He had wanted Percy as soon as he had seen him. As soon as he had seen him, all thoughts had left his head save the thought that he must have this boy in his bed, at once. Finding Percy willing, meeting his gaze with calm recognition of what Cyril wanted and confirmation that he wanted it too, had only served to excite him further. He didn't care to talk-- he only wanted to touch and be touched, and Percy must have wanted the same thing, as he didn't speak a word for the duration of the ride back to Cyril's flat, but trembled beneath his kisses. It was all Cyril could do to not to fuck the boy in the carriage, but he knew from experience that fucking in a moving carriage was not the most exalted experience-- though it did have a certain charm, under the right circumstances. This, however, was not one of those circumstances, and his own bed was far more comfortable. Besides, the ride from Ginny's home to his own residence was a short one.

Soon enough, they arrived at their destination. They were careful not to touch each other as they exited the vehicle, straightening their clothes and attempting to look as disinterested in each other as possible. Though it was unlikely that the wrong sort of person would spy them during the brief time of their passage between carriage and flat, it was better to be careful.

Once they were inside the flat proper, though they had their privacy again, they did not spring instantly back into one another's arms, but for the moment behaved as nothing had passed between them-- no meaningful glances, and certainly no kisses. The servants had the evening off; Cyril and Terry had given it to them in case of just such an eventuality, so the two of them were alone in the flat, yet they hesitated. Cyril paused to remove his overcoat, while Percy turned his head to take in his new surroundings. "You have a lovely home. Do you live here alone?"

Cyril smiled, watching Percy as he hung up his coat, delighted at the sight of such a person in his own home. Here Percy seemed, for some unidentifiable reason, out of place. But then, he had seemed out of place at Ginny's as well, as he'd stood by himself in the corner. Cyril wondered why that was, and wished he'd thought to question Terry more on the subject of the boy. There was a difference to Percy, an apartness. It was not only his appearance that made this so, though without a doubt, he was a winsome creature. Why, Cyril wondered, was anyone made so lovely? It seemed horribly unfair to everyone else, himself included. It was unfair that he should be made to feel this hunger. "No. I share it with Terry."

"Oh." Percy lowered his eyes, as with modesty. "Are you and he--?"

Cyril laughed at the very concept. "Terry and I? No, no. We're friends, nothing more. May I take your coat?"

"Yes, please." Percy stretched his arms out behind him, allowing Cyril to slip the coat from his shoulders. Suddenly Cyril did not know what to say or to do, concentrating instead on the faint sound of fabric sliding over fabric, the folds in the cloth, the intricate pattern of the weave. Concentrating on that moment, the coat falling from Percy's body, revealing the cream-white of his shirtsleeves, Percy turning back over his shoulder to meet his eyes, the shape of Percy's lips as he smiled. Why was he suddenly uncertain? Back at Ginny's, his every word, every action, had been clear to him. Now that they were here alone, everything should have been more certain to him, not less, but instead Cyril was forced to cope with the helpless and unaccustomed sensation of finding himself at a loss. At least he had the coat in his arms, which gave him something to do. He turned and hung it on the coat rack.

"Would you like a drink?" Cyril asked.

A smile flickered over Cupid's lips.

"Yes, please."

Pouring wine was something else Cyril could concentrate on. The wine, too, like the absence of the servants, had been thought of in advance, and was airing in its crystal decanter. Once it had been poured, Percy accepted a wineglass from Cyril's hands with another of his small, soft smiles. Something about the civility of these little gestures when he himself was feeling so animal and uncivilized irritated Cyril, but they were also comforting, in a way. A ritual, a series of steps leading to the inevitable. Percy seated himself on the settee, and Cyril sat next to the boy with a glass of wine in his own careless fingers, in danger of being spilled. "Do you," Percy began, somewhat shyly, taking a sip of wine, "do you have a regular lover?"

The question made Cyril smile. He wondered why Percy was asking it. Was he himself angling for a position as Cyril's regular lover? No, his expression was devoid of motive. He seemed to be asking out of simple curiosity. "I don't take regular lovers," Cyril was quick to assure him. "As a rule, I try to avoid unnecessary sentimental attachments. It's unseemly." "I see." Percy nodded. "Very sensible. Am I to be your rent boy for the evening, then?"

"Oh." Cyril was startled into another smile. "I didn't realize you were going to charge. You should have informed me before this. Rather improper of you to wait until this juncture."

"Don't worry." After another sip, Percy set his wineglass down. He did not seem to be a great drinker. "My rates are very reasonable."

Cyril put his own wineglass down, but not because he was not a great drinker. "And how much were you planning to charge me for the evening, if I might inquire?"

