marlowemuses | Only lonely hid the morning from the stars

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Only lonely hid the morning from the stars

The dream has a double advantage over madness as an instrument of doubt: first, the extravagance of dreams can exceed the absurdities of madness, and second, the habitual nature of dreams makes the suggestion that one might be dreaming much less fantastic than the idea that one might be mad. - Foucault and Derrida: The Other Side of Reason by Roy Boyne

It was always so easy--laughably easy--to gain attention.

They came to him, tumbling over themselves and lapping at his heels like puppies. He only had to open his mouth, to smile, and he would have an audience.

And today, on this beautiful, sunny autumn day, how could he do anything else? Attending class would be unimaginable. Teaching class was barely tolerable, and only because he'd taken the class outside. Never mind that his class had ended twenty minutes ago. The group of rapt young listeners had doubled, hanging off his every word as he expounded upon morality and governance, philosophy and politics, all with the reckless confidence of a young man who had never known war or loss or any real privation.

They worshiped him. He made it seem like a discourse, but he led every question, meandering at first and then rising, amplifying their energy and feeding it upon itself, whipping them into a frenzy of inspiration and rage.

And lust, to be sure. Gabriel had nothing planned once his class was done--and it was long since done now. Several of his front-row listeners were passably attractive. There was a pretty young redhead who blushed whenever she met his eyes. A shy, handsome young man who hadn't yet grown into his own shoulders. Gabriel was deciding between the two of them--maybe both?--as he spoke, when he noticed someone else near the back of the crowd who watched him intently. Gabriel cast him a smile like a lure, with enough shine to hide the hook, and then paid him no more attention as he wrapped up his lecture and dismissed his listeners. The young and energetic ones would stay a few minutes more, pressing him with questions and vying for his attention, but Gabriel had no more than a passing interest in those. It was the stranger with the intense eyes who had caught his interest.

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Niall Lynch would say he's not the fawning type, and that would be a lie. Although he'd been sent to the lecture with a purpose, it went forgotten almost as soon as he laid eyes upon Gabriel Caron. The young man was a foreigner, which made him an odd choice for recruitment, but Niall understood the appeal as soon as Gabriel opened his pretty mouth. Revolutionary sentiment sounded like music when he spilled from his lips. If nothing else, he could persuade a thousand soldiers to die just for him.

And Niall, sighing, almost wished he could be one of them. If only he were a soldier and not a dreamer.

As the crowd dispersed, Niall approached his target with leisurely steps. There was no denying a spell had been cast, but there was no need to be desperate about it. "Bout ye," he greeted Gabriel as he drew a cigarette pack and a lighter from the pocket of his jacket. "Voulez-vous une cigarette?" For an Irishman, Niall's French wasn't terrible, though his Belfast lilt persisted in every language.

"Pity," Gabriel said, taking the cigarette and tucking it between his lips, no impediment as he spoke. "And here I was hoping that phrase was going to end with couchez avec moi ce soir." His tilted smile and easy demeanor said that it was only a joke, just a reference to a song popular a decade ago, no need to take any homoerotic meanings from it--unless you'd like to? Gabriel's voice was soft and modulated, stripped of most of its accent cues. The vowels tended to be a little long, and there was a sort of news-reporter quality to it, an intentional blandness, a heightened clarity, an accent that was both universal and unnatural for a North American English speaker. Iowa, maybe, it said, as it assured you that the details weren't worth looking into. A polite young American, that's all.

The approach made him uneasy, though Gabriel hid it very, very well. There was almost a hint of a threat in it, the use of French, the implication I know what you are, but that was absurd. Gabriel had no remaining French-Canadian connections. Even his Canadian sponsors--why fill out scholarship applications when it's so much easier to just suck a few of the right cocks?--barely knew his origins. The story was so much less interesting, that was all. A factory worker in rural Quebec marries a former province beauty queen, squirts a baby into her, and three years later she kills herself to escape the drab, meaningless existence that is life. Particularly rural, heterosexual, committed life. Gabriel doesn't blame her. He can't remember a time when he did. It was always clear to him that she'd made the right decision. He would have made the same decision.

His past was meaningless. French-Canadian. No one cared, outside of Canada. Disowned as an ethnic group by both the French and the Canadians. Mocked, belittled, ignored.

These were not words that could be applied to Gabriel Caron. He simply would not allow it, and he had a charisma that made it easy to dissolve any hint of such ideas that might cross anyone else's mind.

