​​Lambchop and the Serious Courtship
(A Ravenous AU) 



Author's Note: I thought I would do a fun little easy AU story for you all, and in thinking about it, somehow landed on Ravenous, but in vaguely the world of Lucy Maud Montgomery (think Anne of Green Gables) but also a/b/o for no reason whatsoever. Because my brain hates to give me easy ideas. Only then, oddly, it was easy? Just a bit longer than I thought it would be. Someone really needs to examine why a/b/o nonsense fits into an LMM landscape with so little complications. (Stratified society? Fairly strict gender roles, though with some leeway? Hmm) Also, I don’t really write a/b/o but I have read it, and I have a lot of thoughts about what it could be used for and what people actually use it for and how a lot of readers seem to interpret it and/or slap those labels onto people without examining them first…but I’m not going to go into that now. But there is a rant festering away somewhere, just know that. Lol If you have never read an a/b/o fic and have no idea what they are, and you want to dive in anyway, go for it and have fun. If you have only read het alpha/omega fic… I am sorry.

And I’m going to give it a very LMM short story title that tells you nothing of any of that. :P
 
Lambchop and the Serious Courtship

Copyright © 2022 R. Cooper
 
 
Content tags: historical fantasy (or historical science fiction? Idk), smoking, drinking, dirty talk, masturbation, talking about heats, omegas and alphas (no betas, we die like men), omega physiology, alpha physiology, class and social status issues, some ableism regarding possible sexual and/or fertility issues. No exact historical date because LMMs timeline doesn’t really make sense either. Think like, roughly 1890s-1910 here.

​

Nicodemus watched Andrew Norton drive away in his slightly old-fashioned carriage, then stayed on the porch once Andrew was out of sight. The autumn air after midday was not cool, exactly, but it was better than being indoors for Nicodemus at the moment, and from the porch, he could see the curlicue of smoke rising above the whitewashed and ivy-covered fence that marked the edge of the Holts’ property and one side of Bel’s.
​
It was unusual to see the curl of cigarette smoke at this time of day, a little past one o’clock. Lewis Belasco—Bel—was not an early riser by any means. He kept his own hours, which made the good people in town suspicious, or envious, and added more fuel to the stories and gossip that had built up around Bel in the years since he had purchased the house and the surrounding land.

No one quite knew what Bel did for a living, for a start. He traveled frequently, often gone for weeks to the nearest city or beyond. When out, he wore clothes in the newest fashions, not purchased at the shop in town or anywhere nearby. He also had an automobile—a noisy, precarious-looking contraption that he only used to go into town for groceries or supplies or to pick up one of the many packages he ordered from who knew where. According to Cook who heard it from the Postmaster, some of the packages even came from other countries across the sea.

Rumor was that Bel was a spy of some kind. That, or he was someone who had come into a fortune and now wasted his days without appreciating the value of hard work. Bel as a spy, Nicodemus did not believe. But the second was possible.

Bel smoked, and he drank, and though Nicodemus privately thought Bel did make an effort to speak politely with people like the Holts, or the mayor, or leaders of the local charitable societies… he did not make much of one, and his impatience with those people—and his amusement—shone through after not very many words had been exchanged.

He was an alpha, this was known too, despite the fact that Nicodemus doubted if anyone had done something so direct as ask. More likely, another alpha had said Bel smelled like one. And, in the handful of years that Bel had occupied the property next door to the Holts’ summer home, he had traveled or not traveled in the fall months without much pattern to it, giving no evidence he was affected by any heat.

The Holts tolerated him but were not fond of him, and Mrs. Holt often expressed concern for how Nicodemus had to deal with him all by himself.

Sometimes, Nicodemus thought of telling her that he didn’t choose to live out here by himself, but Mrs. Holt was beautiful, and rich, and from an old, respectable family, and didn’t understand things like not having options. She meant well, anyway. And she had to know that when it came down to it, Nicodemus was quite safe from someone like Bel.

Nicodemus wouldn’t even arouse a momentary curiosity in someone like that, who had probably been with countless omegas for their heats and then for the rest of the time, when their choices were more their own. Bel had probably bedded other alphas, which some did, or were said to. Nicodemus didn’t know much about it, either way. He was plain, with little charms to make anyone interested in competing to help him through his heat or for anything else, and then the fever that had delayed his heat until this year, with him twenty-two, had left most convinced there would be something wrong with him when the time came.

Most omegas had their first real heat—not the smaller, flashes of flushed skin and stammering and rampant indelicate thoughts and occasional uncontrollable dampness that hit in the early years of adolescence—around nineteen or twenty, in the fall like all the other omegas. The doctor said Nicodemus’ body had decided to spend its energy on getting him well again, instead of trying to make children, or even think about the making of them. Nicodemus had nearly died, Holt reminded him, and told him to be patient. But Holt was an alpha, and didn’t understand wanting and fearing a physical effect as strong as a heat on his body.

Sometimes, Nicodemus wished he was like those who dealt matter-of-factly with their heats and then spent the rest of their time as they pleased, not bothering with courtships or even taking lovers. Or that he had the confidence to attempt to find a lover for himself—discreetly of course, and with all precautions taken. Omegas had needs, but no respectable person, omega or otherwise, would flaunt them before the public gaze. Even heat courtships were private affairs, done in the home as the time approached.

Nicodemus’ problem was that he had nothing to flaunt, but thought he might wish to.

He absently pushed up his glasses as he glanced down to the wrapped gift box still in his hand.

No, he knew he wished to. He watched as the beautiful omegas in the nearby towns were eagerly courted by the alphas around them for the chance to be with them during their heat. It was supposed to be quite the experience for the alpha—and hopefully, the omega too, although no one spoke of what happened when it wasn’t.

Sometimes, the omegas were sought after for something more lasting. If they were beautiful, wealthy, connected, that helped. Not unremarkable or potentially damaged. And, of course, as an orphan taken in as a child by the Holts, Nicodemus didn’t even have a family history to offer to anyone interested.

It had been a surprise for the summer to fade to autumn and to finally feel the quickening of his heartbeat, the increase in how wet he got, and then another surprise to find himself courted—a sort of courtship, anyway.

He had untied the ribbon on the box while Andrew had been present, as one was supposed to do, and opened the box as well. But Nicodemus had not taken the gift out of the packaging. The cost and care that went into the present should have pleased him. But he had a knot in his stomach and a strong urge to bathe.

Although, with only a few days left for him to make a choice, and the flashes of warmth and wetness growing more frequent, he bathed often anyway.

He ran his fingertips over the length of ribbon and wished he found the present itself anywhere near as appealing as the wrapping around it.

“That’s a pretty ribbon, on a pretty box.”

The observation was unexpected and not just because Nicodemus doubted very much Bel cared a whit about packaging of any kind. Bel did not usually initiate conversation. Neighborly was not how the Holts described him, although with the Holts only coming to the house for the summers, they didn’t encounter Bel much anyway.

Bel had no interest in them, no matter their money or connections, or in Nicodemus, who had neither. Any conversations that had occurred between Bel and Nicodemus had generally been Nicodemus’ doing; cookies at the holidays, polite talk about the weather, some seedlings if Bel wanted to try to improving his garden, which he apparently didn’t. Nicodemus suspected Bel took the cookies and the seedlings and the stilted conversation because he pitied Nicodemus’ lonely life. After all, when the Holts were gone and their son wasn’t visiting, it was just Nicodemus and Cook out here by themselves, and Cook left on the weekends to go visit her children in town.

