Stop the Fax Machines - Chapter Six (3713 words)

[faxpunk]

 STOP THE FAX MACHINES
CHAPTER SIX

Edgar saw the man. He was sitting there on the sofa, nervous in posture and holding onto the glass of whisky, no ice. He was wider than he'd expected, not stocky but also not lanky like Edgar was himself. His wider frame was draped in a dark grey suit. It practically disappeared into the decor of the room, were it not for the red velvet pillow he had placed on his left side, a comfort for his elbow, and the royal blue of the room's carpeting. The room was round-shaped, giving it an otherworldly atmosphere, were it not for the tacky colours chosen, or the heavy drapes on one side of the room. Behind them, a bed was hidden from view.

Croswell was not the most luxurious or decadent of clubs, but it was private, and the entrance was hidden in the courtyard, so nobody could see you come and go. The wine restaurant on the street level of the building hid everything. 

"Hello," he said into the thinning air of the room, breathing in the tension of it all.

There was no Benfred Wilf. Such a person was not in the city or county records, he had checked. There was, of course, no Acgard Barnes, either. Suddenly the danger within the anonymity made his heart thump faster. For all he knew this man could kill him. For all he knew, he could die right here, bleed out the tacky carpeting. He was second in command of the entire country, and how foolish he was to do this. And how excited, too.

"Oh," Benfred, the stranger, said. He got up, too quickly, and the whisky in his glass sloshed close to the rim. "Pleased to meet you. I didn't think you'd show."

"But of course, I invited you," Edgar said and searched for the eyes in the black mask. The satin surrounded the man's eyes and expanded over his forehead, leaving the tip of the nose, the mouth and a line of skin next to his hairline uncovered. One half of his lower lip was pulled between his teeth, more nerves.

His hair was brown and wavy and he attempted to draw it back, but a few strands fell over his mask. At his neck, a golden yellow tie had been loosened, adjusted. Benfred's usual style, that one spark of colour. He was beautiful.

"You're staring," his companion said.

The accent was indeed northern. Windswept, the brogue near the mountains. But it also sounded highly educated, mixed with the standard of Londinium, like a regional newscaster who could alternate between the two registers. It felt comfortable to Edgar, like an old woollen jumper, holes at the sleeves but always there when you needed to get warm in the winter cold.

"I'm admiring," he said with a smile.

They could talk all night, but that might not be smart. Perhaps his own voice could be recognised as something the other man had heard in parliament or on the news. His own mask, a maroon satin, covered just as much as Benfred's did, which wasn't a lot. How big was the risk for him? The public already knew he had a taste for this, and he still got elected into office. Would one man recognising him and going to the press be such a big story?

As Tamfer told him years ago, "Just how much are you willing to risk to get your prick wet, you stupid boy?"

But it hadn't hurt him that much so far, so what was one more bite at the forbidden fruit going to do.

He took a step closer, slowly, and reached out to touch Benfred's bicep, a calming sweep. "You're nervous, my dear."

Benfred took a step closer, and behind the mask his eyes met Edgar's for a brief moment. The brown of foamy milk in coffee, darkened by the dim lights. Edgar inhaled, raptured by the sight. 

Suddenly Benfred kissed him, frantic and needy. He didn't seem that nervous in that moment, tasting of whisky and smoke. Edgar breathed in the scent of him, the cool rain outside and a cologne with spicy notes. Maybe what he saw as nerves was nothing more but pent up desire, boiling over finally. The thought made his cock twitch. God, he would ruin this man.

Edgar's hands moved to the other man's hips beneath his jacket, touching the frame of him, reaching for his sides, the small of his back. Benfred moaned against the touch and his own hands had found the back of Edgar's neck, brushing hair and the delicate skin. 

"Truly, you're a wonder," Edgar told him when they finally broke apart, removing jackets and ties. Clothes were strewn on the sofa Benfred had sat on his moments before. 

"Your voice," Benfred said, and cold briefly ran down Edgar's spine. Surely not, not this early. "It's deep. I find it–" 

"Tell me," he urged, with his heart in his throat and feeling an urgency to find out if this was headed for disaster.

"Fond," Benfred finished and Edgar smiled with relief. 

"Arousing?" he asked, teasing, as he unbuttoned his own shirt.

"Perhaps," Benfred admitted, eyes following Edgar's fingers. 

Those brown eyes, hidden in the holes of the mask, frustrated Edgar. Benfred was so magnificent, would he mind tearing the mask so Edgar could see them. He had dreamt of the circumstances and now they only seemed unnecessary. Anonymity was at once arousing and irritating to him.

