tensions | Prompt - Crane Wife (alternative sidestory)

It's strange being able to talk to Justin like this now, without the forced roles they had to inhabit previously. It's...refreshing.

"Yes, just about," he says, turning to get the kettle - still hot from just being off the fire - and two ceramic cups. He arranges them delicately on a tray (this he still remembers how to do) along with a small plate of freshly cut melon. So often he had done this in the past, entertaining his customers and playing house before they got to the meat of what they really wanted from him (which wasn't a wife or a lover but something so much baser, dirtier, easier). But the same motions repeated now, here, in this sunny little shop that was all his own, his safe space - it felt entirely new.

"Come with me. We can have a seat in the back if you'd like."

He settles down in a soft flutter of simple fabric against the wood floor of the engawa behind the shop, overlooking a tiny little garden filled with greenery and hydrangeas about to bloom. The sound of the shishi-odoshi clicks rhythmically in the distance, as if keeping time.

He glances around the garden, taking a deep breath and then sighing, feeling oddly...content. The scenario is so familiar - Monty serving tea on a tray, the conversations that had sometimes resulted from it - but everything else about it is utterly different, including the two participants involved.

"I think your handwriting has gotten even better," he observes, tilting his head towards the front of the shop, remembering the beautiful calligraphy on the signs. "You must get a lot of practice."

“Oh, that,” he blushes, tries to hide it to no avail. “I’ve had a lot of time to practice. And I think I really should thank you for getting me started anyhow. I wouldn’t be here without you. Honestly.”

He takes a deep breath. As much as he appears to have pulled himself up by his own, he knows ultimately he needs to give credit where credit is due.

“Here,” he passes a cup, steam trailing up from its contents. “Chrysanthemum.” He nearly grins. It’s the same tea he once spilled all over Justin’s shirt front when they first met.

“So…what brings you up here to this region? I thought your practice was South, in the city.”

His own mouth quirks slightly, clearly recalling the same memory, as he brings the cup up to his mouth and inhales the scent, eyes meeting Monty's over his hand.

"I needed a bit of a change. An old friend of mine has been the doctor for this region, but he's getting on in years." He tips his head, a hint of self-deprecation in the gesture. "He's an excellent teacher, but most of his students tend to depart for parts unknown once they've learned what they can from him. Not many of them return." He takes a sip from the cup, then sets it back down on the tray again. "So I thought I'd give that a try, maybe give him a chance to spend time with his children and grandchildren."

They had ended that day softly and chaste, with Monty sending Justin off with a personalized giftset of papers and a handsome pen - "For your work," he said, tying a pale ribbon around the package, his hand brushing Justin's knuckles as he hands it over - and that was that. He watched Justin's back retreat out the door and with it, Monty began to feel a sense of peace, a bit of closure.

He doesn't, at all, expect to see Justin again. And again. In fact, it started to become a sort of routine every other week or so, to find the good doctor at his doorstep. Lately, he's even come bearing gifts. They started out small - fruits and vegetables and mochi from several towns over - and then became more substantial - trinkets and eventually, even a pair of fine opal earrings that Monty found himself particularly taken with. In fact, upon putting them on, he never once took them off again.

Slowly, over the course of several months, he even started to look forward to Justin's visits (which started off at first with him staying no more than just a few minutes at a time to now where he regularly stayed for hours, either escorting Monty on casual walks across the river or listening to Monty sing old kouta in his home dialect as they sat together in the tea room). He started to dress up a bit more in preparation too (though if asked why, he would merely deny it had anything to do with the man. Why, couldn't a guy just get dolled up if he wanted to?) decorating his hair with delicate kanzashi and lightly lining the corners of his eyes in white or red.

Tonight, they have nothing specific planned. It's summertime and it's humid, so Monty has cut up some watermelon and persimmons for them to share. He sits beside Justin, laughing at something he just said, placing a hand momentarily atop the other man's knee. By the time he notices what he's done (such a simple and yet intimate gesture), it's too late to pretend it never happened and Monty hesitates before moving his hand back into his own lap.