Niall could scarcely discern the difference between North American accents. The words all sounded more like angles than curves, he'd always said, except for the pleasant South. What he did note about Gabriel Caron's accent was the distinct lack of French influence, scrubbed clean from his English. Niall's IRA contacts had given him the full background on this handsome upstart, enough that Niall knew this well-ironed manner of speech was a matter of practice. The greeting wasn't a threat at all. Merely a signal that lies would be unappreciated going forward.

With a thin smile as he lit Gabriel's cigarette, Niall purred, "Don't know how it's done here, but in Belfast we buy a man a drink before we take him for a ride." His eyes lingered just long enough on Gabriel's full lips to make it clear that, despite his jovial tone, he wasn't really joking about that. Then he turned to light his own cigarette. "Beautiful speech you gave, Mr. Caron. Real savage."

"Plenty of time left in the day," Gabriel replied, here to flirt a game of gay chicken until his opponent either relented or tumbled into his bed.

He took a breath of his cigarette, rolling the smoke in his mouth to taste it before letting it escape through his lips. "Is your interest in politics or philosophy?"

He suspected the answer to that question fell more along the lines of revolution, because the young man opposite him was writ with as much violence as charm, the sort of man who would whistle as he killed you, and what a thrill that was. A challenge. Something new and different, and maybe it was making a difference in the world. Maybe the world needed weapons as much as it needed dreamers.

Gabriel wondered if such a man could be influenced, and led. Most men could, if you grasped their cock the right way.

Money would have been the honest answer, but Niall replied, "Philosophy," as a nearest approximation. "As the saying goes, politics is the art of stopping people from minding their own business, and I've got a lot of business to mind." The business, at the moment, being Gabriel's mouth. Though Niall was meant to be paying more attention to the words coming out of it than the way those lips closed around his cigarette. Damn them (not really) for sending him on an errand with such a handsome poet.

"Politics is simply the highest form of the social contract," Gabriel replied, not about to pass up an opportunity to coax a listener into a better version of the truth. His version, specifically. "The same social contract that has you offering a cigarette for a moment of my time, rather than either of us simply... taking."

He gestures with his cigarette as he talks. Long fingers, elegant hands, and a half-smile crooked into his lips when the cigarette returns to them. "The purpose of the social contract, of all social contracts, is to mediate inequality. In this conversation, in this social contract, you and I are equals. No need to assert dominance: we can compromise. But the clever and the ambitious find ways to exploit the social contract. To manipulate the conversation. To corrupt the political structures."

Gabriel blows out smoke again, slow and languid, letting it curl up his cheekbones and wisp back into his nostrils before he releases it once again. He licks his lips. "Are you saying that you're one of those, Mr. ... what was it, again?"

"Lynch," came the breezy reply. "But you're welcome to call me Niall, in the interest of mediating our inequality." There was really no getting around the fact that Niall knew every single fact IRA intelligence had been able to gather about Gabriel Caron. Gabriel could investigate for years and find not nearly the same amount of information on Niall Lynch. There were so many foster homes, so much falsified paperwork, so many Lynches murdered in the past ten years, filling unmarked graves up and down the Irish countryside.

"Niall," Gabriel breathed the name out on a whorl of smoke, making it low and intimate, saying it like it was a secret that only he was privy to, a secret kept from even Niall himself. "Pleased to meet you. Do you always use your pretty face to dodge questions?"

Gabriel couldn't judge very far on that particular topic. It was an effective tactic, usually. He tapped away ash, considered the glowing red end of the cigarette, and then flicked his eyes up to Niall's. This man was a risk, a challenge, and Gabriel's blood thrilled with it.

He thought he'd be willing to forgive the dodged question if Niall would put his pretty lips to better use.

Niall's smile was a secret in itself, unveiled just for Gabriel, illuminating otherwise severe features. He was pretty the same way a shark was pretty. It was really best to admire him through a pane of thick glass. "You've painted quite a portrait of me in under five minutes," he said. "I'd hate to shatter the image."

This pretty face was half the reason he'd been suggested for the assignment. Of all the nancy-boys with business in Derry, Niall was the most willing and able to pull off a seduction play. Also, he was terribly fond of literature. If his face had failed for whatever reason, he was confident he could have managed a seduction of the mind.

"The truth is," Niall continued, though the truth rarely made it past his lips, "I'm neither clever nor ambitious. I can't remember when I've gotten this close to a school before. When you're as thick as I am, what else have you got but the face?"

