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hebuiltfive · 1 month

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The Five Mistakes of Virgil Tracy

HAPPY BIRTHDAY VIRGIL!

I posted an actual happy story for one of their birthdays? I am in shock.

This is part of a wider alternate universe set in the Regency era that I'm developing... with a twist. You may have a hundred questions regarding a certain scene in this story, but I promise it will all make sense once the actual Regency AU story is published (which will be soon, I hope!)

For now, enjoy Virgil getting up to some mischief.

There is no explicit smut or sex in this, but it is implied. If you do not like romance, this one might not be for you.

For those who prefer to read on AO3.

Mister Reeves's private art collection is not quite what Virgil had been expecting to visit. What happens at the Reeves's family estate, stays at the Reeves's family estate.

March, 1816. London.

It had been a stroke of luck — of good or bad was still to be determined — when John noticed Lord Tycho Reeves contemplating one particular landscape. He had soon introduced him to Virgil as a friend and colleague at the Novatores club. Virgil had been overly keen in meeting one of John’s friends. Most of the time, his studious brother kept his club and its members far away from the rest of the family. Virgil did not mind, although making a good impression had been paramount.

Art seemed to be the topic of choice, given their location. Virgil had turned to the painting Lord Reeves had been assessing and began to critique it earnestly. Surely any smart man who was a member of John’s club, and who possessed an interest in art, would too be able to see the imperfections of the piece.

“It lacks imagination,” Virgil had so boldly claimed. “The shadows are all wrong for one thing. Even a novice would be able to see that those shades are entirely incorrect. It gives the painting an inauthentic feel, and then, of course, there is the case of the sky.”

“What is wrong with the sky?” Another voice had asked. If Virgil had been paying proper attention to his surrounding company, he would have noticed that, while this new man sounded like Lord Reeves, it was not he who had spoken.

“It’s grey.”

“The skies of England are usually grey, are they not? Perhaps, as an American, you would not recognise this.”

Offended, Virgil finally returned his attention to the group. Though Lord Reeves had humoured his inital critique, he was now standing a little further back with his arms behind him. His grin looked suspiciously like a smirk. Next to him, John had a twinkle in his own eye.

That was when Virgil had realised they had been joined by another man. Slightly taller than Lord Reeves, with similar features, but identifiably a very different man.

“Please,” this new addition to the group continued, “carry on. What is wrong with the sky being grey?”

Virgil, suitably uncomfortable and feeling like he was missing part of the puzzle that made it all so amusing to Lord Reeves and his brother, had meekly explained. “… Everything else in this landscape suggests… a happy memory. The lake twinkles as the sunlight catches it, though I cannot fathom where the sunlight is coming from, which suggests a magic spark.”

“Could it not be simply the light refracting the surface of the water?”

“That would be too literal.”

“And art cannot be literal?”

“Of course it can, but this is obviously not.”

“How so?”

Virgil sighed with a hint of irritation. “Metaphors in art are curated in the palettes, designed in the brushstrokes, admired by the viewer. Imagination is what drives art forward. Creative, human spirit!”

“The sunlight could pierce the clouds.”

“It does not represent that.”

“Imagine that it does then.”

Before Virgil could further dig himself into a hole, Lord Reeves stepped forward. “Mister Tracy, please allow me to introduce to you my younger brother, Percival… the artist of the piece you are currently observing.”

The blood had drained from Virgil’s features as the situation slowly sunk in.

He was thankful that Mister Reeves had not been insulted by Virgil’s strong critiques. Instead of turning away from him in anger, he had invited Virgil to tour the rest of the gallery with him and, once they had finished, invited him to visit his own private studio back at his family seat in Kent. This invitation had been solidified when, two days later, Virgil had received a letter from Reeves once again inviting him to his family home. Feeling as though he could not decline such a kind request, Virgil organised his schedules for his trip and set off the following week.

The long journey south had filled Virgil with anxiety. Every couple of hours he’d contemplate whether visiting would be a good idea. The last thing he wanted to do was put his foot in it again. When his carriage rolled up to the Reeves’s Estate at noon, Virgil had still not reached a definitive conclusion on what was best. He noticed Reeves all but skipping down the steps to greet him and quickly decided it was too late to do anything but stay.

