present. Then again, perhaps not. Perhaps he might start with what he has, this kind, generous young man with the curious mind and shapely legs. After all, there are all those piercings yet to discuss.

"How about we get you dressed," he says, "and brew us a fresh pot of tea?"