"It's getting late," he says, just for something to say. "Are you sure I'm not keeping you...?" From anything, or anyone?

Edited 2022-06-10 03:52 (UTC)

While he definitely hadn't expected it at the start, he's coming to think that his whimsical decision to leave his successful practice in the city behind, with all its proximity to wealth and power, to instead live in this rural area again, had been the best choice he'd ever made. He's surprised by how quickly he gets used to doing without the more modern comforts of the city in favor of a more simple lifestyle, when the people who recognized him on the street were neighbors and people he had helped, or relatives of those he had helped, who knew him solely for his skill and ability and couldn't care less about his connections, his foreign education, or his purported wealth.

And, of course, there was Monty.

He's not quite sure why he was still drawn to him, but none of the reasons that had hampered any chance at an acquaintance between them previously were relevant anymore. No one here knew of them as anything other than what they were now - a young shopowner and a simple country doctor - who happened to enjoy each others' company. The gifts had been pragmatic at first - the produce given in lieu of monetary payment, far too much for a man living alone to finish - but outside the confines of the brothel and the client-relationship they'd had there, they'd started to take on a more...sentimental cast. The physical attraction was almost a given - well-established and longstanding for all the years of the acquaintance, however odd a shape that had taken - but in the small town, in the small garden behind the shop, he can see far more of who Monty really was, unearthed by his new occupation, his new environment, the freedom of being able to choose his own path and make his own way.

It's devastatingly attractive. But Justin Baruch was an old hand at keeping such feelings under control. Restraint and discretion, which had served him well throughout his career, were watchwords for him even now. He knows what their association looks like from the outside. Perhaps there would always be too much complication between them, in their mutual past. But in the meantime, he enjoys Monty's company, and flatters himself that that enjoyment, at least, was mutual as well.

He's half smiling still, having related an amusing anecdote, when he feels the brief flutter of warmth - Monty's hand resting briefly against his knee as they sit side by side in his garden. It lasts only a moment, before the other man pulls away again.

"So it is," he replies, almost gently. "I didn't have any plans for today other than spending some time with you. But perhaps I should leave you be?" He glances at Monty's mouth, damp (and probably a little sticky) with fruit juice and the wet heat of the season.

He sees the way Justin glances at his mouth and he turns his face away, quickly, a hand coming up to touch his lips as if to hide them momentarily, maintaining the polite distance they’ve kept between each other for all this time here so far.

“Oh,” he replies, "no, I didn’t mean to suggest that I wanted to end our time together. I suppose I just..."

He takes pause, a hand reaching up to touch the beveled jewel of his earrings. “May I ask you a question?” He doesn’t wait for a response, taking a breath, his brow furrowing slightly. “Are you...have you been courting me, Dr. Baruch?”

He uses that word purposefully. He needs to make sure after all. There has been signs the past few months that even Monty had to admit were becoming obvious, but Monty’s never known what it’s like to have a man be seriously interested in him, to pursue him for reasons outside of wanting something very specific from him. He knows of course what it’s like for a man to desire him, what that hunger feels like, to be the sweet treat held against a man’s tongue, between his teeth. But never like this, to feel someone interested in who he was as a person, and to want just his company, his thoughts, his genuine presence. Someone who wanted a relationship with him.

Edited 2022-06-10 14:30 (UTC)

He chuckles softly, and it's an almost tenderly amused sound, as he turns his face away from Monty, giving him the space he seems to be looking, looking out at the garden, but not really seeing it, if he's being entirely honest.

"I suppose I have been," he says, quiet and almost tentative. "Though I'm sure you have no shortage of other potential suitors. Or perhaps you have your own eye on someone specific?" After all, very little of his advantages in the past mattered here, in this context. On its face, Montgomery Quill was a successful shopkeeper, in the prime of his life, an attractive prospect to local eligible daughters of marriageable age; Dr. Justin Baruch was - not decrepit, but certainly older - in a position of respect within the local community, but it could also be thankless and demanding. And certainly people would look askance at a man his age who had apparently never married regardless, wondering what odd deviance had prevented it.