April, 1816. Kent.

As Virgil stepped out of his carriage and the man drew closer, Virgil could make out the intricate pattern on Mister Reeves’s waistcoat. A design of dark, swirling lines, blooming in flowery explosions. The colours complimented the rest of his attire well and Virgil instantly realised two things: the first was that this was a man who knew how to present himself. Of course, he was hosting a guest for the next couple of days, however the clothing he wore suggested to Virgil that was ostentatious. The second realisation was that Reeves was a man who prided himself in being that way. If Virgil hadn’t already known better, he wouldn’t have been shocked to hear of Reeves’s love of art. He used himself as a canvas, and Virgil unexpectedly found himself appreciating that.

The first item of their agenda, according to Reeves once Virgil’s luggage had been seen to be a footman, was a guided tour of the country estate. His brother was apparently out for the weekend with their mother and Mister Reeves had expressed great relief at having the estate to himself (minus the obvious staff that flitted in and out of rooms as they passed through them).

Before arriving, Virgil had done thorough research on the man he was about to visit. He had asked John for tidbits of information from what he’d heard from Lord Reeves regarding his younger brother, and had surreptitiously inquired about the man at various events and social gatherings in the week leading up to his journey. He hadn’t been expecting Reeves to share as much as he currently was during their stroll, but had listened intently, as he would with a close friend, pretending he hadn’t heard half the story already.

Unlike his brother, Lord Reeves’s imagination had led him down a path of academia. He favoured turning to science and mathematics in order to understand the world around him. Percival's passions had always been more fanciful, decreed by the arts and a far cry from the world of equations and physics.

With his freedoms as the second-born son, it meant that Reeves had spent the better half of his youth creating. While his brother conducted his technological tests up in his study, Mister Reeves had dared to study the various crafts of art. First, the childish abstract art that a muddy puddle in the grounds of their vast country estate, then, as he grew older, so did his interests. Sculptures and poetry fascinated him, but it was in painting where his true passions dwelled.

Virgil could relate to most of that. He, too, was called to a different path than his brothers. It was refreshing to hear Mister Reeves’s brief story, though when he asked questions regarding Virgil’s own family in the process, Virgil was a much more closed book. He was thankful when the topic of conversation changed to the varieties of plants in Tycho’s greenhouses, even if neither of them were particularly knowledgeable on the subject.

Drizzle began and they made the decision to start back up to the house. They passed a lake that appeared very similar to the painting Virgil had critiqued when they had first met, and then various flower beds before ending the tour by the stables just as the rain began to pick up.

It had been fascinating, taking a walk through the gardens of the Reeves’s estate, but Virgil was far more at home once he was given the tour of the interior. The paintings that hung on the walls of the house were more familiar to Virgil than plants and trees. They strolled further into the grand manor, passing through halls and rooms so elaborate they would no doubt rival the Royal Palaces themselves, until they eventually came to the private art gallery.

Most of the artwork that lined the first room was very similar to those that Mister Reeves had already displayed at the gallery where they’d first been introduced: a couple of watercolour landscape pieces that had been inspired by his home in Kent; a portrait of his older brother painted with oils; a few commissioned pieces that had never been paid in full and so Reeves had kept them as payment.

“An unfortunately common occurrence.” He had sadly claimed.

All had been what Virgil was expecting to see upon arriving. No bold, critiquing comments were made on any of the pieces he saw, however. He had learned his lesson the first time around and the shame he felt in the aftermath… Virgil hadn’t forgiven himself for days. If that had been him on the receiving end, he wouldn’t have recovered for a while. Not that his self-esteem was bad, that is. The case with Virgil came down to his sensibilities; out of the five Tracy brothers, Virgil was undoubtedly the most sensitive.

Mister Reeves guided him through to the second room of the studio. It was low lit and more crowded than the first chamber. As they entered, Reeves pulled back the covers that had been blocking the windows and the afternoon sun streamed in. Light lit up the area, the canvases that were haphazardly strewn across various work surfaces…

And Virgil stopped dead in his tracks.

The previous landscape images and average portraits were the paintings he had been expecting to view.

The image of the scantly clad woman, however, was not.

