drabblesandrpsandrequestsohmy:

“There are very few things I don’t understand, but your love of poetry is one of them.” Sherlock said, giving Victor a sidelong glance. Victor gave an amused huff.

“That’s because you haven’t found the right poet yet, I guess.” He mused, going back to his book. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Preposterous.” He said, sitting up. “It all seems silly. Does poetry even have rules?”

Victor smirked. “Dislike because you have nothing to break, then?” He asked, repressing a chuckle.

“Your wit will always astound me.” Sherlock said dryly. Victor cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. Sherlock couldn’t tell why.

“Here, this poem for example.” Victor started, quickly glancing at Sherlock before going back to the book to read. He had memorized the poem, but he still was looking at it as a safety net.

“Life would be easier if you were gone. It would be easier if I had the courage to speak, but that could end rather badly. It would be easier if you were gone, but I can’t drive you away. I can’t tell the truth either. So we just sit here, being friends.” Victor paused to swallow nothingness, nerves still sounding off harshly. “Can I say the words I want? If you don’t agree, can I take them back? Then we can go back to friends, forget I spoke the words aloud? I’ll go back to never speaking the I know to be true, never having said…” Victor risked look up at Sherlock. “I love you.”

Then he looked back at the book, instantly regretting having read the poem. He, himself, was terrible at words and decided he could borrow some else’s.

He was almost to the point of packing up to run off when he felt Sherlock move closer to him. Sherlock turned Victor to face him, where Victor saw confliction emotions running through his eyes.

“Victor…” he started.

Victor knew it. He couldn’t hear the rejection. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“Don’t. Please. It was just a poem, forget I said anything.” Victor swung his legs off the bed and started packing up.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around Victor’s waist from behind.

“Victor.” Sherlock said it softly, but firmly. Victor stopped packing up and twisted to he was facing Sherlock again.

Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him.

After the brief moment of shock, Victor kissed him back.

They pulled back at the same time, just enough that they could breathe.

Their foreheads were still touching, and their lips brushed together a few times.

“I love you too.”

drabblesandrpsandrequestsohmy:

Victor was sitting, elbow on a knee, book in his hand, pushing his fringe back every few minutes. A pointless endeavor as it always fell back into nearly the exact same position, but he kept doing it. His eyes drew in the words, carefully settling on each one before drifting to the next; reading like it was delicacy he’d rarely get to partake in. Although Victor read all the time, he never seemed to stop treating every sentence as a gift. 

Sherlock thought a lot about Victor’s eyes. They didn’t quite fit him. They didn’t fit  him at all, actually, because Victor seemed like the type of person who had eyes romantic fools would write poetry of. Bright, blue eyes or a soothing light green. Yet, Victor’s eyes were a hazy brown. Small lines of copper running through them, a few flecks of gold, but fundamentally typical.

They didn’t fit him, because Victor was atypical. Sherlock was infatuated with him, Victor seemed intrigued in return. Sherlock had figured out a while ago Victor was the smarter of the two, and so he must have understood. But didn’t. Victor didn’t understand Sherlock’s general dislike of people, in fact Victor was what would be most aptly described as a party boy. (When he wasn’t reading, of course.)

He drank and danced, now and then partook in pot and was flirty. Always flirtatious, and… well, most would put him into the category of a slut but that didn’t quite fit him, either. For one, Victor hated people trying to seduce him. He wasn’t easy to convince to fall into bed with anyone, not by a long shot. Probably one of the hardest people to seduce in the world, perhaps. But when Victor decided he wanted to sleep with someone, he did so.

Victor was never taken to bed by others, but he took plenty to bed himself. Including some people who weren’t usually attracted to men, yet Victor always managed to make himself the exception to that rule. From what Sherlock had heard, no one seemed to regret being seduced by Victor. He had a reputation for being good, amazing even. At both sex itself and seduction.

Hell, Victor had gotten Sherlock to sleep with him, too. Although Sherlock was Victor’s exception, he did it more than once. And hung around before and afterwards. But no one could deny Victor’s skill at anything related to pleasure.