Percy's eyes were widely innocent. "Only five hundred pounds."

Cyril's eyes sparked with amusement. "Five hundred-- Really. And are you worth so much?"

Percy moved then, stretching out across the settee on his side, settling his head in Cyril's lap. "I think you'll find that I am."

Cyril reached down, running his hand over the length of Percy's body, or as much of it as was within reach of his hand. Percy sighed appreciatively. "I will have to find out for myself then, won't I? I can't miss this opportunity to find out what it is that makes certain rent boys so costly. I've never had such a pricely one such as you."

Percy feigned horror, rolling over onto his back to gaze up into Cyril's face. "You've been bothering with rent boys who cost less than five hundred pounds a night?"

"Was that wrong of me?"

"Wrong? No, not exactly. But they can't have been much good."

"Ah. You'll have to show me the error of my ways, then, won't you?" Cyril moved his hand to Percy's throat and then down, unbuttoning buttons as he went, eager to reveal the flesh beneath, finding it, once revealed, as smooth and warm and altogether pleasing to the touch as expected.

"Of course." Percy allowed this unbuttoning and revelation without protest, smiling up at Cyril. Once his shirt was all unbuttoned, however, his smile faded. "However, I'm afraid this won't do at all."

"Oh no?"

Percy shook his head. "Don't you have a bed?"

"Of course I do. How thoughtless of me. I should have known that rent boys who cost five hundred pounds a night are not to be ravished on mere settees." Pulling Percy up with him, he rose. "Come along, boy."

Bowing his head, Percy followed obediently, allowing himself to be lead, passive, to Cyril's bedchamber, allowing himself to be pushed down onto the bed his head falling to the pillows, allowing Cyril to climb on top of him. He said nothing, only gently smiling, though his eyes were gleaming. Cyril thought that Percy did remind him a little of a rent boy then, if only because the hunger in his eyes was different than the kinds of hunger Cyril was used to seeing in his lovers and in himself. Not a purely physical appetite, just as the hunger of rent boys was not so physical as it was financial. Yet Percy's hunger was not financial either. What was it, that hunger? What was it for? He couldn't guess, and he had no desire to waste time pondering the matter when there were more pressing matters at hand.

Straddling Percy, he pulled off his already unbuttoned shirt and vest, leaving him stripped to the waist. His earlier uncertainty was gone; all was only certainty now, certainty and the boy beneath him. He leaned down to kiss Percy, and as before, in the carriage, Percy accepted the kiss with grave grace, as though it were an offering to him, parting his lips to receive it. Cyril inhaled deeply through his nose, to find that Percy smelled springlike-- not like flowers, but like new leaves rising from the earth, unfurling, green and fresh from secret places. Cyril liked the scent, liked the way Percy began to groan into the kiss with a delicate shudder as Cyril moved his hands over exposed skin, finding with his fingers throat, shoulders, collarbones, chest, nipples. "Take me," Percy said between kisses, in a voice that was half-whisper, half-moan. "Take me. I don't want to wait anymore."

Ever the accommodating lover, Cyril moved to oblige him. His long-fingered, lean hands were knowledgeable, old masters in the ways of removing trousers, and he slipped Percy out of his first, Percy raising his hips prettily to speed the process. As he eased himself out of his own trousers, Cyril kept his lips on Percy's mouth as well as he could, still kissing him, tasting his tongue. Once Cyril was free, naked from the waist down, Percy apparently decided it was his turn to move, and he did so with a snakelike strike, grabbing Cyril and pushing him down so that he was on top of Cyril, Cyril's head at the foot of the bed. Cyril only laughed at this reversal of fortunes, at the boy above him.

Percy seemed to have forgotten his entreaty to be taken, though he had made it only moments before. Instead of being taken, he crouched down, pushing Cyril's legs apart, placing his head between them, lowering his mouth to take Cyril's cock inside it, accepting this as a suitable gift, much as he had accepted Cyril's tongue. Cyril felt himself drawn up into the back of Percy's throat, felt Percy's tongue-- everywhere, felt Percy's hands smoothing over his thighs, stroking his balls, and then, deliciously, sweeping across the entrance to his asshole in a series of delightful caresses, as fleeting as the touch of a butterfly's wing or the dream of the touch of a butterfly's wing. Cyril arched his back and made a sound: a quiet, wordless cry which came from him broken. In that moment, he did not very much care whether he fucked this boy or the boy fucked him; it made no difference. Wouldn't it be the same, either way? He didn't know why he now, for the first time, thought the two would be one and the same, but he did.