Nicodemus hovered uncertainly on the porch, not sure if he was ready for one of Bel’s odd, irregular conversations after the afternoon he’d had. But then his feet carried him over to the fence. Despite the gray sky, Nicodemus was no doubt red with a flush, with sweat at his hairline and his shirt damp. He always seemed to look his worst around Bel, so there was no point worrying over it now.

He didn’t know if Bel was aware that Nicodemus’ time had finally come. Bel had returned from one of his long trips the week before and kept to himself since, as he tended to, heading into town once or twice. Nicodemus had heard Bel took the train to larger towns, and even the city, regularly. Dull homebody Nicodemus would not cross his mind often.

The low fence was painted white on the Holt’s side and probably plain wood on Bel’s side. Bel had a large property, although most of it was the yard and a heavily wooded area that led to the cliffs. The house itself had been a family home years ago, now occupied by just Bel, with an alpha woman who came in once a week to clean and sometimes stock the larder. Bel had money, Nicodemus imagined from the state of his clothes, his frequent travels, and the loud automobile he drove into town. But despite his evidently available funds, Bel did not concern himself with upkeep on the property, and Nicodemus had to admit, a bit of neglect suited the house, made it unusual and somehow magical. Emerald green ivy that crept over from the house to the fence, and nearly covered the small gate which, to Nicodemus’ knowledge, had never been opened only added to the impression that the house was under a spell.

A part of Nicodemus itched to at least scrub it down and repaint it, perhaps tame the overgrown fruit trees which were visible from his bedroom window, which overlooked this part of Bel’s garden.

Nicodemus stopped by the fence, not far from the gate, where the ground had sunk and the fence was a little lower than elsewhere. Nicodemus was tall enough to see over the top without getting on his toes, but it helped that Bel was taller than even that, tall enough for Nicodemus to see his head and shoulders. Bel was also built solidly, large enough to make Mrs. Holt nervous.

Bel was in a white, though none-too-clean shirt, spotted with tobacco stains and what might have been paint. Nicodemus had never seen paint splotches on him before, and was so distracted, he forgot what he’d been going to say.

Bel must have put out his cigarette. His long hair, never much more than carelessly tied at the back of his neck, was dark, and the loose strands stirred in the breeze. His skin did not seem to flush or burn, even in the summer heat. His eyes were knowing, although Nicodemus was likely imagining that. There were moments when it was too easy to imagine Bel as a handsome, rakish character in one of the novels the Holts did not know Nicodemus kept in his room.

He realized he was staring at Bel, saying nothing, and felt so hot all over it made him irritable.

“You’re up early,” he remarked, annoyed with himself, with the world, with the approaching heat that made his armpits itch and his clothes feel too tight and left him wet in unmentionable places.

Bel, as he generally did, ignored Nicodemus’ occasional rudeness. When he didn’t ignore it, he found it amusing, so Nicodemus ought to be grateful Bel wasn’t teasing him for being a ‘cranky little lamb’ as he once had.

Nicodemus was not grateful. He was not a lamb, either. He was sweating, and terrified, and staring down a bleak future. The least Bel could do was not mock him for his agitation and snippiness.

“There won’t be much light today,” Bel offered in return, almost absently. His gaze traveled down over Nicodemus’ once-crisp shirt and collar, the serviceable waistcoat, the rolled up sleeves, which on Nicodemus was practically unheard of. Nicodemus had never had the urge to hide his forearms behind his back, but he nearly did for the seconds Bel’s attention was on them. Then Bel took a breath.
His gaze snapped up to Nicodemus’ face.

The idea that Bel had smelled him, the way omegas were said to smell sweet to alphas at any time but especially in their heats and just before, made Nicodemus look away so he could breathe normally. He was alarmingly damp in a way he had not been for his lunch and tea with Andrew Norton, and he didn’t know how long he could stand here before his knees went weak.

Of Nicodemus’ three surprise suitors, only one had paused to make sure Nicodemus knew that his scent was being enjoyed, a show of bad manners that had left Nicodemus shuddering, and winnowing his options down to two; Mr. Norton and Mr. Ronald Pitt. No ladies were interested in Nicodemus and Nicodemus didn’t know how to feel about it. The feminine had never had much interest for him, it was true, but certain ladies were not particularly feminine and might have suited him well. Clearheadedness was what was supposed to make a good partner for a heat, which alphas had, since the fog of lust did not affect them as it did omegas. That was all Nicodemus should have wanted or required; an alpha willing to please him and take their pleasure as they did so.

As always, Nicodemus had to make things difficult.

“I see,” Bel said.

Nicodemus could not have said how much time passed from when Bel had inhaled his increasing heat-scent to when Bel had spoken. He swallowed, his mouth inexplicably dry though the rest of him was near to dripping, and gave Bel a careful glance.

Bel, however, was now looking at the white and blue box in Nicodemus’ hand. “I see,” he said again, in a voice like the brown bottles he drank from on some nights, alone in his garden except for Nicodemus watching from his room. “Is it a gift worth keeping?”

It was good manners to accept all courting gifts when given, and to return them later if they were unwanted, or not pleasing, or if they were the sort of gifts that could be returned. Food was kept regardless. Jewels—not that Nicodemus would ever receive those—were to be given back. Wine and spirits was a gray area. This…

“I don’t know,” Nicodemus answered at last.

“Ah,” said Bel, meeting Nicodemus’ eyes again. “Trying to drive them into a frenzy?” His tone was only faintly amused. “I don’t blame you for that. I’ve always thought the whole thing must be a bit of fun from the omega’s side of things, especially at first. The young are so desperate to please. You should enjoy yourself, lamb. Make them crawl.”

Nicodemus was too astonished to be bothered by being called lamb yet again.

“Crawl?” he demanded without thinking it through. “I only got any suitors at all because two of them didn’t think they stood a chance with any of the more popular omegas in town, and the other one is more in the market for a new housekeeper, with benefits.” 

Bel’s head went back. It was just like him to be surprised. It was all very nice to have money and be unconcerned with the rest of the world, but Nicodemus couldn’t be. “I have a handful of days left to pick from my three suitors—two suitors, now—or lose the choice, and possibly fall into harm,” as some did, “or spend my first heat in misery at the cottage at the far end of the property, and likely all my heats thereafter when word gets out that plain Nicodemus has put on airs by rejecting his only offers. I—” He stuttered to a stop, then blew out a breath. “I couldn’t even tell you which is the better choice. It isn’t as though I had much chance to spark or fool around as the others did, readying themselves.”

He tensed his shoulders, waiting for laughter, or at least a pitying reassurance from Bel, who was likely well familiar with the taste of omega-wet and the feel of a slippery hole clenching around him, as the novels liked to describe. Bel probably bedded omegas of all types. He probably didn’t even have to court them.

“You keep the house, don’t you?” Bel asked, something so disconnected to what Nicodemus was thinking that he stared hard at Bel in consternation. “Keep a good house, I’ve always thought,” Bel added. “Respectable folks are said to admire that, and you’re hardly without your charms, lamb.”

Hardly without your charms. Nicodemus scowled at the faint praise, although well-aware he was no great beauty, or any kind of beauty. Skinny from his long illness, pale from a life spent indoors, with brown hair and eyes of an indistinct hazel color.  

“I do keep a good house,” he agreed, sour, not remotely charming. “Maybe someone else will hire me in the future, and I can… once a year, find whoever is willing to take me until whatever appeal I have is gone.” He considered that with his gaze on the fence. “Then suffer until I am finally too old to be tormented each autumn. At least, out here, I suppose no one is likely to notice.”

