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Dreaming of Silk

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“Put on the shirt.”

 

Chris picked up the shirt from where it was draped over the back of the chair.  The material was so fine that it didn’t snag on his rough fingers.  He shrugged into it, shivering as the silk slipped across his skin, and fought with the tiny pearl buttons up the front before tucking it into his trousers.  It fit, but not perfectly, a reminder he didn’t need that it was made for someone else.

 

“Mm, now the waistcoat…”

 

The vest had been carefully folded and lay on the seat of the chair; it had a front of red and gold brocade and a black satin back and was, to tell the truth, perhaps his favorite.  He donned that as well, and this time, the less-than-perfect fit was obvious; it was a bit loose, a bit short.  He smoothed it down, letting his fingers trail over the patterns in the fabric.

 

The cravat lay on the chair, a bit rumpled from wear.  Chris picked it up without prompting; it, too, was silky in his fingers.  Ignoring the soft sound that his initiative had provoked, he draped the cravat around his neck, managed to get it tied into a respectable knot, then fumbled on the dresser for the stick-pin so recently discarded.

 

“Mm-the coat, put it on.”

 

The way Ezra stuttered over his words… Chris couldn’t help the grin that curved his lips. The coat, too, was a favorite; the red one with the black piping.  It was too broad in the shoulders, too short in the sleeves; it was made for someone with a distinctly different build.  It bound his arms and body in unfamiliar ways.

 

“Chris…”

 

For all his layers and masks, Ezra couldn’t hide the need in his voice, thick and pleading.  Chris heard it all too easily and responded the only way he could; he took all of Ezra’s clothes back off again.

 

It was some time later before Chris let himself consider Ezra’s clothes again.  Ezra slept next to him, all his need burned out for now.  Chris skimmed the edge of sleep as well, and then a flash of white in the moonlight drew his drowsy gaze – Ezra’s shirt, flung carelessly over the chair. 

 

Ezra, Chris knew, liked seeing him wear his clothes because he liked seeing Chris wear fine things, liked to see him wear coats and vests and shirts that Ezra had chosen, in those bright colors that Chris rarely wore.  And there might be other reasons, too; things that Ezra wasn’t aware of his own self, things that hid down deep.

 

For Chris, it was simple: they were Ezra’s.  They smelled like him; when he pulled them on, he was wrapping himself in Ezra’s scent.  Sometimes they were even still warm from his body.  It was another, different way to feel close to him, and if it got Ezra’s crank turning, well, that was fine.  It got his turning, too, and a better way of being close to someone than that, he hadn’t found yet.

 

He hadn’t asked Ezra to wear any of his clothes, though he’d thought about it.  Just imagining Ezra in his own brown shirt made heat coil in his belly, made him ache to hold Ezra tight as he could.  Ezra huffed into his neck and Chris forced himself to relax.  Morning was soon enough, and some rest wouldn’t hurt.

 

All night, he dreamt of silk against his skin.

 

***

September 26, 2015