Percy, for his part, seemed to have a preference, for he was suddenly pulling Cyril up again, releasing Cyril's cock from his mouth as Cyril sighed with an unfamiliar regret. "Take me now," commanded Percy simply, turning away, laying his body down so that he was on his stomach, stretched out across the bed, presenting the entirety of himself to Cyril.

Cyril kept a certain creamy substance in a small glass container on his nightstand, reserved for such a purpose. In a minute, he had the stuff on his hands, was smoothing it over his hard cock with one hand, and with the other, reaching out to Percy as Percy compliantly spread his legs in anticipation. Cyril pressed his fingers inside Percy, into his warmth, and was gratified as Percy gave a slight, girlish gasp. "Oh, please. Oh please, now."

Cyril moved forward, steadying Percy and positioning his hips, then pressing the head of his cock against Percy's entrance as Percy gave another gasp, this one less girlish, more hoarse. Cyril bit his lips, then thrust inside the boy. At first the tightness was such that it hurt, and he pressed his eyes closed, but as Percy relaxed around him, the pain lessened-- or did it intensify?-- into pleasure, and he opened his eyes again to see Percy beneath him, head bowed, hands clenched in the softness of the pillows, desire sending tremblings through his body as wind blows waves across the otherwise smooth surface of a lake. The sight was-- it was like seeing a beautiful landscape in a foreign country for the first time, alien yet oddly affecting. Cyril began to move in and out of this landscape, finding a rhythm, a path, a way of adapting himself to his new surroundings.

"More," hissed Percy desperately. "Faster, please."

Cyril did not answer him with words, but with motion, moving faster, thrusting harder as he was bidden. Percy was so small and so tight around him, and the resistance so great with the heightened speed that Cyril didn't know how long he could hold out, but he did hold.

Percy cried out. His words were almost sobs. "More! Faster, please, harder!"

Cyril felt sweat on his brow, pounding into the other boy. Never had he been so completely directed during sex; he found he liked it more than he would have expected, being told to do something and then doing it. He obliged Percy again with another increase in speed and force, although he held back, now somewhat worried he might hurt the smaller young man.

Percy dispelled his worries, speaking again, through gritted teeth from the sound of it. "As hard as you can-- please. I can bear it. I want it. Oh, please." He was sobbing now; Cyril could not only hear the tears in his voice, he could smell them.

Cyril had never fucked anyone so hard before, driving into Percy with all his strength, startled to find that the sobs and the tears and the pleading stirred him, made him stronger and more ruthless than he would have believed he could be. Nothing was holding him back. He wasn't thinking anymore, only feeling, only needing. And it was actually hurting him to fuck so hard, but something about the unrestrained, brutal joy of it, something about Percy's voice and the feel and the warmth of him overran the hurt, and when he came with a final succession of fast thrusts, he was smiling-- no, he was laughing, laughing hysterically, convulsing and then collapsing on top of Percy. Then Percy was crying-- no, he was laughing too, and suddenly Percy was on top of him-- then they were tangled, rolling, either fighting or playing, it was hard to tell, and for a few moments of this fevered wrestling, Cyril could not tell where he ended and Percy began.

At last they both fell still with a final burst of laughter, lying next to each other in Cyril's bed, facing each other. Cyril realized that Percy's hand was in his. Percy's calm blue eyes were fixed upon his greenish ones, which were not, he felt, quite so calm. "What was your name again?" Percy asked, in a slightly apologetic tone, adding, "I'm sorry. I was scarcely paying attention to what Terry said when he introduced us."

"Cyril Atwater."

"Cyril Atwater," Percy repeated after him, thoughtfully. "That was very nice, Cyril Atwater."

The arm carefully steadied the drawn arrow, and the eye focused, taking aim.

"Thank you, Percival Meredith."

Percy nodded. "I see you're much better with names then I am." He paused, still gazing into Cyril's eyes. Cyril could see a fine sheen of sweat on his face, making him shine. The effect on Percy was far more appealing than it would have been on most people. "But now that I know your name, I think I'll always remember it. Probably you won't remember mine."

"You think not?" Cyril raised one eyebrow, just a little, still too drained from his exertion to raise it any higher.

Percy shook his head slightly, negative. "Men rarely remember the names of their rent boys."

Cyril smirked at the renewal of the joke. "I think they might, if they had to pay five hundred pounds for them."

"Oh no, it isn't money that makes people remember names, is it? You're more likely to remember the figure than the name."

"Yes, perhaps. What is it, then, if not money? Why it is you'll remember my name?"

Percy gave Cyril a long, thoughtful look, then shook his head again, squeezing Cyril's hand. "No, I don't think I'll tell you. It doesn't matter, after all." He smiled, his soft, sphinx's smile.