Benfred gasped at the sight of more skin, and Edgar pulled him close from the hip. He kissed his eager Benfred, desperate and a little frightened of the power the other man had over him and did not even know it. He should only serve his friend tonight, do everything in his power to keep the man sated and tired, so he didn't go searching for clues in Edgar's voice or hands or touch.

The thought turned him on more than anything else.

"What do you enjoy," he asked, mouth moving against throat, trailing kisses and scraping the edge of his teeth against the sensitive skin. Benfred struggled with his own shirt, nerves making his fingers unsteady, which struck Edgar as cute and familiar in a way he couldn't quite identify. 

"You," Benfred replied within one inhale. Edgar touched his trouser front, painfully hard himself, and found they had that in common. God, let him ruin this Benfred and let Benfred be his own ruin. At this moment he didn't care at all.

"I'll devour you if you let me," Edgar told him. "Where should we start, then?"

He pressed his palm against the swollen cock beneath fabric and Benfred drew breath quickly. "Gardy–"

"Very well," Edgar said and pushed his companion to be seated on the sofa, legs open, trousers tantalisingly open at the front.

Benfred's pride was slim and long and already leaking at the tip. Edgar watched it for a moment before pressing lips against it. His tongue travelled against the tender underside, lingering, tasting salt and touching its soft surface. 

"Christ," Benfred let out, hissed and Edgar felt a sense of accomplishment wash over himself. There it was, the true language of his dear friend, his beloved pen pal. The words he couldn't say until they were coaxed out of him, with tongue and pressure and heat.

Edgar breathed against skin and listened to his friend's blasphemy, his hand steady with its movement and mouth moving along the length. He wanted to be slow but not too slow, savouring everything. He wanted to torture this man, but also allow him the release. 

"My joy, has anyone told you what a beautiful cock you've got?" he asked, taking a brief respite. Benfred looked at him, eyes black with desire, pupils blown into darkened plates.

"I've heard it once or twice," he said and the voice sounded hesitant, like he was fast drifting away from the moment, the intense heat of it.

Edgar kissed the base, lowering his head and then resumed. Benfred grasped the hair on his head so tightly it hurt. He minded not one bit.

"Fu–, Acgard, I'm close," Benfred said, breathing shallow and threw his head back, hips bucking against Edgar's mouth, the movement jerky and violent and primal. Edgar allowed it, letting the hardness hit the back of his throat in rapid movements, his mouth being used as roughly as his companion wanted it. Edgar was in ecstasy when the taste hit his palate, the pressure dissolving in Benfred's body.

"That was," Edgar said, his voice more raspy than moments before. "So hot."

"I must apologise, my language–" Benfred began his flustered sentence. 

"Foul, like any beautiful soul's is when it finally comes undone." Edgar stood up, sliding his knee between Benfred’s legs and leaning close. He pressed mouth against his ear. "I want more of you, foul and rude. Stupid and slack after needs have been met."

"Christ– Gardy," Benfred said, reaching his hands around Edgar as they kissed, pulled apart as Edgar stood up to remove his own trousers.

"Can I make you stupid now, my dear Ben?" He grinned at the man, adjusting his own mask with one hand. "I have some ideas."

"I suspect you have wonderful ideas," his companion agreed, watching as Edgar took his cock out. 

"Open the curtain and get on the bed behind it."

Benfred dutifully followed the instruction, and Edgar found him perfect once more. He nudged the man into the position, his strong thighs open and lifted from the bed. Edgar moved his hands over them, admiring.

He found Benfred frantic against touch, desperate for more. He reached for the lubricant stored away the bedside table, and felt a brief embarrassment for bringing the innocent Benfred to such a haven for debauchery. But then, how could a man this fine not be corrupted. Edgar was doing him a favour by allowing the corruption to be done so sweetly. 

He coated his own fingers with lubricant. His hand began searching in the space between those incredible thighs, and the other man sounded further gone with each brush of finger, no matter how small and teasing.

"You're so good," Ben said against the pillow, and Edgar felt a blush on his cheeks, strange and uncharacteristic. 

"You'll teach me how to be better," he told the other man, inserting another finger.

Benfred cried out when Edgar's finger found a spot, curling slightly. "Please," he begged.

"Please what, my dear?"

"Please, fuck me."

The words struck Edgar like lightning. At once he felt so hot and yet bare, because in so long he had managed to gain something he truly didn't want to lose. He positioned himself and moved his hips, lining them with Benfred's, fitting together. The sensation of just the opening against the head of his cock was almost too much, sending him close to the edge. 

