tampered | Log; ongoing

Log; ongoing

When; Evening, December 27th
Rating; PG-13?
Characters; Christopher Styles

under_secretary and Nicholas Brocklehurst

razrsharp
Summary; Styles seeks distraction!
Log;

December twenty-seventh.

It was a day where most people were working off their hangovers, preparing for the new year, sleeping, or whatever most people did. Return to work.

Styles was sitting in front of Brocklehurst's sleeping form, a ring box in his pocket, his tea in one hand and an open book in the other. He was reading while Nicholas slept on the couch, but he wasn't really absorbing anything he read. Instead, he was thinking about that stubborn frown at the corner of Nicholas' mouth that had started in the morning, and how to get rid of it.

He set the book down, set his tea down, stood up and pressed a kiss against Brocklehurst's temple. "Get up, dinner," he said, heading toward the kitchen. He had made vindaloo curry (admittedly, he had help - a lot of help) because he knew that Brocklehurst loved it, and picked up samosas and naan from the local Indian restaurant.

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For years, Brocklehurst preferred to sleep the twenty-seventh away. He had a routine for it. In the morning he'd smoke one cigarette down for breakfast, do any work that needed doing, run any errands that needed running, then buy flowers and deliver them, before coming home to sleep. He had done all but one of those things today. Nicholas couldn't even truly commit to sleeping. He opened a bright blue eye upon feeling Christopher's kiss.

"What time is it," asked the Englishman as he sat up and stretched in his jeans and t-shirt. Brocklehurst folded the throw then followed Styles to the kitchen. "It smells good," he offered the other man a smile. He was trying.

Brocklehurst also had a tendency to drink down a pint and call him from London afterwards, their conversation clipped and annoyed on Brocklehurst's end and clipped and busy on Styles'. The trip away from each other on the twenty sixth did nothing for Nicholas' nerves.

"It's almost eight. You should eat something," Styles said, knowing that Nicholas hadn't eaten anything, and knowing that he had missed sending his mother flowers. Styles had bought a dozen white roses anyway, and arranged them on the kitchen bar.

"What are those for," he asked with a nod to the roses, glossing over that remark about his lack of a meal for the day.

Nicholas would eat the curry, because it smelled delicious and it was Christopher who suggested it. He hadn't felt like accepting other company for the day, not even those who had kindly given them gifts. Brocklehurst had shut himself in from the rest of the City, his American companion excluded. He was at a loss for what to do with the flowers that had nowhere to be placed.

Before any words could fly out of his own mouth, he took up a fork and started eating.

"Memory." Styles said softly.

He knew how Nicholas was - it had taken both men a long time to admit anything to each other, but it had taken even longer for them to read each other with the ease and grace they did now. Styles could see the pain in Brocklehurst's face, in the way that he ate the curry, even though he liked the taste. He could see it in the way his eyes weren't quite as bright.

He reached over and took Nicholas' hand, and pressed a small kiss against the palm. "Is it any good? I've never made Indian food before."

Memory. Nicholas' first reaction was to blurt out fuck memory, but he kept his mouth busy with dinner. It did taste good, it tasted great as a matter of fact (though Brocklehurst wasn't necessarily the best judge) but he found it difficult to enjoy. He scooped the yellowed rice almost mechanically, on auto-pilot as it were, but he couldn't hide everything from Styles. He knew Christopher could read him, every line, every gesture, every nuance. It was why they were engaged to be married.

The Englishman parted his lips to speak again when Styles kissed his hand. It silenced the empty words on his tongue; 'It tastes wonderful, sweetheart. Why don't we shag each other bloody stupid so I don't have to remember why I'm so morose and why I fucking hate drawing baths today.' No, he didn't think the brunette would be so receptive.

"... Thank you," Nicholas replied, curling his fingers to touch Christopher's lips.

"You're welcome. Of course."