“I don’t understand.” The honest confusion in Bel’s voice made Nicodemus look up. Bel curled a hand over the top of the fence. He had paint on his fingers too, a calm sort of brown and a warm yellow and specks of pale blue. “Unless it is a more serious courtship you are looking for, you should have no trouble finding someone to call. You smell fine to me, lambchop.”

Nicodemus flushed to the roots of his hair and down to his toes. He scowled at the escalation of ‘lamb’ to ‘lambchop’ and fought the desire to shout at Bel for commenting on things that were supposed to remain unsaid between people who were not courting. And fine. Fine. When a real omega would be intoxicating, overwhelming, alluring.

Nicodemus’ scent was merely fine.

“I have a serious courtship,” Nicodemus reminded him stiffly, but then was compelled to be truthful. “Though I suspect I am wanted as housekeeper and nanny to three existing children. My scent,” oh, his face burned, “has nothing, or little, to do with it.”

“Three?” Bel seemed perplexed, as though he could not imagine anyone choosing to have three children. Bel, then, was one of those alphas who also took precautions to avoid unplanned children. He gave Nicodemus a searching look, no less confused as before. “You don’t want that? The way you care for the house, for that son of theirs, I assumed you were after a home and a brood of your own. That seemed where you might find happiness at last.”

Bel implied Nicodemus was not happy. Bel saw too much yet knew nothing.

“Maybe I’d like to see things,” Nicodemus informed him. “Go places. No one ever thinks to take someone insignificant to dinner… to anything.” In cities, maybe housekeepers went to the opera or the theater or to restaurants by themselves, but in town and in all the places nearby, it simply wasn’t done. “I’m not likely to go anywhere, but I’m even less likely if I’m on a farm—no matter how wealthy the farmer—and expected to manage the house and raise the children. It’s foolish, I know. I’m foolish. This entire week has been giving me reminders each day of how foolish I am. I wouldn’t even know…” Nicodemus put a hand to his hot face. “I’ve never even taken the train by myself. But… but a house of my own to keep is probably enough adventure for someone like me.”

Bel didn’t speak, which was much more the response from him that Nicodemus was used to. They would exchange greetings of some kind, Nicodemus would offer a remark on the weather or hand Bel a tin of cookies, Bel would tease him, and then, after Nicodemus embarrassed himself, Bel would fall silent.

“And the rest of it?” Bel wondered just as Nicodemus considered fleeing back to the house.

“Rest of what?” Nicodemus asked in return, taking his hand away from his face so he would look less like the blushing, untouched omega that he was.

“Love.” Bel had the strangest frown on his face, as if he didn’t even know he was frowning. “Which is a thing they tell me binds people outside of heats. Or, if not love, then affection. Or if not that, then at least a desire to have that particular person or persons in your bed.”

Mr. Pitt, with his disinterested courting, not even bothering with a gift beyond some flowers picked from the front of the Holts’ property—doubtless as he had made his way there and remembered a gift was expected—was not someone Nicodemus thought much of. Nicodemus imagined touching Mr. Pitt without a heat making him wish to, and flattened his lips and did his best not to flinch, but Bel saw it anyway.

Thinking of Mr. Norton, more attentive, saying what he was expected to say, doing what he was expected to do, put a lump in Nicodemus’ throat. He couldn’t help wishing for more, though it was silly of him. He shouldn’t think about it now with Bel watching. The entire affair was humiliating enough. 

“I see,” Bel said again, reading something into Nicodemus’ silence for once, “even if I’m afraid I don’t understand. Not one will do, is that it?”

Nicodemus thought of Andrew Norton’s hands on him and turned his head. “One might do,” he answered without enthusiasm. “He gave me a proper gift, anyway. Perfume.”

“Perfume?” Bel echoed in loud, rude disbelief.

Nicodemus’ heart gave a thump. “It’s a traditional gift.”

“But not personal.” Bel, as Nicodemus had guessed, knew how to court properly. “There’s nothing about you to suggest you care about such things. You always, well, not always, smell of rosemary or oranges or silver polish. Sugar or spices on other days. You are more than capable of purchasing attar of roses or putting flowers in your bathing water if you wanted to. You are more than capable of most things. I cannot believe… perfume.” Bel scoffed. “This is not a large town. The field was never going to be wide. But I’d think they could do better than a bottle of perfume for you.”  

The toes of Nicodemus’ shoes hit the fence. Nicodemus blinked up at Bel’s face, closer than before. “Would you like it?” Nicodemus offered softly, holding out the box. “I’ve thought I smelled lavender water from you at times.”

“I smell of lavender to you?” Bel lowered his eyebrows, staring at Nicodemus in bewilderment.

Nicodemus dared a sniff in Bel’s direction, noting no lavender water today. Only something sharp, that he guessed was the paint, and tobacco, and a hint of coffee. He slowly leaned back, face burning to realize what he was doing.

“Minnie wears lavender water sometimes,” Bel revealed, watching Nicodemus intently. “When she comes in to take care of things. My scent is not so delicate as that.”

Nicodemus did not have an alpha’s nose to know the scent of another alpha, and wouldn’t, except for the few days of his heat, when—according to both the novels and the pamphlets on what omegas might expect—the scent of his alpha would make his yearning even greater.

Nicodemus looked up into Bel’s eyes.

He would drag his nose over the skin of Bel’s neck, he thought, put his open mouth beneath Bel’s ear to find where Bel wasn’t delicate, and taste it, with Bel’s fingers inside him like how Nicodemus did to himself sometimes at night. He’d never been bedded; it was all he could imagine. But it was so easy to see now, himself on his back, legs spread wide, drenching the sheets as he was toyed with, again and again until he was crying out, shaking apart but needing more, clinging to Bel’s shoulders until Bel laughed and bent over him to--
He was wet, shamefully so, cunt throbbing in broad daylight, out in the open, for Bel who didn’t care, wouldn’t care.

Bel inhaled, pulling in a breath, then another, longer, and Nicodemus ducked his head and moved away before he could complete his mortification by begging Bel to be the one.

“Sorry,” he threw out over his shoulder, stinging with humiliation, and fled back to the house.

He wouldn’t even be blamed for it. He knew that. His approaching heat would explain it all away, if Bel was ever so rude as to comment.

He didn’t think Bel would. For all Bel’s reputation, for all that he liked to fluster Nicodemus, he wouldn’t tease him about his display just now. 

And that, somehow, made it worse. So much so that Nicodemus did not wait for the bathtub to fill before leaning against the closed door to the washroom and slipping a hand down to where he was slick and wet and ached so much he didn’t understand why someone, anyone, Bel wouldn’t want it.

Want him.
  
He came with his other hand over his mouth so that Cook might not hear anything, not that she really ever did, and quickly bathed and changed and went into the kitchen so Cook could gently rib him about the fun he must be having with his suitors. He spent the rest of the afternoon considering how to mend a torn cushion on one of the dining room chairs.

He left the perfume in its box on a table in the hall.

 
 
Bel went out in the late afternoon hours. Nicodemus pretended not to notice the roar of the automobile’s engine, going through the pantry to make a list for a grocery order only to recall halfway through that he would be unable to do much of anything around the house and be uninterested in food for the duration of his heat, which would likely begin in the next few days.

