Jazz Baby
by Trianne

(A Brideshead Revisited/Elijah Wood story)

Pairing: Charles Ryder/Elijah Wood Sebastian Flyte
Rating: NC17
Summary: Disclaimer and Notes: Setting: Oxford, mid 20s. Based upon "Brideshead Revisited" (TV series for visuals). For the purposes of this story, Charles has been away from Oxford for a few days, leaving Sebastian to his own devices. Told from Charles' point of view and hopefully written in a similar vein to that of the novel, "Brideshead Revisited". I have taken something of a liberty with Sebastian in this story. It's just PWP in a scholarly setting :) Originally a birthday story for Baranduin.
Feedback: Yes, please

Upon my return to Oxford, I knocked at Sebastian's door with a casual, assured rap. I was already turning the handle when I realised with a start that the door was, in fact, locked. As Sebastian had never in our acquaintance deigned to secure his door, I was a little put out. He was in residence, that much was clear, for through the solid English oak I could hear the victrola churning out something discordant and loud.

The second knock was more in the way of a knock and less of a tap and this time it met with success. I heard the key turning in the lock and then the door was opened. Sebastian stared at me, yawning, then moved aside to let me in, relocking the door once I was inside.

"It's really rather cold out there, still the dreadful smell of bonfires and charcoaled turnips hanging in the air like a pall," I began, removing my scarf. Sebastian's rooms were always jolly and hot and this late afternoon in November was no exception. Sebastian, indeed, was in the lightest of garb, white linen trousers and shirt, bare footed, of course. He took my scarf and coat from me and dropped them negligently upon the nearest stool, from which they slithered immediately to the floor. Smiling, I retrieved them and hung them upon the hook which had been set in the wall by the door expressly for this purpose; Sebastian's family might be rich as Croeses but mine wasn't.

Having done his duties as host, Sebastian padded into his bedroom and I followed as was my habit, expecting perhaps that he would wash and dress; for we had tickets to a recital, a fact which, quite transparently, Sebastian had put out of his mind until my appearance at his door. I tried not to notice the outline of his buttocks in the almost diaphanous linen or the way his hair was tousled, as if God himself had leaned down from his cloud to pet this favourite boy, this golden child - my Sebastian. And there was the crux of the problem, for that was how I had begun to think of him – impossibly beautiful and angelically petulant. So, to the boudoir…

I was not prepared for what I saw there. If God had, indeed, leaned down from his cloud once, he most certainly had found the experience pleasurable and repeated it; for there, sprawled unselfconsciously in the rather dim artificial light, upon Sebastian's plump bed, was a vision. I stopped in my tracks. A boy lay upon the bed, wearing nothing but his underwear, stylishly cut and rather tight fitting. He seemed completely unabashed to see me, making no effort to cover himself, other than to idly place Sebastian's teddy bear, Aloysius, upon his naked belly. Sebastian sat down upon the bed and laid a hand tenderly upon the bear's head, then he looked up at me with the slightest trace of defiance in his soft brown eyes.

"I'm sorry," I began, turning to leave, "I had no idea.."

"You're Charles? He said you were pretty - in a reserved kind of way." The boy was American, which was the second big surprise. There were Americans in college of course, but not so many that they had become in any way commonplace. I had been so captivated by the tones of his skin, of which so much was on display, of his thick dark hair that contrasted so beautifully with the snowy bed linen, that I had quite overlooked his eyes. But now, as he rose to lay upon his side, with his head propped upon one hand, I could see that they were indeed extraordinary. Sebastian was tracing his thumb carelessly down the boy's arm, a look of weariness upon his face. I wondered then whether I had disturbed the beginning of something, or the end? I knew I should leave. Sebastian and I had shared embraces, soft kisses in a gondola beneath a benevolent Venetian moon, but nothing more. It had been enough for us, this sweet sharing of something that no one else could even begin to understand. Or so I had believed. But how delicious they looked together, these two heavenly creatures, and how awkward I felt, sharing the same rarefied atmosphere. I took another step backwards, tearing my gaze reluctantly from the semi-naked boy and his lover, my friend.

"Sebastian thinks you can get it up, Charles," the boy drawled, gently shaking off Sebastian's hand and climbing down from the bed. He stood between me and the door, considerably shorter than I, Aloysius dangling from one hand, and looked up at me with eyes of the brightest blue. The crudity of his words, coming from such a perfect mouth, shook me. "Sebastian can't."