Virgil blushed.

And Percival Reeves liked that. His smile turned devilish.

“Is this imaginative enough for you, Mister Tracy?” Reeves asked as he sidled up beside his new friend.

Virgil observed the painting. It was certainly suggestive and Reeves’s alluring demeanour and tone only amplified it.

He convinced himself that he was only interested in the brushstrokes, in the colour palette that had been used. It only half-worked.

The ivory dress the model wore had slipped down substantially, leaving bare shoulders on display. Delicately painted hands held up the gown which remained covering her more intimate parts, but the suggestion was enough. Soft ringlets of her brunette hair fell from her fancy up-do.

Whoever this woman was, she was exquisite. Virgil wasn’t sure whether she was real or merely a figment of Reeves’s imagination, and he dared not ask for her identity. The last thing he wanted to appear as was indecent.

Then again, it had been Reeves who had invited him to his private studio, who had guided him into this second chamber, who had revealed to him these secret paintings.

To further his point, Reeves did not seem to care for indecency. As if reading Virgil’s mind, he traced his fingers lightly over the woman’s painted features. “Her name was Clara. She was a model down at the club I frequent.” His index finger reached the rouged lips of the model. “She’s magnificent, isn’t she?”

A variety of questions inundated Virgil’s mind. He kept them at bay and simply — meekly — nodded. “You said ‘was’?”

“Clara no longer models for us.” Mister Reeves explained, dropping his hand back down to his side. “Rumours claim that one of our members became ‘involved’ with her and, when their relationship ended unpleasantly, Clara left and never looked back.”

So entranced as he was by such a scandalous image, that was now additionally paired with a scandalous story, Virgil found he could not take his eyes off the painting.

When Mister Reeves’s gaze drifted over to him, he felt the man’s eyes on him rather than saw them.

“Gossip can be such an obstacle.” Reeves continued. “The Ton seem to thrive on tittle-tattle. Have you ever read that damned gossip sheet that makes it’s rounds now and then? Utter poppycock! Drivel! I believe it to be a vulgar practice. In fact, I think spreading frivolous gossip is far more vulgar than showcasing a painting of natural beauty. Would you not agree, Mister Tracy?”

Beside him, Virgil felt Mister Reeves inch closer.

“Yet, while the gossip rags are allowed to be published and distributed, my paintings are prohibited from being shown in public art galleries. Tell me, do you believe that to be a fair practice?”

Virgil’s collar suddenly felt too tight. The question posed by Reeves sounded like a test of some kind and Virgil found himself not wanting to fail. He could see how such an illustration could be deemed “too promiscuous” to display, no matter the natural beauty it showcased, but made no comment. He continued to stare at the painting, unblinking.

Reeves went on. “I do not think you are the sort of man who enjoys listening to mindless gossip. You appear to be a man who prefers thoughtful conversation.”

His host’s words became more emphasised, more accentuated, more connotative.

“You come across as someone who would rather indulge in more stimulating dialogue, no?”

Virgil grew hotter. Mister Reeve’s arm now brushed against his own and Virgil’s heart-rate quickened. He blamed it easily on the portrait that he still stared directly at.

If Reeves was testing him, Virgil thought that is was a rather unfair test.

“How do you like to be captivated, Mister Tracy?”

His host was being wilfully provocative. Mister Reeves’s arm again brushed up against his own sleeve. It was a momentary touch, fleeting and possibly accidental… No, not accidental. Paired with the words and the images and the previous touch, Mister Reeves had intentionally moved closer a second time.

Still Virgil said nothing. Still he did nothing. He allowed the feelings, so unfamiliar to him they almost frightened him, to swell and infect every part of his body and mind.

He began to wonder if this was the sort of thrill his brother sought when he visited her. If that was the case then Virgil was on the path of understanding what the appeal was.

Mister Reeves had grown quiet, and Virgil realised he had yet to answer his question.

Nervously he cleared his throat, his words seeming foreign on his tongue as he spoke. “I, uh, do partake in poetry.”

He dared a glance towards his host. That was his first mistake —

No, it was his second.

Virgil’s first mistake had been accepting Mister Reeves’ invitation, though, of course, despite his initial hesitations, he had not known back then what would transpire.