He fretted over sending Cook out of the house, to one of her children’s homes, or keeping her there in case he would need assistance. Though, if Nicodemus chose wrong, and needed help to care for himself or to get rid of a terrible or abusive bed partner, he was not sure what Cook, in her seventies, might do. He wished Holt—as the Holt’s son went by, since he disliked his given name, were there, for advice if not protection.

He finally decided to ignore his blushes and ask Cook herself.

“I wouldn’t leave you, poppet,” Cook told him, patting his arm. “I remember what it was like. And that Mr. Bel next door is there for me to ask if I need someone strong.”

Nicodemus’ quick glance away probably told her even more than his hesitant, “You’re sure he would help?”

She patted his arm again. “Could always ask him, if you’d rather,” she suggested, then set Nicodemus on fire by nudging him in the side and adding, “No shame in thinking of it, anyway, not with him over there looking like a wicked fellow and a good time rolled into one.”

It was a small bit of comfort that Nicodemus carried with him throughout his lonely, late supper that he ate alone, Cook tending to retire early.

Bel, or at least his automobile, had not returned by the time Nicodemus washed his dishes and left them to dry by the kitchen sink. Bel might be gone on one of his longer trips again. Nicodemus decided resentfully that he would have liked some warning, but had to admit that Bel had no reason to inform Nicodemus of his comings and goings. A lonely omega housekeeper who ran from him more often than not? It was a wonder Bel spoke to him at all, he reminded himself viciously, brushing aside some evening needlework to sulk in front of the dying front room fire.

The warmth from even that small fire just left Nicodemus with the urge to bathe again. He went upstairs to his room instead, pulling out items that he might want to take with him, if he went anywhere for his heat, then scolding himself for packing clothing he likely wouldn’t need.

He didn’t know what he needed and was only partly aware of what he wanted, and that was the trouble. If he wanted to embarrass himself more, he could consult Cook in detail in the morning. Otherwise, he had only pamphlets and novels.

The paper of the pamphlets was thin from so much anxious rereading. The lists were all the same anyway: Eat well in the week before. Choose wisely, based on compatibility—which was never explained. Keep yourself clean. Be sure to drink any herbal blends as recommended by a physician.

Nicodemus finally tossed the pamphlets to the floor and reached for his supply of novels instead, skimming to his favorite places. Perhaps they were incorrect too, but at least they were exciting.

He stripped down to a nightshirt, left his fireplace dark and cold, and still, sweat made the fabric stick to his skin. He abandoned even the novels after a while, and stalked over the window to open it as wide as it would go, wanting the chilly night air to offer some relief.
He closed his eyes as he stood there, sighing a little, and took far too long to notice the faint scent of tobacco smoke curling up toward him.

He gave a start and opened his eyes, his heart skipping with delight that made him scowl. He couldn’t see Bel himself, only the tiny red spark at the end of his cigarette. Nicodemus eased back from the window, pressing himself against the curtain so that, if Bel had noticed him, he would think Nicodemus had gone to bed.

The light might give him away, but Nicodemus often stayed up to read.

Bel doesn’t care about your habits, he told himself, wishing he had known before today why he paid so much attention to the unkempt house and the wild yard and the alpha who sat there alone too many nights and not enough nights.

It was even more unbearable to have to make a lackluster choice while knowing that a better choice was not far away, but also not interested.

Nicodemus sighed.

In a soft voice that nonetheless carried clearly up to Nicodemus’s window, Bel said, “Come down here, would you?”

Nicodemus held so tightly to the curtain that he was surprised it didn’t tear.

“Unless you’re scared of me, lambchop,” Bel went on when Nicodemus didn’t move or respond.

Nicodemus gave Bel a withering glare that Bel couldn’t see. He was embarrassed, not afraid. And he didn’t have to answer Bel or do anything Bel suggested. In fact, it was better that he didn’t. Whatever Nicodemus felt wouldn’t be helped by trailing after his scandalous neighbor.

But… if he accept the offer he knew he would likely be his last, if he wound up just as alone among someone else’s family once again, out on some farm, how often would he have the freedom to stay up, or to leave his bedroom at night to go where he wished, even to the edge of the garden of an alpha with a reputation? How many more conversations with Bel would he be able to have, especially if Bel went away again?

Nicodemus grabbed his old dressing gown as he left the window and dashed out of his room. He didn’t pause to look for his slippers or a decent pair of shoes. The ground was cold and wonderful beneath his feet. The air raised goosebumps on his skin immediately. He loved that too, and the gleaming white of the fence under the half moon.

A few windows of Bel’s house held flickering lights. A clink of glass told Nicodemus that Bel had a drink with him. He must have set it on the fence when he stood up. He kept his cigarette for another moment, then stubbed it out, discarding it carelessly in the glass.
Even with the moonlight to help, Nicodemus couldn’t fully make out Bel’s expression, but he self-consciously tied his dressing gown over his nightshirt, suddenly certain Bel didn’t bother with either garment. 

“What?” Nicodemus asked, rude, but he felt rude, not much like a respectable housekeeper on the verge of engagement while he stood there, barefoot in his night things, restless and overwarm in front of someone who could smell his desires if he came a step closer.

He thought his audacity made Bel smile for a moment, and was strangely pleased until Bel spoke. “Up late contemplating your decision?”

Nicodemus scowled and tied his dressing gown belt tighter. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He got the sense this also took Bel aback. “No,” he admitted slowly, “I suppose I don’t. Most omegas seem to enjoy the process.”

Because he was almost not himself, Nicodemus put his nose in the air to show his opinion of how little Bel knew. “Rich ones, or pretty ones, or ones with social standing. People, not even just omegas, any people who have those get to make real choices. I don’t so… I don’t.” His offense and anger left him as abruptly as they’d revealed themselves and he let his shoulders drop.

“I think if you went into town more, you’d have better offers, lamb.”  

Nicodemus narrowed his eyes without bothering to raise his head. “Don’t patronize me.”

“Shitting fuck,” Bel swore, giving Nicodemus a start. Both the tone and the language were unexpected. Even Bel didn’t swear often in front of Nicodemus. Bel was a large outline, watching Nicodemus even if Nicodemus couldn’t tell what, exactly, had his attention. “You really don’t know, do you?”

Nicodemus regarded Bel tiredly. “Know what?”

“What it’s like to be around a pretty omega, even when they don’t smell like a dripping honeycomb.”

Nicodemus pressed his thighs together. He slid a hand over his mouth. “I don’t—”

“Yes, you do.” Bel exhaled roughly. “There isn’t much alphas wouldn’t do for that. People chasing those other omegas are probably already half in love with them, or after their money, who knows, who cares? Anyone who is courting you and doesn’t seem affected is pretending for their pride. Some do that. If you don’t want them, find others. If you don’t want them, or any alpha, you could choose an omega after your heat, some do that too. But, fuck, every omega smells different, and every omega smells like pleasure, and some smell like your personal paradise. Then there is the scent of their heat. You could make an alpha beg if you wanted, lamb. You should.”

Nicodemus remembered to blink. He closed his mouth. He swallowed. “You said a pretty omega.”

Bel rolled a shoulder. “They’re all pretty,” he dismissed that impatiently. “All tempting, in their way. But some more than others. There are alphas who would fall over themselves for the chance a claim you for a heat, even with your temper. Maybe even for it.”

If that were true, someone would have told Nicodemus years ago. Possibly not in his town, but Bel might be right. Nicodemus should have traveled more, even just one town over. 

Nicodemus’ hands were shaking. “It… it doesn’t exactly make one feel desired, knowing any omega would do for most.”