"The face is worthy of portrait-painting," Gabriel allowed, "though I'd spend more than five minutes if I were to make the effort."

He steps closer, holding his cigarette away to the side as he assesses Niall anew, studying him with an artist's eye and reaching out a fingertip to trace the line of his jaw. "Saint Sebastian a bit too cliche, pleasant though it might be. You don't have adequate gravitas for a devil. Faust, perhaps? He's so often depicted as old and dusty, some dry old scholar, but Faust claimed all the world's delights before he grew bored of them. I always thought he should be pretty enough to open doors. And legs."

Drawing the last of the smoke from his cigarette, Gabriel drops it and grinds it out, blowing smoke at Niall like a blown kiss. "Perhaps another time."

It seemed the intelligence on Gabriel was accurate. His blood ran hot, and although Niall had been sure he'd heard every line before, Gabriel's assessment left his face warm. He turned briefly to gather himself, carelessly flicking his cigarette into the damp grass.

"Are you in a hurry, then?" Niall asked as he returned his gaze to Gabriel. "I was just about to ask if you'd fancy that drink."

"No hurry," Gabriel allowed. "But what use is a pretty face that's neither clever nor ambitious?"

He didn't really believe that--could it even be called false modesty?--of Niall, who seemed dangerously clever. But he wanted more. He wanted to test how much Niall wanted his company and what argument or offer he'd make for it. It seemed that Niall had come out of his way for Gabriel. He wasn't a student and he hadn't offered any other explanation for his presence. That French line as introduction, all these hints that he had some business with Gabriel... Gabriel would be a fool to go with him blithely.

Easy to play hard to get when you know someone wants your company more than they're letting on.

The pretty redhead from the front row was sitting nearby, making a poor pretense at reading a book to disguise her hopeful lingering. Gabriel caught her eye and flashed her a smile. The innocent flustered and beamed back at him.

Gabriel turned a reckless smile on Niall. He had another pretty face waiting for him, less complicated and less dangerous. If Niall wanted his company, he was going to have to up the ante.

Niall followed Gabriel's gaze to the redhead, playing as if he'd only just noticed her there. "Is that my competition?" he scoffed. "Oh, aye, I'm sure it's her intellect and ambition that's got you smitten. Shall I recite the Aeneid for you, M'Lord? Hic tibi ne qua morae fuerint dispendia tanti, quamvis increpitent socii et vi cursus in altum."

Gabriel's lips parted in surprised lust, and the challenge in his eyes softened. Listening to Latin poetry in a Belfast lilt sounded like an exquisite way to spend a day. "Is that how they speak Latin on this side of the pond?" he asked, tone dismissive.

And yet, here: his hands, tucked into his pockets; his shoulders, curled forward; his chest square toward Niall; his tongue darting across his lips; his chin down. All of it like a schoolboy with a crush, caught securely on Niall's hook.

"A drink, then," he concedes.

He has the sense to know that Niall's not telling him everything, but Niall himself is worth the risk. All the more worth it because of the risk, really.

Niall happened to think his accent gave his Latin a far more musical quality than some nasally North American garbling, but he conceded with a tip of his head, because he might have just been biased. His lips curved with pleasure as his sharp eyes took in Gabriel's reaction, though. The boy had been searching for someone remarkable, and lucky for them, he'd found just that.

"I know fuck-all about Derry," he admitted, a half-truth, while casting a glance at their surroundings. "Where's the nearest pub? Or have you got a favorite?"

Gabriel nodded his head toward a direction and a path, and they began to walk. No goodbyes for the redhead, no sorry, you're lovely, but he's dangerous and it's thrilling and it's just so much more interesting to break the heart of someone who might break mine in return.

He had the mad urge to take Niall's hand, but that would be reckless, even for him. Northern Ireland was both more and less homophobic than Canada, than Quebec. It took a different tone toward them, even in an open-minded university town like Derry. If the Irish liked you well enough already, then it was forgivable if you were a bit of a nancy boy. If they didn't, well. It might have been decriminalized, but that didn't make it welcome. Better if one had the sense to have a bit of tact about these things, at least in public.

"What brings you to Derry, then, Mr. Lynch?" Not only did Niall not belong at the university, he didn't belong in Derry. Might not even belong in Northern Ireland. Gabriel hadn't learned how to distinguish the subtle cultural differences or the nuances of accent. He might never develop the skill. But for some reason Niall had arrowed straight for him. "You hinted you'd gone out of your way for me, but I can't imagine why."