This second mistake of his — turning to face Reeves — could have been far more avoidable. Upon seeing the portraits, Virgil could have upped-and-left. That would have been the proper thing to do.

But he had been so transfixed by the images he had seen, marvelled by their beauty, that Virgil simply could not leave. Never mind the fact that it would have been a rather rude gesture towards the man who had essentially given him a second chance with that kind invite.

Just as the painting was easy to get lost in, Mister Reeves’s eyes, Virgil realised, were the sort one could drown in. Without a second thought, he imagined how he could possibly paint them. Bold and daring, with a touch of tawny in the hazel iris. Perfectly opulent…

Dear Lord, he was staring! Straight into the other man’s eyes and—

Virgil’s blush returned with vengeance. His cheeks grew warm and there was nothing he could do to stop them from reddening.

Perhaps the invite had not been kind at all. Perhaps it had been an elaborate scheme that Mister Reeves had concocted to further embarrass him after he had made those comments!

Reeves chuckled, however. It was not the sort of vicious or malicious laughter that came at the expense of another, but one that was reassuring. Gentle and understanding, Mister Reeves reached out.

Despite the fabric of his shirt separating their skin, a thrilling tingle was still sent up Virgil’s arm upon his touch.

…

Oh, this was ridiculous!

Virgil cleared his throat, attempting to compose himself in the face of Mister Reeves. He inhaled deeply, which proved to be his third mistake. The scent of rich orange and bergamot coming from the man standing beside him drowned his senses completely.

“One shade the more, one ray the less, / Had half impaired the nameless grace / Which waves in every raven tress, / Or softly lightens o’er her face; / Where thoughts serenely sweet express, / How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.”

“Byron.” Virgil instantly recognised the piece.

“I, too, partake in some poetry from time to time.” Mister Reeves admitted.

“It is a beautiful poem.”

“It is. I have a variety of poetry books in my private library.”

Virgil cracked an amused smile. “Is this private library as solicitous as this private art collection is?”

Mister Reeves simply stared at him and, for a moment, Virgil wondered if he’d been too bold.

Before he could backtrack and offer an apology, however, Mister Reeves’s smile curled. “Would you think poorly of me if they were?”

Virgil did not think poorly of any man or woman, with the exception of a couple who were truly, under Virgil’s terms, despicable. Mister Reeves, in the short amount of time he had known him, did not seem to be that sort of man.

“Art is not to be thought poorly of.” He diplomatically decreed. “It should be subjective, not discredited due to themes or images alone.”

“Unless it is an unimaginative piece down at the Royal Art Gallery?” Mister Reeves chuckled, the twinkle in his eye suggesting he was glad Virgil was being more direct.

“Am I ever to live that down?”

“It is looking more and more unlikely, Mister Tracy.”

That was fair enough, he thought to himself. “I see. Well, in that case, I shall have to work hard to regain your trust in my judgement.”

“I do not distrust your judgement in the slightest, Mister Tracy.”

Virgil could feel the blush return to his cheeks. “That’s very kind of you to say, Mister Reeves.”

“Please, call me Percival. If we are to be friends, it feels only right.”

The offered hand that Mister Reeves — Percival — had extended was met halfway by Virgil, who had been expecting a handshake from the man. There was no handshake, however, and instead Percival enclosed his fingers around Virgil’s hand, squeezed gently and then pulled him back through the doorway of his art studio. Virgil did not stop him, which proved to be his fourth mistake, and they retraced their steps through the hallway, turning in the opposition direction to lead down a new staircase Virgil had not yet seen. The steps were lined with a beautifully soft red runner and, eventually, Percival came to a stop outside another room, this time locked.

Percival made short work of unlocking the door, opening it to a view of his private library, if the lines and lines of shelving were any clue. Percival pulled Virgil inside, only letting go of his hand once the door behind them was shut.

“This is my second home.” He announced rather proudly. “Or my third, if you were to count the actual house as a home.”

“You do not?”

Virgil’s question was asked half-distractedly. He began to inspect the rows and rows of books that sat upon the nearest shelf.

On the Origin of Species

Believing Is Seeing: Is There Life on Mars?