Bel leaned back from the fence. “So, you are after something more serious.”

“I’m no one’s personal paradise.” Nicodemus fought to keep his voice firm though his thighs were water. “I can only hope for the first. A heat and nothing more. There’s no one else to,” beg “ask for that from me.”

Bel loomed over him, silent for countless quick beats of Nicodemus’ heart. Then he said, almost calmly, “I got you something in town today. Not this town, a few over. I had some errands to run anyway, and the trains were on time.”

“What?” Nicodemus asked weakly, certain Bel had never once given him anything, not even the tins for the cookies once emptied.

Bel passed a fairly sizable box, done up with ribbon, over the top of the fence and held it there until Nicodemus crept forward to take it.

For a foolish few moments, Nicodemus could hear nothing but his heart hammering in his ears. “Is it a courting present?” He found he could not look up to ask. In the dark, the ribbon might have been any color, though he thought it was red.

“The Holts’ housekeeper being courted by the wicked Lewis Belasco?” Bel asked. “What would they say in town?”

Nicodemus would not care much what people would say, if it was a courting gift. But that was Bel’s answer, wasn’t it?

He pulled the box to chest and tugged crossly at the end of the ribbon. “No one’s ever gotten me something just to get me something. Holt, I suppose, brings me books he’s read, if that counts.”

“He’s a good sort,” Bel grunted.

The ribbon fluttered to the ground. Nicodemus lifted the lid of the box, then shut it again after only a glimpse inside. He stared up at Bel, wide-eyed, lips parted, face stinging.

Bel chose that moment to go quiet again.

Slowly, Nicodemus returned his gaze to the box, and lifted the lid to once again examine the contents, of which the most obvious was the tool for the health of an omega so often referred to in careful magazine and newspaper advertisements. Nestled next to the rather thick device was a packet of a tea said to minimize the effects of a heat, and a bottle of… well… the lubricant that shouldn’t be necessary if an omega was in good health and fully enjoying themselves during their heat, but might be used outside of a heat if a bit of help was needed.

Or an alpha might use it on themselves, some novels hinted.

In some places, Nicodemus gathered that act was considered quite perverse or even forbidden. He wondered what Bel thought of it, then hurriedly moved past that thought lest he embarrass himself again.

“I’ve tried to make my own lubricant,” he confessed, touching the bottle. “To help prepare myself. Yet I can’t say that I am.”

“Now you can be.” Had Bel’s voice always been so rough? Nicodemus couldn’t remember. “Or you can do nothing and choose no one, if you like. Put your serious choice off for another year at least.”

This was not a courting gift. Nicodemus knew that. It pleased him all the same, though it was fairly scandalous by the standards of the Holts and people like them. He slowly shut the box before raising his head. “Were you embarrassed to buy these?”

Bel’s smirk was clearly visible even in just moonlight. “The shopkeep thinks I have a greedy, insatiable omega waiting at home.”  

Nicodemus smoothed his fingers restlessly over the top of the box. His voice came out faint. “I suppose you wouldn’t be embarrassed by that.”  

“Not the rascal Bel.” Bel came back to the fence, putting one hand over the top. “Will they do?”

Bel had chosen these while thinking of Nicodemus, and Nicodemus wondered if Bel knew Nicodemus would think of him while he used them. At least Bel couldn’t see his blushes in the dark. “I believe they will. Thank you.” 

A person with manners would have said, “You’re welcome,” and added a “Good night” and ended the conversation there. But a person with manners wouldn’t have given this box to Nicodemus in the first place.

Bel said nothing, choosing his strange, hot silence again while Nicodemus fidgeted with the box and wished to open it to look at his gifts once more.

Nicodemus had manners, but he wasn’t wishing Bel a good night, either.

“I fancied you might throw them in my face,” Bel commented out of nowhere, low and half-sad, maybe wistful, but Nicodemus must have been imagining that. “I’m not sure what to do now.”

Nicodemus frowned in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Bel rolled a shoulder again. “Should I hope you don’t need them?”

Nicodemus huffed, frustrated, irritated, actually almost cold for a moment. He clutched the box to his chest and decided he could be as bold as Bel… at least in the dark. “I might go use them right now.”

He didn’t think Bel moved. He didn’t think Bel breathed. He thought, perhaps he’d gone too far, and squirmed internally and shifted his stance to slide the box behind his back, although this made his dressing gown fall open.

He didn’t think he had gone wet enough to soak through the fabric. And if he had, it was dark, and surely Bel wouldn’t see.

Bel’s voice was rasping. “Would a good sort like your Holt wish you well, or be shocked?”

Nicodemus’ guardians would be shocked. Holt, Nicodemus suspected, would absently but honestly wish him well. Perhaps Holt was not a good sort, not entirely.

“But you’re not a good sort,” Nicodemus heard himself say, almost ask, while peering at Bel curiously.  

“No.” Bel was certain, it seemed. “No, I am not.”

“I don’t speak to any bad sorts,” Nicodemus reminded him. “Although I don’t see how honesty makes one bad.” And honesty was what Nicodemus wanted, among other things. “What would you do, as not a good sort?”

He didn’t think it was possible for eyes to glint in the dark, yet somehow he thought Bel’s did.   

“Maybe I would sit here and listen for any noises that might make their way down.”

Nicodemus took a halting step back, then swallowed and took his place again, hot but too intrigued not to ask. “Do noises sometimes make their way down?”

Bel let the world grow quiet again.

Nicodemus scowled before gesturing sharply at him. “You always fall silent just when—just when things start to get interesting!”

“Interesting?” Bel echoed, then growled it again as if offended. “Interesting?”

“Nobody ever says anything interesting to me!” Nicodemus informed Bel of this snippily. “They think I only want to talk about wood oil or canning recipes. I like those things,” he admitted with dignity, “but I am more than those things. I read novels, you know. I’ve even written one or two…” As he had not meant to disclose that, he cleared his throat and hurried on. “Which I am sure are a lot of nonsense since I so rarely visit even our little town, but I read. I’m quite well-read actually. Even the Holts think so. I keep a tidy home, but I am not just someone to serve dinner and perhaps keep my knees up once a year.”

“I am sure of that,” Bel remarked.

Nicodemus shushed him. “And yet that is all the conversation I get, except for Holt, who sends me books and tells me stories of city life.”

“Holt again.” Bel could truly make the most animal-like noises when he wanted to, growls as though he had any reason to be furious. 
  
“Even Caleb Peabody, who sniffed and leered at me, would never say anything to me like what you say to me. Or call me lamb. Or lambchop. Or give me… what you gave me.”  

“They are the good sort,” Bel tried once more to interrupt.

“Are they?” Nicodemus demanded. “To use me as a nanny and a mindless omega. To think of me only as an omega they might get, since I am of low standing. To ogle or give me perfume as if my scent does not appeal to them personally, but at least I am available? And yet you are the wicked beast and the libertine, who goes away for weeks at a time and returns disheveled and exhausted from who knows how many beds… or whatever it is you do.” Bel was breathing heavily. Nicodemus glared at him. “You keep odd hours, and you smoke, and I can hear the clink of your glass and your bottle sometimes—sounds can make their way up, too—and yet you hint, and you fall silent, and you do not say what you mean. For such a wicked alpha, you are very… civilized!”

Nicodemus made it as scathing as possible.

“Civilized?” Bel’s growl returned. “I just gave you a practice cock.”  