If Gabriel had the ear for it, he'd have no doubt at all that Niall was Northern Irish. Belfast was thick on his tongue, and specifically West Belfast. He'd been raised in the heart of a conflict older than his father and his father's father.

"Business brought me here," he answered with a roll of his shoulders. "What else? I sure as shit haven't come to study Latin, have I? But seeing as I was taking a drive in the country, my mucker says, 'Have a stop at the university and see this lad Gabriel Caron. Real inspiring. A real poet.' And he didn't fucking mention you had a face like that, the fucker."

"Your... mucker?" Gabriel had picked up a little bit of Irish slang in the year he'd been residing in Derry, enough to enjoy most of the vulgar jokes and petty squabbles that happened amongst his peers and followers. This term, however, was new to him.

Whatever a mucker was, it had known him by name and reputation, and pointed Niall at him. Unnerving. Gabriel wasn't mixed up in anything, so far as he knew. He had no enemies--a few jilted lovers, but usually Gabriel's charm was enough to ensure that his cast-offs felt honored for having even a moment of his time and attention--and no real involvement in anything, being inherently too lazy to apply himself to any one ambition. As long as he was handsome and charming, people would pay his bills and pander to his whims. So another... thirty years, perhaps, before he needed to worry about supporting himself? No hurry.

He pulled open the door of the pub and held it for Niall, giving him a charming little smile that had both invitation and challenge. Within, the pub was quiet in early afternoon, full of students doing homework, with coffee or beer within reach. Multiple rooms branched off from the main bar, and there was laughter through one of the doors from some sort of game among a group of students, and an intent, murmured discussion in an Eastern European language which was broken intermittently by one of them returning to English and asking what's the word for...?

Gabriel's shoulder brushed against Niall's as he stepped into the room, and lingered there a moment too long, standing a little too close. "What sort of business," Gabriel murmured, in the moment that Niall was taking the measure of the room, "did you say?"

As he always did with any enclosed space, Niall took the measure of the room with more care than most. He noted the windows and the exits, the corners to avoid, the folds of clothing where other patrons might have tucked their guns. But Derry was peaceful, by his standards, and the caution unnecessary. No one here was an agent, and certainly not on the hunt for him.

"Art," he replied breezily, stepping forward to choose a private room close to the back exit. Niall always preferred the option. "Not my own. I sell rare pieces and the like. Originals. Treasures. You're not a thief, are you? I could show you what's in the lorry later, if you've got the time. Busy schedule, I understand."

Art. Gabriel's heart quickened, he couldn't help it. Was that what had brought Niall to him? It was a tidy, easy answer, and so very appealing. Gabriel's art was praised by peers and professors, and he'd even been so bold as to display and sell some of it. A few pieces decorated the coffee shop, with discreet little price tags tucked to one side.

Gabriel leaned against the doorway of the little private room, eyes lingering on Niall, careful not to give too much away or to seem to eager. "What will you have from the bar?"

One of Gabriel's pieces hung on the wall of the room. He very carefully avoided looking at it.

His style of art ranged from the gothic to the surreal, with a strong classical base but an inclination to take risks and a weakness for both impressionism and fauvism. Nude models featured prominently but tastefully, never more than one in a scene, and the backgrounds tended to be dark, with hints of dread, horror, or obsession. The one on the wall was Gabriel's take on Endymion, but there was no moon. The light seemed to come from the young man himself, and he lounged with a careless grace, sleepy and trusting, though the shadows around him were deep. The darkness itself seemed to have a lust, and there was a sort of certainty it inspired in the viewer that something was watching the youth, something hungry for him. The cleverer viewers would realize that there was nothing actually in the shadows, and that it was they who had been cast in the role of watcher. The execution of the painting was still a little bit rough, unrefined, but it hinted at a raw passion that might be refined into something exceptional.

In the bottom corner of each of Gabriel's paintings was a tidy signature in a broad hand; G. Caron. Usually in gold, occasionally in red.

Niall hadn't noticed the piece yet, or if he had, his face didn't betray him. Content to let Gabriel handle the order, now that he'd gotten the boy's attention, Niall settled into the booth and said, "Powers, neat." As far as drinks went, anything would be acceptable, really. He intended to take it easy enough that it wouldn't interfere with his work.