I looked in horror at my friend but he seemed not at all offended by the boy's words, merely shrugging and lying down upon his bed, his naked feet beating time to the sensual, syncopated jazz issuing from the sitting room. He reached for a glass of wine or port which was on the bedside table, and sipped. "It's quite true, Charles. This is Elijah Wood, by the way, he's an American I picked up after you so cruelly abandoned me," Sebastian said with as much feeling as if he had been discussing the weather with Monsignor Bell, guardian of his soul and his morals whilst resident in Oxford.

"I don't know what exactly Sebastian has been telling you, Mr. Wood, but-" I tried valiantly to ignore the intoxicating scent of his soap and the way the top of his head was at exactly the right height to tuck under my arm if I chose so to do. Though why on earth such a thought should enter my head, I had no idea. But he was talking again.

"Elijah, Charles. I'm actually Sebastian's cousin about six times removed. I'm from Iowa, though I call California home." He flexed up and down from the balls of his feet to his toes, in perfect synchronisation with Sebastian – jazz babies, both. "I'm here doing the Grand Tour because my daddy thinks people of quality still do that, though of course they don't. I'm older than I look, also – twenty one – and I know what I want. Sebastian is good with his hands, Charles, but, see, what I really need right now is a man. You fit the bill admirably."

An hour ago I had been dressing with care before my mirror, contemplating a delightful evening of fine music and food and conversation. I knew I would probably drink too much and would stumble home with Sebastian where we would lie upon his chaise lounge and talk silly childish talk and hold hands. This, I had not expected. A part of me was outraged and disgusted that Sebastian could have been party to this, this – I had no words to describe what was happening; it was utterly removed from my realm of experience and understanding.

Yet, another part, the bigger part, was thrilled to the bone. All those nights of petting, of half-realised kisses, had been igniting a core inside of me which, even if I had not recognised it for what it was, yearned for release. I was twenty one years old, in possession of both good health and fundamental needs - needs which I had specifically chosen not to address in the nearest brothel or down some dark alley. And this boy, for man seemed somehow inappropriate given his great beauty, was here and not only willing but positively predatory. But still I hesitated. Then Sebastian himself came to my rescue.

"God's a funny fellow, isn't he, Charles? And I mean that with the utmost respect. He removes from me, possibly at birth, any interest I might have had in the fairer sex, which in turn removes me from polite society. Then, as if in recompense, he ensures I can do bugger all about it! See, when I'm discussing the intimate details of my bodily disfunctions, I can be terribly witty, Charles. But still, I have my eyes, if you catch my drift..." Having thus delivered the wordiest speech of the evening, Sebastian settled down against the headboard and waited.

And so - for Sebastian, noble soul, I? - I simply gave in, succumbed to temptation in the form of this lithe creature. And should I suffer for it tomorrow, well I would blame America…

I found myself leaning down to join with him, pulling him close until I could feel his hardness against mine and the great loneliness which had been a part of me for so long overwhelmed me until I could no more let him go than cease to breathe. My eyes were closed, yet I knew that Sebastian was watching us.

Elijah's arms were around me, his lips not only on mine but fused with mine, and I was vaguely aware that he was manoeuvring us to the bed, that damnable bear forgotten by the door. My shins hit the footboard and then I was falling backwards and he was on top of me. I opened my eyes and saw Sebastian, still sipping from his crystal glass.

I reached out my hand and took his. Never in our acquaintance had I considered that Sebastian was anything but a man in the fullest sense of the word. Yet now I saw those drunken embraces and soft, sweet surrenderings for what they were. I had felt myself becoming aroused during these lazy interludes, but my shyness, and my unwillingness to push my friend into something for which he was not ready, meant that I had misinterpreted a lack of enthusiasm on his part. But that was in the past, and now our fingers entwined as Elijah unbuttoned my shirt. I found I couldn't look directly at this force of nature atop me, for if I did I would embarrass myself. So I concentrated on Sebastian's soft eyes and pale skin, on his mouth upon the rim of his glass, on his hand in mine. I had never loved him so much as I did then at that moment on his bed, on that cold November's evening.