“The first time it is practice,” Nicodemus said, icy, “after that it’s just a co—a tool for the health of an omega.” A tool that was cock-shaped, in this instance.

Then he heard himself, but was already blushing too much to stop now. Bel didn’t care, anyway. He’d all but said so.

And yet, even knowing that, Nicodemus was suddenly quiet. “Did you mean it as a courting gift?”

A breeze stirred Nicodemus’ short hair, sent a longer strand of Bel’s hair across his face.

Bel took his hand from the fence. “It never crossed my mind.”

“Oh,” Nicodemus murmured, although it was the only answer he should have expected. His heart would not stop its racing, pushing against crushed ribs. “Oh,” he said again.

He seemed to be in love with Bel, as he’d feared, and Bel did not want him. Bel liked him, maybe, but mostly pitied him.

“Sorry.” Nicodemus dropped his gaze quickly, pulled the box back to his chest as if that would slow his heart. He seemed to be apologizing to Bel a lot today. “It’s the hea…” He couldn’t finish the lie. “I should’ve known,” he said instead. “You were being kind, in your way. Sorry. Again.”

“Nicodemus…”

“Don’t.” He cut off Bel’s rumble in a too-high voice. “Thank you again for the gift.”

It was what one said in response to gifts, even non-courting ones.  

“You can’t have wanted me to,” Bel said, just as Nicodemus turned away.

It made Nicodemus pause, although it did not make him turn back. “I have to go,” he excused himself politely. “I have to get the house in order.” The house was always in order; Nicodemus was an excellent housekeeper. But there was a reason it mattered more this week. Nicodemus had almost forgotten, out here talking with Bel. “Things have to look perfect. I’m expecting an important caller tomorrow.”

The silence from Bel made him shiver.

Nicodemus left it alone, except to add, “Good night, Bel.”

Then he went back into the house and Bel did not stop him.
 
 

 
Nicodemus didn’t sleep much, and couldn’t blame it on his heat. He kept himself downstairs, sitting on the settee in the parlor because it was cold downstairs, and because, if he went upstairs, he might glimpse Bel in his garden. He did not go to his room, except in the wee small hours, before Cook would wake, to change out of his night things and to hide Bel’s gift to him under his bed.

That was what Nicodemus got for trying to have a little adventure of his own. A night with nothing else to do but rehash those humiliating last moments with Bel, to look down and realize that the white cotton of his nightshirt would have been bright in the moonlight and that the signs of his arousal likely had been visible to Bel, had driven home how much Nicodemus longed for more than his isolated, dull life—and how much more was not meant for him.

The only thing left to do was to embrace that.
 
 

 
The parlor was gleaming. Cook had made apple cake as a treat for Nicodemus, he suspected because of how he’d looked when she’d first seen him that morning. Nonetheless, he set out a few slices with the tea service for his guest. He put on a crisp shirt and collar, and chose a bowtie in a sedate color from his small collection, as well as his best waistcoat, which simply meant the newest.

He couldn’t eat a bite of the cake despite all his efforts. The tea was dishwater.

He stayed on the porch to see Andrew off again, and tugged at his collar to pull it free the moment Andrew’s carriage was out of sight, but the lump in his throat remained. Farther down the length of the fence, if he turned his head slightly to look, was a curlicue of smoke rising steadily upward that had also been there when Andrew had arrived.

He ignored it and went back inside.
 


 
Despite the admonitions in all the pamphlets, despite Cook’s fretting and offers to make him whatever he wanted, Nicodemus did not feel like eating. It had nothing to do with his heat and everything to do with his misery. He changed back into clothes more suited to work, and set to ensuring the house wouldn’t fall into too much disarray while he was incapacitated. He didn’t think much beyond that.

That was for later, when Cook finally went to her room, and Nicodemus walked heavily upstairs to lie on his bed and contemplate the years stretched out in front of him.

He had not turned on a single lamp. He had not taken off more than his waistcoat and his shoes before falling backward onto the bed. He had not done more than to sigh to himself. Yet mere seconds after his head landed on his pillow, he heard Bel call his name.

His heart tripped over itself at the sound.

He stubbornly did not move.

“Nicodemus!” Bel called again, cajoling and soft.

He had no right.

Nicodemus stormed over to the window.

“What?” he demanded in a shout.

He couldn’t see anything, not a silhouette, not a spark, but still had the impression his snarl had taken Bel by surprise.

“You’re going to wake Cook at that rate,” Bel answered after a pause.

“She’s on the other side of the house, on a different floor.” And even if she wasn’t, Cook sometimes couldn’t even hear Nicodemus from the other side of the kitchen, although he wasn’t going to yell that from a window.  

“So, you’re all alone,” Bel responded, which was a strange thing to say when he knew perfectly well Nicodemus was almost always by himself. Nicodemus said nothing. Bel carried on, undeterred because it would take more than mild rudeness to bother Bel. In fact, he seemed to like it. “It’s a fine evening,” he remarked, like Nicodemus trying to politely discuss the weather. “Too fine to be cooped up indoors.”

Being outside at night had been soothing to Nicodemus’ fever and stimulating to his nerves, and thinking of running across the yard under the moonlight made him want to do it, to stand and talk under the overgrown fruit trees, or curl up on whatever bench or chair Bel used when he stayed out like this.

“Is that why you sit outside?” he wondered aloud, instead of acknowledging what felt like an invitation in Bel’s words. Just because it felt like an invitation didn’t mean it was one. But he couldn’t keep the melancholy out of his voice. “Are you already wishing to be away again?”

“I mostly travel for work,” Bel revealed, handing Nicodemus more information about him than he’d ever done before. “To get equipment, supplies, do shows. Meet people.” Bel cleared his throat. “People like to meet me, for some reason. I… draw, and I paint. I don’t like to say I’m an artist because it sounds grander than I am. Foolish, maybe. I’m no dreamer. I know they talk, in town, about what I do. They would still find it scandalous if I told them, though I’m really rather boring, these days. I admit I get restless sometimes, and I like to discover new things. But… I get more done here.”

“You like being here?” Nicodemus didn’t hide his doubt, even while squirreling away the knowledge that Bel was artist, and, from his words, a sought-after one. “In a tiny seaside town that only has any sort of population in the summer months? A town one train ride away from an only slightly bigger town?”  

He imagined Bel shrugged. “I like to keep to myself, and having no expectations on me. Pretending to be like other people takes a lot.”

“You pretend?” Nicodemus didn’t hide his doubt at that, either. But then he shook his head, reconsidering. “Not very well.” 
 
“There is that,” Bel agreed. “And I like my house.”

“It’s falling apart,” Nicodemus observed critically. “Or will soon, if you don’t put in some work.”

“It could use some care,” Bel admitted. He paused. “I could hire people.”

Nicodemus crossed his arms. “You could.” A gaggle of townsfolk poking through that house and that garden was a nearly intolerable thought. “Is that why you called me over here? I could recommend people, if you like.”  

“But I might also sell it,” Bel continued, ignoring the offer. 
 
“Sell it?” Nicodemus dropped his arms, then raised a hand to his chest. “You’re leaving?”

He thought Bel might choose silence again, but after only a moment, Bel said, “This is a foolish conversation to be had shouted up at a window. Why don’t you come down?”

“I’m fine where I am,” Nicodemus insisted, and realized he was hiding behind the curtain. “You’re leaving?”

“I could ask you that. You’ve no call to get snippy with me, lamb.”

“Haven’t I?” Nicodemus scoffed, although he truly did not know if Bel had wronged him, or if he only wished Bel had to make things easier. “Where will you go?”