Drawing out another cigarette, he moved more elegantly than a young man with his slumdog accent ought to, his hands too soft for hard work. The simple explanation would be that he'd climbed his way up through the underground, a detail that locals often realized quickly but which would be lost on a foreigner like Gabriel. Except, perhaps, as a subconscious tickle in the back of his mind. That vague thrill of danger. Niall's keen eyes remained on Gabriel as he lit up and got comfortable, his posture open and arrogant.

Gabriel stayed a moment longer, enjoying the view as Niall settled in. He appreciated that brash confidence, the certainty in his own power and attraction that Niall displayed. It wasn't often that Gabriel encountered people who could match him for charisma and strength of personality.

A smirk on his lips, Gabriel went. He fetched their drinks at the bar, adding it to his tab--he usually paid that tab with his paintings, when they sold, or when he happened to net a particularly well-heeled lover. The pub had several of his paintings as collateral, and when they did sell, it was for a comfortable little sum. They didn't mind when his bar tab got a bit long.

Whiskey for Niall and Guinness for himself. Gabriel slid the drink over to him and sat, lounging back in the booth. One knee bent, the other outstretched. His posture also said open and arrogant, but with an added layer of laziness. The way Gabriel held himself said you, come here, you'd look nice in my lap.

And Niall, whether out of conscious obedience or simply out of desire, leaned subtly closer. He took up his drink and tipped it in Gabriel's direction. "Sláinte," he toasted, with a wry twist of his lips. Not that Gabriel needed the well wishes. He seemed like a boy who'd survive anything even in these dangerous times, an immunity which made him valuable to the cause.

Niall swallowed a sip, then immediately drew the cigarette back to his mouth. The smoke and sweetness of the whiskey made for an exquisite combination, and he savored it, running his tongue over his lower lip as he exhaled.

Gabriel couldn't look away. He was entranced, though he didn't show it as anything more than a wry smirk and low-lidded eyes. He could feel his pulse thudding, heart knocking against his chest and blood throbbing in his cock, low and warm. It felt nice.

No need to hide his erection--the dim back room of the pub and the table did that well enough for him, and he wasn't planning on going anywhere anytime soon. He had all day, and Niall had his full attention.

He sipped at his drink, low-lidded eyes closing briefly in pleasure, because the sweet, rich, chocolatey flavor of Guinness was always appealing and Gabriel loved sensual indulgences. He savored, also, Niall's attention, which he knew was fixated upon him, no matter how Niall might pretend otherwise. They were both, he thought, pretending not to be fixated upon each other, or at least enjoying the moment too much to rush on to the next one.

Gabriel wanted him. He wanted him like he hadn't wanted anyone in ages. It was a fixation, more than just the physical, though Niall had a face that Gabriel could look at all day.

"What is it that your friend wants with me?" Gabriel asked, too clever to forget entirely about Niall's ulterior motives, no matter how he was tempted.

"Your mouth," Niall answered slyly. "Something he and I have got in common." He enjoyed this part of the game, the teasing out of information. Though he suspected Gabriel wasn't normally the patient sort, it seemed to Niall he'd already caught the boy on his hook. Now it was a matter of keeping Gabriel in pursuit, to make him eager to hold Niall's attention rather than the other way around. Gabriel would have to want to please. He would have to keep wanting it even when it became dangerous, when it became more than drinks at a pub.

He didn't take his eyes off Gabriel as he took another drag from his cigarette. "Tell me, are you satisfied with this situation here? Your situation. Wooing your co-eds with little speeches around campus. If you ask me, it's a damn waste of your talents, and I haven't even yet sampled them all."

There was a lot to unpack there. Niall was a lot, all half-truths and secrets and his beautiful, inhuman face. A face like that made you believe in the old myths of Ireland, something lovely and deadly, savage and ethereal, more and less than human.

Gabriel savored another mouthful of his drink as he mulled that over, keeping back the quick, easy answers that leapt from his heart.

He wanted earnestly to know what Niall wanted with him. What he was asking and what he was offering. But Niall's answers were all slippery, and each time Gabriel pressed, the answers slipped farther away.

That was fine, he reminded himself. He could always leave, if Niall insisted on being too oblique. No need to chase the hard to get lover if there were easier ones.

And yet.

"What sort of situation would you suggest, for me and my talents?"