"There's no one else."

He realizes immediately after speaking that his words might have come off weightier than he intended. Because yes, in fact he has had many suitors these past few months. Some arrived with flowers, gifts, long confession letters. But Monty didn't trust his own taste in men and women anymore. In fact, he hadn't seriously considered being in a relationship at all. Until right now. And even so, looking at Justin's face, he hesitates, not sure what that would all mean.

"I wouldn't make a very good spouse," he warns. "I'm flighty and stubborn. I can't cook. And I've a bad temper. Contrary, maybe, to what you've seen of me in the past." But as he speaks, he shifts just a bit closer to Justin, their clothed thighs touching just so.

He smiles slightly, amused and thoughtful. "I think perhaps you underestimate yourself," he says, reaching an arm out, resting it lightly against Monty's shoulders, not quite an embrace, but the precursor to one - easy enough to slip out of, if one were so inclined. "After all, there is plenty to be found lacking in me, as a spouse as well. You have far more in the way of potential prospects, in age and beauty." He tips his own knee, aligning it to Monty's, a subtle contact and pressure. "You're determined and hard-working, thoughtful if not always considerate. You've grown so much in such a short time."

“Mm.”

He leans just a little closer into Justin’s hold and for a while they both say nothing. The soft sounds of the evening surround them.

“Stay with me tonight,” Monty says finally, his fingers curling in his lap as if trying to keep themselves from misbehaving.

And slowly he rises, heading into the hallway leading to his private quarters, tossing a gentle glance behind his shoulder, hoping (knowing) Justin would follow.

Edited 2022-06-12 02:00 (UTC)

He stands after a moment, following after Monty obediently. It's not meek or submissive, but there is an unwonted, unfamiliar softness in the gesture, compared to their previous interactions on this space. He ducks his head to enter the more private space, hanging back a little, his eyes warm and affectionate.

"Are you sure?" He asks quietly. He's not sure why he asks, save that he'd never done so before, when such relations between them were transacted, when he'd observed, manipulated, and strained Monty's body in lieu of any kind of shared pleasure.

His bedroom is small but lived in, filled with unique personal items he's amassed throughout the years. It's a warm and private space, beloved and safe.

Monty bends to light a small lantern near the end of the bed and as its golden light spreads out around him, he stands again and all of a sudden, he looks genuinely shy, cautious, his features subdued in the firelight.

"Yes, I'm sure," he replies as he takes the few steps needed to close the distance between them once more, his hand coming up to touch Justin's broad chest, hovering over where his heart was.

It was strange. It's not that Justin had never seen him naked, bare, and willing before (in fact, he's seen Monty is extremely lewd and compromising positions many times over). So why was he feeling so...nervous?

He leans forward infinitesimally, against the barely there contact between them, Monty's hand over his heart, still clothed through all the layers he is still wearing, enough to respond, to show willing, eagerness, anticipation, in a way he'd never shown before.

In that other, not-so-long-ago life, an entirety different world and cast of characters, the lines had been clear - the observation of Monty's pleasure or pain or education at Justin's hands, an uneven exchange, a transaction, a ritual of questionable formality, founded on their differing positions and levels of power. The effect of Justin's demands and expectations on Monty's body and obedience, bought and paid for.

This was a meeting, a shared intimacy, a mutual experience, rather than an experiment. They were both involved, invested, even shy, in their own unique, particular ways.

"May I kiss you, Monty?" he asks, quiet, close, his breath stirring Monty's hair, ghosting warm over his face due to their proximity, his hands hovering around his shoulders, hesitant to close the distance, to turn touch into embrace.

He nods and tilts up on his toes to make up for their slight difference in height, his head tilting to the side so that their mouths could slot together. It felt tentative, careful, gentle, as if he was acutely aware that what they were trying to cultivate between each other right now was very fragile and required meticulous handling. It would be so easy to fall back into the contrived roles they inhabited before all of this. It would be easy to just let their bodies do what they already know how.