He pressed on, thrusting in carefully as Benfred cried from joy. Edgar tried to think of something else, something chilling, something to make him last more moments of the pleasure, yet the image that his mind served up in that instance was not a cooling one.

He thought of Barnaby Rheaw, young and for his touch only, gasping his name like a dying wish at the moment of the first wave.

He thrust again, short, involuntary, driven by need only and Benfred's voice melted into Barnaby’s in his head. He bucked, body moving with its own mind, thought of his Barns, cruelly no longer his, and he died right there, unable to hold on a moment longer. 

"Are you quite fine?" he heard Benfred ask, soft and innocent.

Edgar understood that it wasn't his friend who was ruined but he himself, completely fucked in the head and possibly broken in the heart. Unable to be mended.

You stupid old fuck, he thought and pulled Benfred against his frame, the wide slab of him, so perfect and beautiful, so dangerous to him. A knife he held at his own throat.

"Why, did I say something foolish?" He smiled, sleepy and content, fought off death one more time.

"You said your own family name," Ben told him and Edgar exhaled slowly, shakily, a chill spreading within. 

He hadn't said Barnes, but the word sounded exactly the same. How would Ben ever know the difference? And thank God for it.

"I get idiotic at the point of climax," he told his companion, whose eyes were still masked, still unreadable. "Unfortunately I need to go back to my quarters. A busy work day tomorrow. You can sleep here if you so choose."

Benfred watched him dress, staying in place on the bed. 

"Thank you," he said, quiet and coy once more, and Edgar smiled, genuine.

"Any time, my dear friend. I will write to you as soon as I can."

He left the building and bought a bottle from the wine restaurant downstairs. At home he uncorked it and forced down a glass, feeling shaky and like the ground had been tilted beneath his feet.

But he was fine, was he not. He was First Chancellor, he would soon be the  High Chancellor and there was nothing or nobody who could stop him. He could marry anyone in society, he simply wasn't interested. He cared for no one and he played games with people, like pieces of a chess set.

He was fine, just as he was when Barnaby had left him.

*

15 years ago.

It wasn't Edgar's fault that life chose to thrill him at every turn. His father got him the internship but the job that came after it was his own making, a think tank where they lobbied all day and partied most nights. He told Barnaby not to stay up for him. Good old, dependable Barnaby, who wrinkled his nose at the sight of Edgar, half drunk still and changing his clothes to head to Parliament the next morning.

"It's so distasteful," Barnaby told him.

"My joy, it's just networking," Edgar said lightly. "You do the very same at university."

"Reaching out to an academic about shared interests is not the same as getting sloshed with them in the taverns." Barnaby looked put off. "Or are they clubs you visit now, too?"

Of course it was clubs, too. Older politicians had the strangest tastes and he had to accommodate. 

"A touch paranoid, are we?" Edgar asked and pressed a kiss on the corner of Barnaby’s mouth. "Thank you for the tea, but I must hurry."

Barnaby said nothing, eyes refusing to meet Edgar's.

Another tired domestic. 

Barnaby worked as a researcher on rebuilding economies at South Bank with his old professor Ghad. He had tried his hand at accountancy but found it too ambitious a field, with the junior accountants in big companies stepping on each other to curry further prestige. Edgar embraced the kind of world it was, and looked slightly down on Barnaby for slinking back to the familiar comfort of university. His old books and his research. 

The Machine Learning Act had banned most computers, even in non-medical universities such as South Bank. It was a new time and one that Edgar's clients sought to influence in their own ways. He didn't want to be busy, he had to be busy to get ahead in his field.

When he wasn't working, he had to do various things for the party. Barnaby didn't understand politics beyond the philosophical thought. Most of it was disgustingly mundane, a far cry from discussing theoretical possibilities over a drink. Edgar had to do politics and that meant shaking hands, talking to interest groups, making strangers like him, even if he didn’t care about them in the least.

Marriage was spoken of, but not acted on. No ring was bought. 

"Heard Belve, from my university class, is getting married," Barnaby said one evening, a rare one that Edgar was home for. 

He lay on the sofa, too exhausted to move, as Barnaby prepared them supper.

"How interesting that only news of matrimony travels through the grapevine to reach your ears," Edgar told him.

Barnaby snorted, displeased. "You claimed some weeks ago that nobody our age was getting married."

"Dearest," Edgar said with some edge to his voice. "I don't want to talk about this."

"When should we discuss it, then?" Barnaby asked. "You're never home to begin with."

"You can come to the stupid party Lertre is throwing tomorrow, and we'll discuss it there." Edgar closed his eyes, bracing for an attack, but only cold silence arrived.

He shouldn't say it, he knew and yet Barnaby’s silence angered him.