Relativity: The Special and General Theory

Dark Matter and Dark Energy: The Hidden 95% of the Unknown

A Brief History of Time

Challenging Technology

Sustainable Transport Innovations

The Voyage of the Beagle

Beyond the Horizon: Exploring Breakthroughs in Modern Science

Whatever answer Percival had given to his question, Virgil did not hear. He ran a finger along one of the books worn spines, feeling the groove of the embossed titles that made no sense. After all Percival had said regarding the differences between his brother and himself, Virgil had half-expected a library full of books on the arts. This library looked more like a trove fit for Tycho instead.

His eyes scanned over the titles again.

A Brief History of Time… The Voyage of the Beagle… On the Origin of Species…

Virgil’s mouth grew dry. Beneath the layers of his clothing, goosebumps rose.

Something was wrong.

Fog descended on his mind, skewing his thoughts from questioning any further. The hair on the back of his neck rose and static noise drowned out whatever Percival was currently speaking about. There was a steady beeping sound that was barely audible amongst the crackling disturbance.

Virgil glanced back to the row of books, impossible books, books that seemed wrong. They didn’t belong here, and not because he thought they were Tycho’s books instead. There was something Virgil couldn’t quite put his finger on, something very obvious that was staring him right in the face… but that damned hissing wasn’t helping him think! He resisted the urge to lift up his hands and cover his ears; it wouldn’t have helped.

Virgil jumped when Percival’s hand landed on his arm. The fog instantly lifted, the noise dissipating until he could hear his host’s words clearly once again.

“Are you feeling well, Tracy?”

Without missing a beat, Virgil nodded his assurance. “Yes! Yes, I am… I am well. My apologies.”

“Are you quite sure? You seemed…” Percival trailed off, his eyes searching Virgil’s cautiously. “… distant. Like you were—”

“I assure you, I am fine!”

Despite the confidence with which Virgil had declared his health, the truth was much more different. His heart was still thundering away behind his chest, his head swimming, not only from confusion but from some sort of after effect. He held onto the shelving for support, disguising the fact by gesturing to the line of books. “You have a wonderful collection here, Percival.”

It was only once he complimented the books that Virgil dared to look at the titles again.

The Analysis of Beauty

A Treatise on Painting

The Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors and Architects

Bile rose up Virgil’s throat. He was certain those same books held different titles only moments ago. He frowned, tearing his eyes away from the books that had caused his funny turn; he did not wish to go down that rabbit hole again.

“Thank you.” Percival bowed his head in acknowledgement.

Whether he could sense Virgil’s unease or not, Virgil did not know. All he knew was that his host was guiding him by the arm to sit upon one of the leather couches in the centre of the library. Virgil allowed himself to be seated, forcing himself to offer Percival a weak smile. It did nothing to quell Percival’s look of scepticism.

Nevertheless, Percival continued. “As I was saying, I count this as a home away from home.”

“Yes, you said you did not class your house as a home.” Virgil recalled, tracing his mind back to their conversation before he’d been swept up in… whatever that had been. “Is the house not naturally your home?”

“No.” Percival had been nothing but confident since Virgil arrived. He had stood tall, spoke relatively freely and without concern. Yet, with that small, one-worded confession, the man had changed. His tone became quieter, his shoulder hunched making his appearance seem smaller than normal.

“I find the house is less of a home and more of a place where one resides.” He explained carefully. “My studio, this library, feel more homely to me than the house at large does. Oftentimes, the bottom of my liquor bottle is more conversational than my brother or anyone else in this damned household.” Percival’s eyes met Virgil’s. “Do you not feel that way too sometimes, Mister Tracy?”

He took the seat beside him on the couch, his arm stretching out across the back cushions behind Virgil. “Do you not feel encased or entrapped by the house in which you reside?”

Virgil shook his head, though in truth, he had never once given it a thought. His family were the kindest, most welcoming people he knew. They made his house a home. He refrained from sharing that, however. The last thing he wanted to do was sound as though he was boasting, even if Percival had asked him the question in the first place.

Percival grinned with a subtle touch of jealousy. “How lucky you are to not understand first-hand what the pain is like.”