But Monty wanted more than those simple falsehoods. Even if he didn't quite know exactly how to get there yet.

He pulls back a moment after, running the back of his hand against the side of Justin's face as if he was seeing him for the very first time, up close. "Come to bed," he murmurs, and links Justin's fingers with his own, giving his hand a tender, welcoming tug.

He curls his fingers, secure but cautious, a slight tremble of want making its slow way down along his limbs, easily palpable to Monty where they are joined and linked. He dips his head in again, chasing Monty's parting lips for another gentle press of lips and tongue, a kiss between lovers, spouses, equals, exploring and learning each other in careful exchange.

"I'll stay the night, with you," he murmurs, "as long as you'll have me. But there's no need to -" He cuts himself off. He's not sure how he could end such a presumptuous sentence.

By the time Justin forces his own words back down his throat, Monty has already settled himself on the edge of the narrow bed (made really to accommodate only one person initially). He lets go of Justin's hand so he can start to undo the ties of his clothing, slowly, patiently. There's no inherent sensuality here, no forced seduction. It's simple and sweet, just a young man who was comfortable enough around the presence of another to undress himself and get comfortable without any semblance of shame or pudency.

He keeps his eyes on Justin's face as he says, "I know. Let's just see where things go, okay?" He shrugs off the thin haori, lets it pool onto the ground near his feet. The rest of his clothes are barely hanging onto him now, just soft waves of fabric wrapped around him, easily slipped off.

"Sit," he says, "and kiss me again."

He settles next to Monty on the narrow bed - the room was so different from those back at the brothel, a casual, personal kind of simplicity, of intimacy and preference, rather than the sumptuous but neutral furnishings that tended to characterize such places. He leans forward, his hands curled into loose fists, one settled in his lap while the other is braced against the bed, a subtle pressure against Monty, but carefully neutral, positioned so as not to box him in, and then kisses him, a sweet escalation from earlier, but nothing like the clinical or casually possessive kisses of their past interactions. It's an exploration, the caution of an experienced adventurer in a new place, utilizing known expertise, but taking nothing for granted.

He likes this, this quiet exploration of each other. A kind of relearning. He smiles against Justin's mouth, noticing how measured and calculated he's trying to be, making sure not to impose, not to overbear. There's a sweetness in that too.

As their kisses get deeper, open mouthed and searching tongues, Monty brushes his fingertips over Justin's knuckles, urging them to relax. Once he feels that start to happen, he takes Justin's much larger hands in his and guides them slowly across his body (his smooth thighs, now bare of any and all marks from other men, and his waist, his chest), allowing him to touch and explore.

"You're wearing entirely too much clothing, Dr. Baruch," he says suddenly with a little chuckle, pulling back to look into his eyes with an affectionate intensity. "You should really get more comfortable."

He lets his broad hands slide over Monty's skin - pale and smooth and almost completely unmarked - dipping in past the false modesty of the enfolding cloth of his attire, falling open. He's familiar with this body, with its curves and shapes and shadows, but his touch is reverent, appreciative, thumbs stroking gentle circles, unseen, in the depths of the cloth wrapped around him.

He has to smile a little at that statement. He'd never stripped down fully, in their past meetings, always focused on Monty's reactions to his handling and provocation, rather than his own immediate physical pleasure. Generally he'd derived a more academic enjoyment from watching, listening, causing, without Monty ever really putting hands on him in return.

"Alright," he murmurs, dipping his head in a gentle nod of acquiescence, and tugs at the ties holding his own clothing on, shrugs the material off and lays it aside. He had been used, back in the city, to wearing western style attire - tailored suits and shirts, cuff-links and ties - but he dresses more traditionally here, forgoing style for practicality and comfort.