Cyril watched Percy's face curiously, but he found no answer to his questions in those captivating features. He found more questions, that was all. What was it about this boy? He still couldn't determine what it was in him that was different. Percy returned his gaze easily enough, though his eyes were partly closed, as with fatigue. Watching those sleepy eyes, tracing the curve of their golden lashes, Cyril was struck by a sudden whim. Maybe it was his own weariness, that post coital daze, that conjured it up in his brain, but words came to his lips with the quickness that only words that come unbidden have, too quick to be stopped before they are spoken.

"What would you say," Cyril asked, "if I made you promise never again to do that with anyone but me?"

Percy remained composed, considering these words with what appeared to be great sobriety. Cyril, startled at his own words, nonetheless waited patiently, silent as Percy thought over his reply. Finally Percy nodded. "All right," he said with cool finality. "I promise."

"You-- what?"

"I promise."

Cyril was flustered. Was this another joke? It did not seem to be. The boy's tone was sincere, not lightly jesting as it had been when he'd spoken of being a rent boy. "But I wasn't asking you to promise. I was asking you what you'd say if I did ask you to promise."

"I see," said Percy, and Cyril saw he was still smiling. "Ah, but it's too late. I've already given my vow. I can't take it back. I must abide by it." Percy's tone was so pragmatic, so simply honest that Cyril found himself believing that the boy actually meant what he said.

"Don't be ridiculous. How can you-- you've only just met me. We don't know each other. What if you despise me? What if we never meet again?"

"That's quite all right. I've made my choice. I've already had so many men in my life. I'm quite content to stop here if you're finished with me. You see--" Percy fell silent for a moment, considering his next words before continuing. "Perhaps what I'm saying is ridiculous, after all, but I'm content with my decision. In fact, I feel quite certain of it. I had already determined that I could never possibly enjoy sexual relations so much with anyone else, so why continue?"

Cyril was deeply flattered by Percy's remark, but no less flustered for all that. "I hope you don't expect me to make such a promise."

"Haven't I been clear?" Percy asked, still holding Cyril's hand. Cyril did not withdraw his hand. He found he couldn't. "I don't expect a single thing of you. I am simply informing you of my own intentions."

"I see. You're not raving mad, are you?" Cyril inquired, the lightness in his tone not fully disguising his real confusion.

"I don't think so. No."

"But you are a very odd young man, aren't you?"

Percy's smile quirked, making it into quite the knowing grin. "I have been told as much before, yes."

"Terry should have warned me."

"Yes, he should have. But to be fair, I'm not sure if he knew. I really was far from social in my school days." Percy released Cyril's hand at last, sitting up. Cyril lay still, watching him move. He was beautiful naked, more beautiful than he was dressed. Cyril had not imagined he would ever think that of anyone, that they looked better out of clothes. "I'm sorry to leave you so soon after meeting you, Cyril Atwater, but I really must get home." Sadly, he began to pull on his clothes again. It was truly a travesty, Cyril thought, to cover that body. He had to stifle his urge to rip the clothes back off as quickly as Percy was putting them back on, instead lying back, regarding this reverse striptease with conflicted interest.

"I told my parents I'd be home early."

"Did you?" asked Cyril idly. "How unfortunate."

"I hadn't expected to stay long, you see. And I don't think they would look too kindly on my staying here with you. I am sure you will find it easy enough to locate my residence, if you should ever need to," Percy said in a tone that seemed to expect nothing, with a slight bow of his head, buttoning buttons that Cyril had so lately unbuttoned. "But if not, good bye. It was a pleasure."

Cyril could not reconcile the almost businesslike tone of the young man's words with the meaning behind them. Which was real, the tone or the meaning? He sat watching helplessly, all his uncertainty returned to him. What should he do? Should he stop Percy from leaving? The boy seemed quite intent on his departure. "The pleasure was--" Mine, he had been about to say. "Yes. A pleasure."

Cyril pulled his own trousers on, but that was all, not bothering to repair his tousled appearance. He said nothing more until Percy had made himself presentable enough to venture outside. "Shall I escort you to the door?"

Percy's eyes were so pale in that moment, in that light. They might not have been blue at all, but colorless, like ice. Cyril wondered, without his green overcoat making his eyes green, what color his own eyes were in reply. But he did not glance towards his mirror. He did not truly want to know. "Please," said Percy.

Once Percy had gone, Cyril, in an action that astonished himself-- and that would have astonished anyone he'd known even more, if anyone else had been there to witness his act-- slumped to the floor. He knelt there, his hands on the carpet, wondering dazedly why he was there, why he was kneeling, what had happened.

Cupid let fly. The arrow, the dart, that sharp thing which is truly nameless, like an arrow in seeming only, flew and found its mark.