"It's not my fault you can't socialise easily with others," he said and while true, knew it was cruel of him.

Supper did not get eaten that night.

His family didn't know of Barnaby, of course, but would they ever let him marry mountainfolk? The question hovered in the air.

Edgar loved him, he did. It needed not be proven in ways other than he already did. His admiring eyes and hands, his gentle touch, his fond phrase when he called Barnaby at work, murmured something inane into his beloved's ear. When he crawled into bed after work, Barnaby was heavy with sleep and emotionally distant. Slow to anger, slow to calm.

The next morning, another storm was on the horizon.

"A work trip to Nice? Why in heaven's name?" He looked at Edgar indignantly.

"The machinists want a holiday," Edgar said, shrugging. "We accommodate. That's our business."

"You know I can't come with, as I’m too busy with research," Barnaby said, frowning at Edgar over his tea cup, curls of steam in the tense air between them.

"I never expected you to," Edgar replied.

"And why did you not? Would Neneil be upset if I made my presence felt?"

Edgar tutted. "Jealousy is so unbecoming on you."

Of course Neneil, the unionist representing the machine builders, wanted him desperately. The perverted old sod looked at Edgar like he was a block of cream fudge next to his morning tea. And Edgar had to flirt back, to keep the account, to keep his higher ups happy, and indeed, what damage was there in enjoying one's work? Work was just work, he told Barnaby. He would never actually sleep with Neneil.

"Well, enjoy your time," Barnaby said, with a tone that meant otherwise. 

"I shall," Edgar said, and added, feeling a bit catty, "with people who aren't dreadfully boring and enjoy dimming my shine."

"Is that what they call it these days?" Barnaby asked, hiding hurt beneath cattiness as he was wont to do. 

Edgar didn't answer, just tucked his shirt into his trousers, threw on his jacket and left their common quarters in cool silence. 

They had talked about Solstice in Londinium, their first one together, but when he returned to the quarters they shared, Barnaby was gone. Gone to Mynydd, to see mother and brother, his note read. No I love you, no greeting.

Slow to anger, slow to calm.

Edgar laughed, hollow, pinned the note on the fridge and went to a tavern with some coworkers, also cast aside by partners or family. The outcasts. He hadn't been to his family home for Solstice in years and surmised the trend might continue. 

When he returned, the call box was full. Barnaby, his heart brimming with love and regret. Edgar returned the call. He spoke lightly and whispered sweet things down the phoneline but after they finished, his eyes filled with tears.

His mother had said, "How will you be anything if you don't follow your father's will? This family made you."

By being the High Chancellor, he had decided then, unlike his father, who never held the true highest office, not even when Chancellor Lince was ailing. So Edgar could have that over his father, if nothing else.

He had not considered what the journey to that post may cost him in the long run, and truly he did not want care.

And yet.

Barnaby returned to Londinium, his eyes glowing with warmth and Edgar was hopeful that the slow ending had not yet begun.

"I'm already twenty four years old," Barnaby told Edgar one evening over supper, Edgar distracted by work missives that arrived to their home fax.

The very machine Barnaby wanted to be rid of.

"And so? You will live until seventy, good man," Edgar said. "You're a baby at twenty four. We both are."

Barnaby said nothing, but in his demeanour he could read all manner of things. Barnaby was tired of feeling stuck and if Edgar wouldn't be home enough for his liking, the very least they could do is wed.

How dull, he thought. 

He felt a rising anger in himself. Why would he not be able to enjoy the fruits of his own hard work as well as keep Barnaby by his side? Had he really acted so poorly? He had not once misstepped. His eyes had wandered, certainly, but his heart remained loyal.

"You demand so much," he said.

Barnaby said something under his breath, which made Edgar's temper flare further, furiously. 

"There's the door, then," he said coldly. "The choice is entirely your own, my dear."

Barnaby said nothing and Edgar regretted his words just then, but not soon enough. Quick to anger, quick to calm, like he’d always been, expelling the anger and then feeling it had been entirely pointless to begin with.

Their quarters in Maplefirth were half empty when he got home the following day. Left on the shelves were books Edgar supposed he might have owned but had not so much as skimmed. Gifts from Barnaby, who loved such things. Edgar got rid of them hastily, drank for a week and called the house phone number in Mynydd so many times a local police officer told him firmly not to bother the poor Rheaw family any longer. 

Then it was time to give up, and give up he did. Whatever the hurt was, he pushed it aside and so deep inside he may never find it again.

He had given his everything and yet been robbed of so much more, an equation that didn't make sense to him. He would be fine without such relations. 

He would be fine.

.