“Nicodemus,” Bel growled, “come down here.” He changed his tone with obvious effort, pretending, as he’d said, to be a person with conventional manners. “Please.”  

Nicodemus quivered inside at the impatient order, and it was not soothed by Bel’s attempt to be polite. If anything, the reminder that Bel wasn’t nice made it worse.

He had to swallow to speak, and first wet his dry lips. “A good sort wouldn’t have given the order in the first place.”

“I am not a good sort.” Bel was always saying that, but never before as if infuriated by that fact.

Nicodemus was breathless. “I’m aware.”

“You didn’t return to your room last night.” Bel could not know that unless he had also been awake through the night. Nicodemus did not get a chance to press him about it. “Did you use my gift?”

Nicodemus held in his gasp, but only just. If Bel had not been so calm and easy about asking, Nicodemus might have reminded him that he had no right to say such things… and if Nicodemus had not liked it so much.

“Not going to call me wicked?” Bel might have been wistful. “Yell at me? Tell me how very wrong I am once again?”

One would think he liked the glimpses of Nicodemus’ temper. Nicodemus nearly thought he did, but he’d been fooled before. It was the heat, wishful thinking.

Nicodemus came out from behind the curtain anyway. “Don’t be mean.”

He thought Bel would ask how he was mean, but he didn’t. He let the silence return for several beats of Nicodemus’ flailing heart, then spoke quietly. “Will you come down, lamb?”

Nicodemus left the curtain behind altogether. “Give me a moment.”

He didn’t run this time. He stopped to remove his socks, because he wanted to feel the earth under his feet again, and he took the stairs quietly, although there wasn’t a peep from the direction of the kitchen.

Clouds were trailing across the moon. The wind was slightly fiercer than the night before.

He went to the spot where the fence dipped low and stopped when he was several feet away.

“Did you make your plans for the end of the week?” Bel asked before Nicodemus could demand to know why Bel had called him there.
Nicodemus frowned at the thought of getting any more advice on his heat from Bel. “I did,” he revealed, then shut his mouth again.

“You’ve no call to be snippy with me,” Bel repeated himself. “I’ve done you no harm.”
​
“No. You haven’t,” Nicodemus admitted with a sigh that could only be described as forlorn.

Bel moved sharply, first pointing accusingly at Nicodemus, then gesturing to himself. “It’s because your choices are terrible. That’s the only reason I might seem better.”

“Might?” Nicodemus echoed first. “Terrible?” He scoffed, even though he agreed. An omega had his pride. “A respectable landowner with a nice house? And the other a shop assistant who will likely own the shop someday?”  

“A farmer who wants to use you as a nanny,” Bel’s voice was rough, “and a little more than a hole in the mattress. The other one is trying to sow his oats with whoever he can get before he settles down. That’s what you said.”

“No, I didn’t.” A hole in the mattress. Nicodemus would have never, even if it was true.

“Implied, then.” Bel made a noise like a frustrated bull. “Don’t pretend, lamb.”

“No, pretending is your area,” Nicodemus replied, childish.

Bel lowered his chin, probably to give Nicodemus a furious glare that was mostly lost as clouds passed over the moon again. “You wouldn’t like it if I stopped pretending.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Nicodemus huffed in return.

“Oh, yeah?” Bel moved a step back from the fence. “Then open that gate and come over here and find out.”

The dare did such things to Nicodemus’ heart that he could barely hear Bel’s next words.

“You see?” Bel gestured again, toward Nicodemus this time. “Maybe choose no one, this time. Or choose the shop boy who might be boring, but at least he is not likely to hurt you. Then, you can find someone else later, a good sort who is a better option for—”

Nicodemus left him there to walk toward the gate.

“Nicodemus?” Bel seemed startled.

Nicodemus considered the ivy covering the disused gate, trying to remember where the latch was. When he found it, he had to sigh again. The latch, like the gate, had been left to warp and rust. He pulled on it, then jiggled it, then turned back to consider Bel’s silent, looming, shocked shadow.

“What?” he demanded. “Plenty of people do more than I have ever done. Why shouldn’t I allow you to ravish me?”

“Ravish?” Bel echoed, somehow startled again, and possibly disapproving. “What about your farmer?”

Nicodemus tugged at the latch again. “What has he got to do with this?”

Bel’s silence felt especially significant. Whatever he meant by it, it was lengthy and hot. When he finally spoke again, he sounded like a man trying to be calm. “It makes sense that you would get your nerves out of the way before settling down. Perhaps see what you like.”

“You don’t sound pleased with the idea, despite getting quite a bit more out of it than some sounds falling from a window,” Nicodemus remarked without prejudice, then paused to really consider what he’d said, the whole notion, including Bel’s frequent silences, and his teasing, and his inappropriate but helpful gift, and all the curlicues of smoke, and why Bel had placed his bench or his chair where it was, out of all the other places in his garden he could have sat, Bel’s heavy breathing now.

Nicodemus’ hand slipped from the latch. “Bel… do you want me? Me, not just an omega?”

Bel chose silence again.

Nicodemus couldn’t bear it this time. “Please, Bel.”

“You wouldn’t like what I would say.”  

Nicodemus might have believed that of himself a few days ago. He wasn’t sure now. “Tell me.”

“With all precautions taken, I would still bed you like I intended to breed you.” Bel stole the breath right out of Nicodemus’ chest. “In the day while responsible people are working, and every night, too. Your heat? That’s desire, and wild urges, and I would be more than happy to tie you down and ride you through them, but I’d leave you tied to my bed at any time, Nicodemus, all wrapped up in filthy sheets that mean you smell like mine, even if you won’t know it.”

“Every night?” Nicodemus was weak. He clamped his legs together, then put a hand down between them, though Bel could see it. “Yours?” He said faintly. He’d never felt so full and so empty at the same time, heavy and wet, yes, but empty. Like all of him was longing. His voice shook. “Is that all?”

“I’d take you in my garden, take your mouth in my garden too, with the sound traveling up to Holt’s room, when he’s visiting. I can smell you from here, you know. Have you had any pills or special teas yet? It doesn’t matter. I’d still push you against the fence and lick all the wet from your hole while you pull at my hair—you seem like a hair-puller. And you make noises, up there in your room, using the lubricant you made. Using your fingers. I like noises.” Bel was closer now, a shadow with a voice like low thunder. “I could take you to places where some types take their omegas, to show them off as they’re bred, let them hear you. And to the theater. I would take you to all sorts of places that might shock you, or leave you awed with their beauty. But the theater is respectable enough, and I find I like the idea of watching a play more if I am watching Nicodemus watch the play.”

“Would you take me there as well?” Nicodemus wondered, tracing his lips with his other hand. “But I make noises.”

“Lamb, with your permission, I’d get you louder than the orchestra.”

Nicodemus put his fingers over his mouth. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Bel gave it back to him, just a bit mocking.

“That,” Nicodemus swallowed, “sounds like something to last much longer than a heat. That sounds like… like the sort of indiscreet relationship that scoundrels and libertines and, well, artists are said to have. That sounds like you would be keeping me.” Nicodemus would lose his job, lose what standing he had, at least in this town and the ones around it.

He put a hand against the gate to stay upright on his wobbly legs, then tried the latch again. “It’s stuck,” he complained, although, truthfully, it might have just been that Bel had left him trembling.  

“What?” Bel was baffled, or outraged, maybe both.

“The latch. On the gate.” Nicodemus tried to be clear. “Is stuck. Can you come help me with it?”