Styles watched Nicholas finish his dinner, and he slipped the ring box from his pocket. "I know you wouldn't want diamonds, although where you got the impression I would like them is a mystery to me, I got you this."

Inside was a simple platinum band. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Nicholas' cheek, then moved to take the dirty dishes to the sink. He began to wash them with a slow deliberate motion - a way of making sure that Nicholas would have his privacy when choosing to keep or discard or throw the ring across the room (although that wasn't likely).

"Don't be so modest, Christopher," the blonde said with just the barest hint of a smirk. Diamonds from Vincent, diamonds in his cufflinks, a single diamond stud in one of his watches? Nicholas knew his taste far better than that, just as Styles knew his. That faint smirk became a brief smile under his kiss.

He accepted the box and opened it carefully. The platinum band was handsome, humble, and ever so honest. Brocklehurst knew it would fit his finger on his engagement hand. He slid it down and over his thick knuckle. It looked good on him, brushed width and chrome edges.

"Platinum and white gold I assume. You never could stand to be outdone." Nicholas rose to his feet and slipped his arm around Christopher's waist from behind. He placed a kiss to his darker neck then rested his chin on the other's shoulder. "I think she always knew."

"Consider it a lingering tribute to my youngest child childhood," Styles said with a faint smirk. It wasn't true - he did like diamonds, he thought that they were classy, but he knew that Brocklehurst wasn't nearly so ostentatious. The simple band was much more to his taste.

"Yes, that's right," Styles said with a small smile. "I thought it would look good on your hand." He looked down at the hand that was on his waist. "I was right," he said with a certain amount of smugness.

At the comment, Styles turned his head just slightly and nodded. "Yeah. She probably did." He turned in Nicholas' arms and gave him a kiss to the lips. "Mothers always seem to."

"Right," no he didn't believe that either.

"It does look good," Nicholas said as he circled his other arm around Christopher to twist the ring at his waist. "And respectably English," he joked while settling his hand over Styles'. Their rings looked good together. He laced his fingers together when the brunette turned in his arms then pursed his lips for a kiss. No matter what praise or vitriol came from that mouth, Brocklehurst would always think of sunshine.

"We need a date," Nicholas suggested, not that kind of date, "I don't want her to miss it and think she wasn't invited."

"Now the ladies will know not to come knocking?" Styles said, a mild bit of his old cynicism trickling into his voice. Brocklehurst was always popular with the women, probably due to the way his mother raised him, but he knew that his heart beat only for Styles.

"March? Late winter wedding. It'll let the girls wear nice dresses, or in Elle's case, a suit that doesn't make her look too much like a man."

"Did that ever stop women before," he asked Christopher, cocking a brow with a similar smirk. He knew Nicholas paid no mind to anyone that wasn't Styles, not even in a three-way. Perhaps experimentation paid off after all.

"Early? Middle? Late?" Brocklehurst tossed out suggestions. "Nowhere near St. Patrick's Day if you know what's good for us," he grinned, "that would be too much competition."

Styles laughed. "No, of course not." He kissed Nicholas again, being more affectionate than usual, but the affection meaning the same thing with each kiss as one of his brusque and cold, "I'll see you after works" every morning. It was all about how to read Styles, even when he was in a bad mood.

He detached from Nicholas and went to find his schedule, done up for the entire spring already. "March ninth?" he suggested casually, showing him the Sunday. "It's a good day, a week before St. Patrick's. It'll still be chilly, no orchids if we have an outside service. Chapel? Not Cathedral, I'm thinking."

It was an area in which Brocklehurst excelled and most failed. The Englishman had his own variation to translate; duplicity as Brydon had put it, but Styles could decode it to a T. He pursed his lips again, returning each kiss with a mirrored amount of affection.

He followed the other man after he detached to look over the schedule. Mapped out with work, leisure, special occasions, and all the rest of the trimmings taken into consideration. Nicholas expected no less from the former undersecretary. "March ninth, March ninth..." repeated Brocklehurst, "no orchids?" He feigned astonishment.