“But surely your brother—”

“I told you, Tycho is less interesting than my bottles of liquor on a good day. He rarely cares for what I do, being too busy tinkering away in his little laboratory or polishing himself up in order to appear just as our father did, a pillar of society. He does not care what I do or who I have become.”

“He was at your art show the other month.” Virgil carefully pointed out. “Surely that means he still must care in some capacity?”

“Everything Tycho does is for show, Mister Tracy.” Percival met Virgil’s eyes again and the vulnerability was clear. This was a man who had turned to his creative pursuits to escape his own reality. Virgil could relate to that, even if he couldn’t entirely empathise with the exact reasons why.

“You must be lonely.”

“Sometimes.” He smiled weakly. “But I am glad I have found a friend in you, Mister Tracy.”

“Please, if I am to call you Percival, you must call me Virgil.”

Percival’s smile grew, softening the hurt in his eyes. “Well, I am glad to have found a friend in you, Virgil Tracy.”

“And I with you.”

“Do not tell me a man such as yourself is without friends?”

“I am afraid all my friends are back home in America.”

Any trace of Percival’s vulnerability was shed. He welcomed the change in topic gladly, lifting one leg up to tuck underneath himself as he turned to face Virgil, his arm still outstretched behind him. Virgil felt relief when Percival did not retrieve that hand, and then batted away his feeling once he’d realised it.

“Tell me about home. My father visited once but he rarely spoke about it.”

“Probably because there isn’t a lot to say.”

“Nonsense! Do not be modest with me now, Virgil. I showed you my most secret collections.”

Virgil grinned. “Perhaps do not call them ‘secret collections’.”

“Why not?”

“It gives the impression that you are a secretive man.”

“Is there a problem with secretive men, Tracy?”

“No, not at all, but it usually begs the question as to what the man is keeping secret.”

“I have laid pretty much all bare with you. What possible questions might you still have?”

“If everything is a secret, Reeves, I’m afraid I wouldn’t know what else I might be wondering about.”

“In that case, allow me to wonder about you. You may not have private art collections, Virgil Tracy, — or maybe you do, who am I to judge? — but you are quite the enigma yourself. Tell me, compared to myself, how deeply have you answered my questions this afternoon?”

Virgil felt slightly guilty. “Perhaps I am simply not as deep as you might think I am.”

“I would have to disagree with you there. I think that you’re extremely deep and meaningful. You just don’t trust very easily, which I understand entirely, but…”

Percival trailed off, shuffling a little closer to Virgil. The hand outstretched behind him gently brushing against Virgil’s shoulder. He tried not to elicit a reaction, tried to ignore the sweet tingle that was left once Percival’s hand left him again, but it was harder to hide than it had been in the art studio.

“But you don’t have to worry here.” He continued, so close his whisper breezed Virgil’s cheeks.

Virgil Tracy’s fifth mistake was not standing up and leaving the library in that very moment, though mistake might have been too harsh a word. The word ‘mistake’ is commonly left with connotations of regret, and Virgil did not regret what happened next in the slightest. Percival’s rich scent of orange and bergamot clouded Virgil’s senses. It enveloped him, ensnared him. He noticed now how Percival’s eyes were more tawny than they were green, citing the different in lighting in the library being the primary reason. He’d have to remember that when he painted the man… if he painted the man.

His muse quite often struck at odd moments. On one occasion, while stuck at the dinner table of one of Lord Clingsdale’s banquets, Virgil had composed an entire symphony in his mind. On another occasion he had written the most beautiful poem whilst playing a round of ninepins with his family. He transcribed it later that evening before he could forget it entirely.

But this sudden surge of creative passion was different. It was stronger. This time his inspiration did not arrive due to boredom or having a lovely afternoon on the green with his family. This time his inspiration came from the very handsome man who had invited him into his home and bared his soul to him.

Virgil reigned himself in.

There was never a logical or calculated moment for when his muse would strike, but he just couldn’t be thinking about that, not now.

Not when Percival was this close to him.

Not when Percival inched his face toward him.

Not when Percival’s lips, so soft, experimentally pressed against his own.

It was over within a second. Percival pulled his lips away and stared at Virgil, assessing his reaction. The kiss had been so fast, Virgil hadn’t been able to process it fully. His confused blinking had Percival frowning, his cheeks warming up.