He wasn't satisfied, no. Of course not. A string of lovers so forgettable that he remembered their flats longer than he remembered them, because their greatest use to him was for temporary housing. He already needed a new flat. He was bored with the pretty dark-haired co-ed he'd been staying with for the past few weeks, and unless he could rekindle his own interest, sooner or later she was going to take objection to the dismissive way he'd been treating her.

Gabriel wanted luxury. Comfort. Adoration.

Niall didn't intend to drag it out any longer than necessary. He'd gathered a good sense of Gabriel already. This wasn't the sort of boy to go scampering to the authorities like a rat. Which wasn't to say that Niall found Gabriel particularly loyal, either. But he was the negotiating type, the type to blackmail rather than tattle. Niall could work with that, if it came to it.

Down to the secrets, then. He wet his lips with a sip of whiskey. "That mate of mine tells me you're sympathetic to the Republican cause. All sorts of fancy words about freedom and what. Now we're all wondering if you're interested in a patron. All that you've been doing for free, but more of it, with steady pay and regular calls from yours truly, if you can stand to see this mug every couple weeks."

Oh. Oh.

Gabriel's mouth watered. He swallowed as his cock gave an interested little thud. Every couple of weeks sounded like just the right intervals to make him constantly yearning to see Niall again, and that offer...

Everything clicked into place, or at least as much as Gabriel needed to stop feeling frustrated about being strung along.

His ability to enthrall and sway a crowd, weaponized. Niall was right, wooing co-eds was a waste of his talents. But he'd never before been offered a job to put those particular skills to actual purpose, or at least not one he'd accept--PR rep sounded so dull, after all.

It wasn't the ideal of being offered top dollar for his art, but it was--in its own way--better. More fascinating, and there'd be enough time for his art on the side.

It was everything he could do not to accept on the spot.

The specific salary didn't matter. They'd pay him, at a minimum, enough for him to survive and to remain available to their purposes--no second job necessary, unless it was somewhere with a lazy schedule and a large, talkative clientele. And they'd probably pay him enough to hold his interest and to keep his loyalties from wandering. He might as well drop out of school--grad school had been getting boring, and part of him had always been waiting for a more interesting opportunity to come along.

"Yes," he said, betraying the resolution he'd only just made about not accepting on the spot.

Niall's eyebrows lifted a touch in surprise. He had expected Gabriel to accept the offer, but the speed of the decision was more than he'd anticipated. He'd pegged Gabriel as one to play coy, or to make a list of demands, or to at least insist on a number before giving his word. Not that this turn of events was in any way a disappointment. The sooner he secured Gabriel's employment, the sooner he could get out of this shithole town and back to Belfast, in the thick of it.

With a smile, he picked up his glass and raised it in toast again. "A deal, then," he said. "I think it'd be best to talk further details someplace more private than this, so let's put business aside for now, what d'you say?" Under the table, his knee more or less accidentally brushed Gabriel's thigh.

The gentle, almost accidental brush to his thigh was such a coy toeing of the line that it immediately made Gabriel want to push that line.

He settled his hand on Niall's upper thigh, barely an inch from his crotch, while outwardly reflecting casual, lazy challenge. They'd both done plenty of coy flirting. Niall had his consent and cooperation in terms of business, and the details could be negotiated later.

What remained, now that the initial stage of business had been settled, was pleasure. A little bit further and Gabriel would know if Niall was as aroused as he was by their interplay, but he stopped just short of that. They both enjoyed the game far too much for that. A little advance, a flirtation, and then retreating enough to force an advance in return. It was a game of chicken, both of them seeing how far they could push without having to yield.

"What did you have in mind?" Gabriel drawled. His hand on Niall's thigh was an open invitation, a challenge, and a threat. He took another drink of his beer and set the glass down, eyes lingering on the dark beer for a pause and then flicking to Niall in order to catch him looking, in order to tip him off guard and force a quicker answer.

Niall was indeed looking, caught in the act of admiring the way Gabriel's collar bone peeked out of his shirt and gave way to a long white throat. Niall had already decided he would be putting his mouth there, that his teeth would graze the sharp angle of it before he'd soothe it with his tongue. He was hyperaware of Gabriel's hand on his thigh, mere centimeters from an erection begging for his attention.

He believed that his face betrayed nothing but mirth. He was wrong. The hunger shone clear in his icy blue eyes when he met Gabriel's gaze. Niall drained his glass and discarded what was left of his cigarette in it, careless.