Styles put the schedule down, knowing that Brocklehurst was feeling better already. "I'm sure we could decorate the church, if you wanted," he said with a small smile, honestly. "We could use the Palace for the reception, unless you'd rather use a different place."

Styles would prefer a smaller wedding, but he was willing to accommodate for Brocklehurst's friends. "Catering can be handled by either Pandora's or the Indian restaurant that opened off the square...and drinks by my favorite bar across the street from my office." He paused. "Tell me you will contribute your opinion, Brocklehurst."

Feeling much better. Perhaps it was the amount of routine on the twenty-seventh that had become a dead weight on Brocklehurst. Perhaps it was the years of December Twenty-Sevenths he spent alone. Just one night spending it with Christopher Styles, Styles who knew and had confessed to giving her flowers too, Styles who had only a year ago been dead himself, made it different. He loved her and felt she would want him to be happier.

"I'd much prefer a smaller wedding," Nicholas said as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "we'd have access to a chapel, but if the forecast is good we also have the gardens." He nodded, offering his opinion for an outdoor ceremony. "Then the Palace for the reception," he grinned.

Styles recognized that routine and the toll that it was taking on Nicholas. He took the other man's hand, complaining, "Cold," before turning back to the plans. "A small wedding would be nicer. Just friends. No uninvited guests."

He thought about the Gardens. "I think that the Gardens would be nice, but the Palace is easier to secure. Entertainment?"

Nicholas curled his fingers around Christopher's then sidled closer to share his British Isle body warmth. "You're keeping a list I hope," he smiled, knowing Styles must already be one step ahead.

"I could play something," Brocklehurst suggested jokingly, "there aren't many other musicians in this City as talented as myself."

"I see you want to make our friends hate us." Styles said with a brief bark of laughter. "I'll hire someone. The Corinthian will know someone who can play good music," he said carefully, thoughtfully.

He put his planner down. "Lets watch a movie? A TV show. Something." He curled closer to Brocklehurst's warmth. "Something funny. Project Runway?"

"If they're our friends they'll know I'm contributing out of goodwill," he countered the laugh with a grin. "All right, all right," Nicholas conceded, "he does play an instrument or two. And there's that boy with a penchant for jazz and torch songs. I'm sure you'd like that." Already the Englishman had one song in mind for their dance... and he was quite certain he could persuade the American to actually do it.

"I've a better idea," he led the curling Christopher back to the living room couch. "Top Chef. You can tell me all the things they're doing wrong, when I know what you're really doing is taking notes."

"And they'll go equally deaf." Styles pushed Nicholas onto the couch and turned on the TV. "You mean that little blond kid? I'll talk to Corinthian, you can talk to him." Styles didn't have a notion, but he would consider anything Nicholas suggested, of course.

"Top Chef? Alright," he agreed with a slight nod of his head, turning the TV on. He pressed a kiss to Brocklehurst's lips again, settled against him and switched to the right channel.

He didn't have to profess his love. Nicholas already knew.

"Not if I keep the amplifier down," he nodded before collapsing on the couch from that push. Nicholas settled comfortably, pulling the throw back out for Christopher. "All right. But if he says he practiced in the Quarter I'll be calling you or Emmett for assistance," the Englishman winked.

"I called Dieterle's victory if you remember," he remarked.

His fingers threaded through Christopher's dark (and freshly dyed?) hair, keeping their kiss locked for a longer moment. Then his hand settled around the man's waist again, close to the band of diamonds and white gold. They complimented each other.

It wasn't Styles' fault that he hated the cold. He tucked himself close to Nicholas and relaxed. "Sure you did," he pointed out. "But I wasn't betting against you, was I?" He cocked his head back up at Brocklehurst. "Anyway, it just means that the guys this season are a lot better."

Styles looked at their interlaced fingers and decided that they fit together well, before he settled in to watch.

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Log; ongoing

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