"Look at him if you like, I don't mind," my American was saying but then said no more, for his mouth was on my body, on my neck and collarbone and nipples. Abruptly, I relinquished Sebastian's hand and with a growl I shifted my weight and pinned Elijah down upon the bed, pinioning his wrists with my hands and straddling his thighs. I was aching with want but it had occurred to my lust addled brain that simply lying there and allowing it to happen was not the Englishman's way; I needed to assert a little control. But he was so utterly gorgeous, panting and arching his back, the tip of his tongue flicking around his lips. Sebastian was chuckling, soft and low. He had put down his glass and turned on his side to watch us, one hand inside his fly. I smiled with something akin to relief and delight, reaching out my hand to join his but he shook his head. "Lost cause. Just want to see you," he said, simply and with total acceptance.

If he could not, or would not, join us physically, I determined that we would at least give Sebastian the best bawdy show in town. I pressed onto Elijah, covering him, claiming him. I pressed my tongue inside his mouth and tasted him. Everything I did, he returned in kind, only with more vigour and need. My few skirmishes with girls – a very quick tumble in a cornfield with a myopic cousin when I was fifteen, and two paid transactions with whores which had been, if anything, even quicker and certainly more sordid – had not prepared me for this. My languid kisses with Sebastian, always alcohol-fuelled, had not given me an inkling of the true nature of love between men.

I wanted to ravish him. In my father's library, I had once found a little book which I supposed had been my mother's. It was the tale of an honest serving girl who had been pursued by a lascivious duke and deflowered upon his battlements, ravished. I had read and re-read it several times until one day it mysteriously disappeared. I wondered if the cook or the parlour maid had happened upon it, or whether it now resided in my father's room. Whatever its fate, that slim penny dreadful had fuelled my imagination. And now I had this innocent young bloom beneath me, ready to pluck…

"Let me suck you, Charles…" the innocent young flower breathed and his hands freed themselves effortlessly from my supposed grip of iron. He was damp with sweat, a lock of his hair plastered sweetly to his cheek.

I lay upon my back and allowed him to unbutton my trousers and tug them down. He had to unlace my shoes and drop them noisily on the floor in order to work my pants down and off - then I was fully exposed. He was still wearing his undergarment, though his cock was straining at the fine cotton. Sebastian leaned over a little to feast his eyes upon my nakedness and I saw him raise his eyebrow and nod slightly, a simple gesture which raked my heart.

In Venice, Sebastian and I had spent a glorious afternoon admiring paintings of nudes in a dim little gallery, Cara – Sebastian's father's mistress – wishing to browse the perfumeries. We had stood, side by side, our heads tilted first this way and then that, as we endeavoured to understand fully the female form with its thrusting breasts and roseate tips, its dark folds and slits and undulations. The female form required this commitment to comprehension and we had given it; we were to be congratulated on our dedication to enlightenment, good scholars both. But this form before me now required no such obligation. It simply was. It spoke for itself.

It was so easy to give myself up to a veritable volcano of a mouth that surrounded my sex and took ownership of it. I risked a glance down the length of my body to Elijah's head, his glorious hair, the curve of his shoulder as he worked between my legs. This was surrender, this was submission of the sweetest kind. Sebastian was murmuring in my ear, gentle words that were mere sounds without substance or meaning. It was enough that his beloved lips were on me, that the familiar refrain of so many leisurely afternoons should be continuing here whilst something more animal and immediate was taking place.

I felt myself at that point which would all too soon give way to annihilation, and I hastily sat up, dislodging that greedy mouth from my loins. He emerged, flushed, eyes glittering fever-bright. I wanted to hold him, kiss him, touch him in all his secret places… deftly, he removed his underwear and threw the garment unceremoniously to land at a rakish angle upon Sebastian's grotesque bust of Danton.

Partially clothed I had been able to maintain the illusion that this was some wanton angel I held in my arms – naked, I could do no less than fall at his feet. His cock rose from a bed of perfect, glossy curls and I took him in my mouth without hesitation. Sebastian, I could tell, had shifted position once more. I heard him utter the tiniest of gasps as his cousin six-times-removed thrust in and out of my virginal throat. Emboldened, determined to seize the moment, I in fact seized Elijah's buttocks and squeezed them as I sucked his cock. The victrola had gone silent, its jazz now subdued, and the only noise in that womb of a room was the rhythmic creaking of Sebastian's bed. Elijah had thrown his legs over my shoulders and was grunting. He seemed pleased with my efforts - at least his stuttering gasps seemed to indicate as much - and I felt a swell of pride which coincided with the swell of my own engorged manhood.