Leaning in, he knew that the movement would be just enough to give Gabriel's fingers some idea of his heavy length. "It's cozy back here, innit?" he said. "I was wondering what else you can do with that mouth of yours."

When he felt the firm, familiar bulge of an erect cock brush his fingers, Gabriel took it as an invitation. His fingers strayed more boldly, tracing the shape of him beneath the cloth and sliding down to find his balls. The size of him was impressive, enough to make Gabriel’s cheeks tingle with a blush and his thoughts linger on what it would be like to be fucked by a cock like that. He’d never let anyone fuck him, but when Niall looked at him like that, Gabriel couldn’t help but feel... curious.

At Niall’s suggestion, Gabriel smirked at him, not nearly entranced enough to crawl under the table for him. On this floor, under this table? It might be clean for a pub, but Gabriel wasn’t about to risk getting someone’s discarded gum in his hair from the underside of the table. He might be willing to suck cock on a fairly regular basis, but not unless he was getting plenty out of it. Like his undergraduate college tuition, or similar sponsorship. “I’m not sure what you mean.” He was perfectly aware of what Niall meant. His smile was more challenge than coyness, though his tone was guileless. “Maybe you could demonstrate?”

Ultimately, Niall needed nothing from Gabriel but the agreement to the deal that he'd already received. It was a bonus, really, to get anything more out of it. Gabriel only needed to do his job to earn Niall's favor, and Niall saw only minimal potential in securing Gabriel's loyalty with sexual manipulation.

Still, Gabriel's fingers exploring the length of him left Niall weak and needy. He was such a beautiful boy, a Baroque painting come to life. Niall wanted him every way he could have him, and more importantly, wanted him now.

"Suppose I could," Niall breathed, feigning disinterest but not very well. He seemed to realize it, too, and sighed with longing. "Don't take me for a man who gets on my knees for nothing. It's just that it'd be a pleasure to worship at the altar of one such as yourself."

And with a devilish smile, he ducked under the table.

Gabriel was surprised and delighted when he all at once won their little game. He'd thought Niall would string him along for another hour, teasing back and forth and upping the ante every time until they were both flushed and naked and still dueling more with words than with the swords between their legs.

Gabriel was used to winning such things, for he--from his experience so far in life--never wanted anyone as much as they wanted him, which meant he could take as much as he wanted and still leave his partners eager to give.

He spread his legs for Niall, sliding down a little more in the booth. It was true, he didn't think that Niall was a man who got on his knees for nothing, and it bolstered Gabriel's confidence higher than ever that this beautiful, dangerous man with a smile like a shark wanted to kneel before him. He had no concerns at all about the shark's teeth, certain that they would never be turned against him.

Resting his hands on his thighs, he watched Niall, letting his new business partner do all the work.

It was no simple achievement, a man of Niall's stature squeezing himself beneath a table. Settling there between Gabriel's legs, Niall found himself with hardly an inch to move in any direction. Still, with his arms draped over Gabriel's thighs and his head bowed low, Niall took his time with it. He tugged Gabriel's belt loose with a delicate touch, as if untying the bow on a gift. Then he unwrapped the gift itself, freeing Gabriel's cock from its confines and taking it between his fingers.

"Oh," he breathed, his awe unrestrained. It was a cock as beautiful as its owner, he could see even in the dim light. "What a lucky bastard am I. You're worth the pain in the neck I'll have tomorrow."

Then he stopped talking and put his mouth to better use, wrapping his lips around the thick head of Gabriel's cock.

As much as Gabriel liked hearing Niall's rumbling Irish brogue, he also thought that this was a much better use of that mouth. Those lips. Gabriel grinned as he watched, riding the little thrills of adrenaline and desire that he felt when he looked at Niall.

He felt worshiped like this, and what a gift that was from a beautiful young trickster.

Eyes low-lidded and lips curved in a contented grin, Gabriel curled his fingers around Niall's jaw and brushed his thumb along the line of Niall's cheekbone. He liked feeling the way it moved beneath his hand, as Niall worked to please him even despite the inconvenience of their current circumstances.

"Fuck," he breathed, biting down on his lip to keep back a laugh--or a moan. He wasn't quite sure which one would come out, if he let it. "I could listen to that voice of yours all day. But I do think I prefer this use of your mouth."

He rolled his hips forward, taking more, because polite blowjob etiquette wasn't half as interesting as challenging Niall to see what would happen.

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Only lonely hid the morning from the stars

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