This is a rare treat and Monty knows it. He slides his own hands up over the newly exposed skin before him, fingertips tracing winding pathways along Justin's stomach, chest, clavicle, shoulder. He looks every bit as strong and broad as his presence and posture always suggested, underneath all of his clothes, which for a long time he had always diligently kept on, like some sort of physical representation of his mental and emotional restraint.

Monty never questioned it. Back at the brothel, that wasn't his place, nor was Justin the first client to ever try something like that with him. But here, he breathes a sigh of relief, happy to find that Justin was just as eager to try and let go of those pretenses and meet him in the middle of...whatever this was going to be. Monty doesn't know how to label it just yet and he wasn't going to try. All he wished to do was close this artificial distance that the two of them had built up in the past so that they had the chance to come together into something new.

"Come here," he says, leaning in again to kiss Justin on the mouth, chin, throat, while he eases them back to lie down. There's not a lot of space so they're forced to squeeze together and Monty automatically slings one long leg over Justin's hip so he can press himself fully against him, their bodies like two puzzle pieces, slotting together.

"We don't have to do anything," he continues, repeating Justin's earlier hesitation, saying the words practically right into Justin's parted mouth. But he leaves the sentence hanging open nonetheless, trailing off a bit near the end, gaze searching Justin's face for an answer.

He laughs softly, adjusting to both Monty's body against his and the narrow bed. It had been years since this had been prevalent in his life - his personal and professional successes had been such that beds of sufficient space were almost a given - and there's something charming and unstudied about this. Natural and uncoordinated. He wraps one arm around Monty's back to keep him pulled close, their bodies meeting through the tangle of half-on/half-off layers of cloth, and leans in to close the kiss, swallowing the last breath of Monty's quiet words.

"I want to," he says, half laughing, full of good humor. "But only if you're amenable." He shifts them both, so that Monty is balanced on top of him, one hand a steadying warmth at his bare hip, the other at his back.

He straddles Justin, their chests pressed close together as he shifts his hips automatically in a slow, easy circle. The distinct and obviously hard outline of Justin’s cock rubbing against his ass makes Monty bite his lip.

This could be so easy, he thinks. But he’s spent his whole life trying to make things easy for other men. These days, he’s kind of tired of it. These days, he wants some of that power back.

He digs his nails into Justin’s scalp as his fingers tangle in his hair and he relishes in the small grunt he gets as a response as if the sound were forcibly squeezed out of the man’s throat.

The thing is, Monty doesn’t trust himself in his own choices yet. He’s been taught to fall in love with anyone who so much as holds his hand and that’s hardly a good compass for the heart. He wants to be sure this one is right. For as long as he and Justin have known each other, this budding new kind of relationship was still fragile and strange. How could he be certain that Justin was who he said he was and that his intentions were real? It’s easy to give gifts and say pretty things and be kind in short periods of time, tiny moments like a held breath, when no one else was watching. And Monty wasn’t going to go back to being someone’s dirty little secret. Not when he now had the choice to refuse and the will to desire something more, something better.

So. He had to be sure.

“…I’d actually like to wait.” He doesn’t ask for confirmation or permission. He doesn’t phrase it as a question. But his words are still somewhat shaky and he can feel the weight of Justin’s hands on his body, the heat of his palms. He’s used to attaching a certain expectation to that feeling. But he shakes it off now.

He takes a deep breath. “Next weekend, could I come visit you? See where you live and work?” See if everything you’ve told me so far has been true?

He wonders idly how Justin will respond to this gentle rejection.

Edited 2022-06-13 19:13 (UTC)

He gazes up at Monty, his expression soft, thoughtful, steady. Whatever it is he sees in Monty's gaze makes him smile slightly and nod, even though his half-hard erection is pressed between their bodies, noticeable but not at all insistent. It was funny, in a way, both familiar and not. He's used to some level of dissociation with Monty, setting aside his own immediate physical pleasure. This contact between them is something new, and this tentative assertion even more so.

"I'd be happy to host you," he murmurs. "I should be back from making rounds to the villages on the other side of the mountain by then. How long did you want to stay?"

Prompt - Crane Wife (alternative sidestory)

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