A housemaster of mine had spent a good deal of an early summer's afternoon drumming into us lazy, slacking boys the notion that for every action there was a reaction. It came back to me then, in Sebastian's room, upon Sebastian's bed, that my endeavours would somehow have a consequence. And they did. I took the gush of Elijah's essence in my mouth like a man, like an Englishman. When it was over I gratefully took the proffered wineglass from Sebastian's hand and quaffed a goodly measure. Elijah lay upon his back, legs akimbo, sated and happy.

Sebastian bestowed a kiss upon my fevered brow and smiled benignly. I was still erect, proudly so. I supposed that my hand would now substitute for my exhausted and spent lover. But I supposed wrong.

For Elijah seemed of a sudden to gain a second wind and with a grunt of pleasure he pushed me back down upon the bed. Sebastian removed the wineglass from my hand and set it on the table; he settled himself down comfortably for Act Two.

Elijah's nimble fingers began to caress his opening whilst all the time that wicked, wonderful tongue of his licked his lips, his eyes holding mine. I felt something cold on my hand and realised that Sebastian had produced a small tin of something glutinous and cold which he was smearing upon my fingers. He held my eyes with his own whilst guiding my hand to the jelly-like substance… I realised with a shock that I was expected to take this last step, that there was no retreat from this. My cock wasn't arguing, indeed it longed for enclosure and heat. But a tiny voice in my head began to assert itself – "do this one thing and you are defined forever"… The voice might perhaps have gained the ascendancy if it had not taken on the cold, peculiar tones of my father, which galvanised me into the opposite course of action. I would follow this through and that was that.

"Charles, now," Elijah moaned, one hand working his own nipples and such need in those eyes that I had to draw upon all my reserves not to come across his belly right then and there. I dipped my fingers within the oily preparation and coated myself, then placed my index finger inside Elijah's opening and pushed in, carefully. I wasn’t prepared for him to thrust back against me and envelope my finger completely. I was between his thighs now, trembling. He raised his legs higher, drawing his knees right up to his chest, offering himself completely. How glorious it was, to push inside his warm body, to lose myself in him. Sebastian's hand stroked my hip gently. I felt a shifting on the bed and then he was leaning down to kiss Elijah once upon the mouth while I sank past all resistance. Elijah's hands clutched my hip and waist, his legs locked tightly between our bodies. For a moment I could not move, was afraid to move.

"You're doing it, Charles. Do it more," Elijah grunted; he dug his fingers into my skin and urged me on. I complied, all my thought and effort concentrated on this one thing, this pumping grind. Sebastian ceased to exist; all the world consisted of our two bodies become one, Elijah's and mine. Certain deep strokes, I realised, triggered a response in the boy which was magnificent to behold, a shuddering yowl of spontaneous pleasure; I tried to duplicate these, to replicate this sensory delight for him and for me. But this was too much, too much…

I knew it was coming to an end, longed for the release yet wanted to carry on inside of him, riding him, for eternity.

And then it was over, as with one last thrust of my hips inside I was granted exquisite consummation. "Charles," his voice trickled through my haze, "you're heavy. Move it."

Apologetically, I withdrew and rolled off of him, my breathing gradually returning to normal. He sighed deeply, then laughed. "That was damned good!" and sprang off the bed and into Sebastian's bathroom. I had not a spring in me and so lay, dimly aware that my belly was covered in Elijah's second helping. Sebastian had retrieved Aloysius and was holding him covetously, his enormous brown eyes great wells of sadness and contentment in equal measures. Before I could say anything, Elijah was returning with a washcloth, which he promptly and efficiently applied to my body.

We lay upon the ruined bed, all four of us. I held Sebastian in my arms, whilst Elijah lay spooned against my back. There was a sweetness to our jumble of limbs, both human and ursine, that defied the cold reality of life outside that cocoon, for a time at least. However, of us all, I suspected that only Aloysius truly had not a care in the world.

The End

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