“The latch?” Bel repeated blankly, and it was enough to grant Nicodemus a moment of clarity.

“Yes. If you took better care of your property, it would not be in this state. How you can expect to court an omega to be and stay yours if you cannot even treat such a lovely house well?”

“You said it was falling apart.” But Bel slowly made his way to the gate and Nicodemus. “I didn’t expect to court an omega to stay and be mine,” he said, as if reminding Nicodemus of that. “I haven’t courted you.”

No, he hadn’t. “But you want me enough to ruin me.”

Bel stopped. “Ruin you?”

“I think I might want to be ruined,” Nicodemus revealed in a whisper. “Is that terrible, do you think? I don’t want to live out all my years making someone else’s home without knowing something of life, and I don’t want to spend every fall at the cottage all by myself without knowing anything other than a health device. But I am really not suited for anything else, am I?”

Bel was watching him again; Nicodemus could feel it.

“I gave you a gift so you would have more choice than that, than them. Or me.”

Nicodemus peered up at him. “Are you sure you are not a good sort deep down, Bel?”

“I would have enjoyed it too, if you had used it in your bedroom with the window wide open,” Bel insisted.

“Have I always smelled good to you?” Nicodemus continued to sway against the gate, but he kept his gaze as steady as he could. He knew what silence from Bel meant now. “You said it was….” A honeycomb. His personal paradise. Nicodemus squirmed to think of that, of having Bel think of that. “I would let you in. I would beg for it.”

Bel was quietly furious. “You want me to bed you before they do. Before he does. I told you I would keep you, Nicodemus. If I take you, you can’t go running to him. Did you accept him today? That’s why he came, isn’t it? Why you put on your best, and entertained him in the Holts’ parlor. To say yes?”

“Should I not have?” Nicodemus was snippy as he could manage to be with his thighs shaking. There was the faintest scent in the breeze, something he didn’t know, but it was thick on his tongue. “Would a claim on me stop you from taking what I’m offering? I thought you were wicked.”

Bel breathed in and out. “Cruel, lamb.”

“Am I cruel?” Nicodemus raised his head, genuinely surprised. “Why? You want to ruin me and I am offering to let you.”

“Did you accept him?” Bel seemed to bite out the words.

“Are you leaving?” Nicodemus had only a whisper.

“If you said yes to that perfume-giving farmer,” Bel snarled back.

Nicodemus blinked, then blinked again several times. He tried shaking his head, but he still felt dizzy, as though his ribs were no longer crushed and he had pulled in too much air at once.

“Would you be better for me, Bel?” He didn’t know himself, speaking in a voice like night-jasmine and spun sugar.

“No,” Bel said immediately. “Better than him? Yes, in the ways good people wouldn’t agree or care to name. But for you? No. How could I be?”

“Would you give me your house and your garden, Bel?” Nicodemus could taste it now, whatever the scent was, heavy like molasses, heady and bright like Mr. Holt’s cognac.  

Bel took a breath, then slowly released it. “Yes. Are you sure you won’t ruin me?”

I can try, Nicodemus thought to himself, although he suspected, without any proof, since he had never been in love before, that since he liked Bel as he was, that wouldn’t happen.

He straightened up.

“Open the gate,” he requested softly.

“I am not good, Nicodemus,” Bel warned him again. “Not respectable, not anything like it. You would not leave my house to go to his.”

“Your house or your bed?” Nicodemus wondered without waiting for an answer. “Not even if I wanted to go? You wouldn’t want to keep me there, tie me down, as you said?”

Bel’s silence now felt more like standing too near a beehive. “Lamb.”

“Ah.” Nicodemus understood. “So that’s how I’m cruel. This isn’t at all like a novel.”

“No, it is not,” Bel agreed.  

Nicodemus tapped the gate. “If it’s up to me, then I would choose both.”

“Him and me?” Bel sounded torn between admiration and outrage.

“Your house and your bed,” Nicodemus explained with distracted patience. “I could not say yes to him with you here.” Cook had been so worried for him, but understanding once she’d realized. Bel seemed poleaxed. Nicodemus almost clucked his tongue. “You know, you have not actually offered me either, except to call me here and then order me to go through a gate that will not open.”

Bel yanked on the gate and swung it wide, breaking a piece of the latch and sending it flying, perhaps to land near the ribbon from Bel’s gift that Nicodemus had left behind. Bel stood in front of Nicodemus, in an opened shirt and loose, probably paint-stained trousers. He smelled like what silk ought to smell like.

Nicodemus realized what that meant and held very still.

“A honeycomb?” he asked, although that was how he felt under Bel’s gaze, with shadows over the moon and Bel breathing him in, having the thoughts he apparently had long had about Nicodemus. Foolish, to want Nicodemus all this time and say nothing, but Nicodemus hadn’t known until yesterday, so he was also a fool.

Bel didn’t have shoes on either. “Yes.”

Nicodemus tipped his head up. “Your paradise?”

Bel grunted, then growled, then said it. “Yes, Nicodemus.”

Nicodemus was so close that even the night air couldn’t cool him. But he wasn’t allowed to give in yet. He had to be sure. Of what, he wasn’t certain, but he felt it, and his heart was racing, and he was so warm, and Bel who smelled like pleasure would take care of him if only he could be sure.

He put a hand against Bel’s chest. His voice grew even softer. “But I don’t deserve to be asked?”

“You deserve more than asking.” Bel stopped. He curled his hand over Nicodemus’, his fingers stroking over Nicodemus’ wrist. “Won’t you come in, lamb?” He smiled in the dark, showing teeth, but his hold was careful. “Please?” he added, and Nicodemus thought he meant it, because his voice was a rumble, and his scent was decadent, but he didn’t pull or drag Nicodemus forward. “Come into your garden,” he said, or said again, Nicodemus wasn’t sure, but it had the sound of words that had been said before, pleading, coaxing. Begging, in a way.

Nicodemus stepped into the garden, his garden, in his home, and put his face to Bel’s chest.

Bel’s heart was hammering.

Nicodemus smiled for it. “Close the gate now, Bel,” he ordered quietly.  

And Bel did.


 
The End
(Except for how Bel then proceeded to do exactly what he’d said he would.)
 


Epilogue
 
When the house had only barely been set to rights, and Nicodemus had yet to find the time to think about the repairs to the attic steps, or replacing the out-of-date oven, or painting the shutters, much less to trim back enough of the garden’s wilderness that he could at least find a path to get to the fruit trees to gather any fruit before it fell, Bel returned home from one of his trips with a wooden sign to go over the porch.

“A pretentious thing,” he said, “for someone to give their little home a name like it was a manor on a hill.”

The house was, in fact, a manor on a hill, or at least, a larger size house by a cliff.

Nicodemus had only frowned at him. Not even the Holts had named their summer home, although some in town called it Holt House anyway.

“And there are some who do art,” not artists, only some who do art with Bel, “who like to give their simple abodes a title as well. And it seems, as one who does art, and who lives in a pretty house by the sea that grows prettier each day—” he knew Nicodemus was growing snippy with him but Nicodemus forgave him the flattery because it was true “—that this place should have a name worthy of it.”

And with that, he had turned the sign over so that Nicodemus could read the name Bel had chosen for their home.

In true Bel fashion, it was scandalous indeed. But made with Nicodemus in mind, so that it was only Nicodemus who blushed every time he passed beneath the roof over their front door and saw the word “Paradise” burned into the wood.

​

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