That’s why he was particularly infuriating, and why Sherlock was practically half obsessed with him. Or, it seemed like obsession, logically. It didn’t always feel that way. Either way, Victor was brilliant. Not to say Sherlock was an idiot by comparison, Victor wasn’t actually that much smarter, just enough to be noticeable, and yet he gave into all these little things.

It’s like… chocolate. Victor had tried explaining once, not that Sherlock had understood when he first started.

I fail to see how your lifestyle is like a sweet, Victor. Sherlock had replied, but Victor had just smiled and carried on.

Chocolate is fleeting. In your hand, onto your tongue, feel it melt in your mouth and slide down your throat, then it’s gone.

Sherlock hadn’t understood why Victor specifically chose things that were fleeting, but Victor had shrugged and asked Sherlock to him something that wasn’t. Sherlock had said, “Us.” And Victor laughed. Not bitingly, not fondly– neutrally, with amusement. 

Victor had retorted by asking Sherlock if their relationship hadn’t changed at all since when they met, or since a month ago. Then he had said something that shook Sherlock, words he dawdled on for a while to inspect the thought behind them. Impermanence doesn’t equal lack of importance, William.Victor was the only one Sherlock would dare let get away with calling him that. Change is necessary, experiences are fleeting, and you’re gorgeous.

That last part had been said with the same voice of soft explanation, the one that Sherlock had started of hating because someone had to explain something to him of all people, and then said it so measuredly, so lazily. But Sherlock had learned that was just how Victor spoke, constantly serenading all those around him.

Sherlock blinked out of his thoughts, noticing the eyes he’d been considering before locked onto his, the book closed in Victor’s hand, and he was sitting closer to Sherlock on the bed then Sherlock remembered. Much closer. Actually, their lips were pressed together and the two were kissing, which couldn’t have been going on for that long because Sherlock usually noticed after a few heartbeats of a small surprise. Because Victor seemed to only like kissing or sleeping with the same person once. So it was always odd that he returned to Sherlock after being with someone else for a night.

It was nice that he came back, that Victor kept kissing Sherlock in that slow, sensual way of his which made it clear why so many were willing to sleep with him. It caused something unpleasant to stir in Sherlock to know Victor still went off and took other lovers, but it wasn’t as though Sherlock owned him. They were friends, geniuses who didn’t need each other equal amounts. Sherlock needed someone at least as clever as he was, Victor did fine with average people. 

But he kept coming back to Sherlock. Which must have counted for something, not matter how small. Friends stung, when Victor used that practiced kiss that had Sherlock melting, fingertips barely skimming across skin under the hem of his shirt, and Sherlock always had a clear choice. The first time had been a seduction, through and though, Sherlock had been baited and hooked. After that there was never anything persuasive about it or urging other then Victor himself, and his massaging lips of course.

Sherlock, like many others before him, didn’t regret the first time. He’d seen through the seduction, obviously he had, but let Victor play it out anyway. Almost never gave Victor the red flag for other times, which were always nonverbal when they did happen. If Sherlock was too busy or stressed or uncomfortable, Victor would just be able to tell, and then back off.

But in the comfort of his dorm room with hours of silence preluding to it, Sherlock agreed yet again, letting Victor wash over his senses. And it was fleeting, and it did pang something in him every now and then, but Sherlock understood when it was happened. When everything was just Victor and the rest of the world fell away, Sherlock knew why Victor lived how he did. 

The good, fast things in life that slipped away all too quickly were the best, and Sherlock always craved more before it ended. None of the times lasted long enough; none ever would, so there was the need to have the small pleasures as often as possible. And eventually, Sherlock learned that Victor was a good dancer and Sherlock liked dancing, that alcoholic drinks weren’t always overpowering and could be very good.

But, and this was the hard part, Sherlock learned he loved the man with a passing lifestyle who believed in readiness for change, that long term relationships were doomed whether they lasted or not, who could like Sherlock and love his body, but would never allow himself to love Sherlock.

Too much chocolate can kill you, after all.

neurotoxia:

Today’s prompt is “red and green” for Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor. Mature content for this one.

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