“Was that…? Oh, God, that was too much, wasn’t it?” Percival jumped up from his position, clearly embarrassed, but all Virgil felt was his absence the moment he left. Beside him, the couch still had a Percival-shaped dent from where he’d been seated.

Distraught, Percival clamped a palm over his forehead. “I’ve ruined it all now, haven’t I? Please, Mister Tracy, accept my thorough apologies! I do not know what came over me…”

The buttons on his waistcoat, unique in its periwinkle shade, were fiddled around with. That vulnerability Percival had displayed earlier, of which Virgil was sure he’d only barely glimpsed, only scratched the surface of witnessing, had returned.

Virgil stood immediately and strolled over to the pacing man. He caught Percival’s hands before he could do any damage to his waistcoat buttons and, to his surprise, Percival ceased his fidgeting. Virgil knew he had a calming quality, an aura that was tranquil, but he rarely didn’t surprise himself with his abilities. His father had once claimed that he was a lot like his mother in that regard and Virgil had held that compliment close to his chest ever since.

The not-quite-tawny-not-quite-hazel eyes glanced at him with hesitance, but Virgil didn’t allow him to back away. If Scott was allowed to have his fun, then why couldn’t he? After all, one more kiss was harmless enough, wasn’t it?

Gently, for he did not want to ruin Percival’s intricately designed waistcoat, Virgil’s fingers wrapped around the lapels and drew him nearer. Their slight difference in height had Virgil leaning forward and up, but he wasted no time in reassuring Percival that he hadn’t ruined anything.

This time, Virgil made sure that their kiss wasn’t so light and experimental. Their brief few hours together had enticed both of them, and Virgil wanted Percival to know that he wasn't the only one who felt that way. Whether it was love or lust, or maybe a mixture of both, Virgil did not know. All he knew was he craved more of Percival’s attention, more of his touch.

Percival seemed stunned when Virgil went in for his less delicate kiss but, once he got over his initial shock that yes he hadn’t ruined his new friendship — could it be deemed such now? — with this man, gave as good as he got. Hands trailed clothed bodies, tables were bumped into and enamoured giggles were exchanged in short bursts of breath, until they found themselves back at the couch once again.

When Virgil had first arrived earlier that afternoon, he had not known what to expect. If he had been able to cast his mind’s eye to the future to envision this current scenario, he might have turned away out of fear. Now that he was here, however, living in the moment and cherishing every second, he was glad humans did not possess that impossible ability.

‘One more kiss’ turned into a cascade of them. Lips began to explore more areas — cheeks and necks and chests. They almost missed dinner, too wrapped up in themselves and their desires to care for the time. When society deems something as taboo for too long, one is more inclined to take a bite out of the denied apple.

In between their fits of passion, Percival assured Virgil that what happened during his stay would remain within the walls of the manor… or the greenhouse, or the confines of the lake area, wherever they wished to adventure next. Silly little love affairs were not something to be ashamed of, Reeves had claimed, but something that deserved to be experienced every now and then, and Virgil had to agree.

He was almost sad to leave the following afternoon. Percival had been disappointed that Virgil did not accept his offer to stay longer, but after promising him he’d return as soon as he could, Percival had lightened up a little again. He waved him off as his carriage departed and Virgil found himself looking back through the cab’s windows, watching the small speck that was the Reeves Estate slowly disappear over the horizon.

When John had inquired about his trip the morning after he’d returned back home, Virgil had kept the details minimal. If his brother had seen through some of his more reserved statements, he did not let on, nor did he question Virgil when he spent more time in his studio painting over the subsequent month. Virgil was grateful for that. Inspired by Percival’s private art studio, Virgil had installed a small lock on the door to his own. The portrait he was currently working on was for his eyes only. He didn’t want to make the mistake of allowing one of his brothers to accidentally stumble across it. He was on a running streak of not feeling guilty over the last five mistakes he’d made, and, high on life, Virgil had no intention of breaking that streak just yet.

#thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds are go #thunderfam #thunderbirds au #regency au #virgil tracy #oc - percival reeves #five fics #fic: the five mistake of virgil tracy #series: out of time (regency au)#romance

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