2023 Top Ten Gay Romance

The Wedding by T.J. Blackley-3

That Roger’s mental state would be visible on his face only occurred to him when he walked into his house and his father looked up, alarmed. “A slight headache,” Roger lied, to forestall Joseph’s inevitable concern and questions. “I think I’ll retire early.”

“Of course,” Joseph said, still looking worried. “I’ll have a tray of supper sent up.”

Roger didn’t eat it, beyond a few mouthfuls of bread to make sure he didn’t faint. He spent the night ricocheting between his armchair, the edge of his bed, and the corner of the room, moving frantically and feverishly, as though through motion he could excise his excess feeling.

For, of course, now he would have to say something. And Roger did not know if he was brave enough.

He slept, some, falling under a little after midnight, and waking with the dawn. The sleep had done him good; he was no longer frantic, although still nervous, and still unsure of what, exactly, he would say.

He was no longer panicked, but his mind would not stay put in his head, for all that. He dressed almost in a daze, unable to focus on his clothing beyond making sure it all matched and had no holes, or to care overmuch.

If Edward wanted him, it would not matter what he wore.

Edward’s townhouse was a mere twenty minutes away by foot, but Roger did not trust himself with the journey and called the carriage, taking a moment to be grateful that his father had not yet risen, and therefore could not ask questions. Edward would be awake—the man was an early riser, a fact for which Vincent had never refrained from teasing him—but Joseph Millbourne did not share his nephew’s tendencies in that regard.

Roger spent the carriage-ride attempting to compose a speech, something that would convey the depth of his affections—of his love—without frightening Edward with their violence, but by the time the footman handed him out at Edward’s door, he knew it was useless. He would just have to improvise, and trust to destiny.

If Edward wanted him, it would not matter what he said. All that would matter would be that he said it.

Edward, true to Roger’s prediction, was at the breakfast table when Roger found him, clad in a bright green dressing gown that set off his skin, and a rumpled white undershirt. He looked up as Roger entered the dining room, his beautiful smile spreading across his face at the sight of him.

How had Roger ever doubted that this man loved him?

“Why, Roger!” Edward cried, gesturing to the seat next to him; true to his principles, he did not rise. “What on earth brings you here so early in the morning? I was worried when you ran out last night; I assumed you were unwell.”

Roger gaped at him for a moment, and then said the only thing he could think to say: “Marry me.”

Edward blinked, rearing his head back in shock. “Edward, marry me,” Roger went on, groping his way down the table until he could drop to one knee in front of his dearest friend.

Edward was blinking owl-eyed at him, his face a picture of confusion and, blessedly, a strain of hope that Roger recognized with a hopeful surge of his own. “Edward,” Roger said, taking his friend’s hand in both of his own and kissing it. It was the first time his lips had ever touched another person, and it made his head swim. “Marry me,” he repeated, looking up at Edward again. “Please.”

“Roger,” Edward breathed, and Roger knew he had been right, and Edward did love him, just from the tenor of that one word: his name. “Roger, you cannot mean it—”

“I have never meant anything more in my life,” Roger said. He was still clutching Edward’s hand, but Edward had made no move to free it, as he had his arm from the man last night, so Roger kept hold of it. “Marry me, Edward; please, say you will.”

“I don’t understand,” Edward said wildly, still staring at Roger as though he had never seen him before. “What has brought this on?”

“I love you,” Roger said, and Edward shuddered as though struck by lightning. “I love you, Edward, I have since we were children, and Vincent said you loved me back, and that you would not mind if it was me asking you, and I have barely been able to think of anything else since.”

As it had the last time they spoke of the man, Edward’s face sharpened again. “You spoke to Vincent about me?” he asked.

Roger brushed this aside. “At the races, as I said. But that is not important, Edward; he was just the catalyst. Edward, please say you’ll marry me.”

There was a pause as Edward stared at his face, and then: “You cannot love me,” Edward whispered, looking lost and desperately confused, still. “You cannot, I would have seen…”

Despite his denial, that thin thread of hope was still present in his face, and Roger understood the situation in a flash: for the first time in their lives, Edward needed Roger to be brave for him. And so, Roger put one hand on Edward’s cheek, feeling the fine grain of his stubble under his fingertips, and pressed their mouths together.

That, thankfully, seemed to do the trick; Roger would have been at a loss for what to do next if it hadn’t. Edward reacted instantly, reaching for Roger in turn and adjusting the fit of their mouths together, and oh, Roger had been right—Edward did know what he was doing; he did know just what to do with Roger.

The kiss lingered, Roger’s heart pounding in his ears and racing through his veins. He scraped his fingernails across the line of stubble under his hand, and let out a soft noise of surprise when Edward trapped his lower lip between his own.

Finally, they broke apart, but not for longer than a moment before Edward was in his arms, dropping to his own knees on the carpet before Roger and flinging himself upon him. Roger caught him, held him close, tucked his nose into Edward’s short-cropped hair and breathed in the scent of him in a mind-whirling spin of contentment.

Edward needed to be held for a long time, and Roger happily obliged, until he noticed that Edward’s shoulders were shaking. Roger pulled back to look at him, and sure enough, there were tears in his eyes—but his face was beatifically happy, happier by far than Roger had ever seen him before. Roger’s heart squeezed and then began to gallop—he had put that look on Edward’s face.

“I never thought,” Edward murmured, pressing his forehead to Roger’s. “Oh Roger, my darling, I never, never even dreamed…”

“You haven’t answered me yet,” Roger pointed out, grinning when it made Edward burst into sun-bright laughter.

“Yes,” Edward said, and his smiled faded to a happy ghost of itself in the seriousness of the moment. Roger, too, sobered, stroking his thumb along Edward’s cheek again. “Yes, I will marry you, and it will be the best thing I ever do,” Edward murmured, and then there was nothing at all Roger could do but lean forward and take his lips again.

Roger could have kissed Edward forever—the combination of his soft lips, the gentle puff of his breath against Roger’s cheek, and the shape of his scalp under Roger’s fingers when he cupped the back of his head was incredibly drugging, more potent and delicious than any wine Roger had yet tasted—but eventually Edward pulled away, to hover an inch from Roger’s nose and allow them to catch their breath.

“Have you eaten?” Edward asked eventually, and Roger clung to him as he tried to remember how to speak.

“I don’t remember,” he said honestly, after a moment’s thought, and Edward laughed, pulling away further to stand.

“That means you have not,” he said, offering Roger a hand off the floor. Once Roger was standing and they were at eye level again, he looked a little shy and asked, “Have breakfast with me?”

Roger’s chest, which he’d thought couldn’t get any warmer, was swept with another flush of heat and love. “I would love to,” he said, and allowed Edward to help him into the chair at his left hand.

Edward rang the bell and called for another plate for Roger, and while they waited, he, still shy, lightly touched the back of Roger’s hand. Roger instantly turned his hand over and caught Edward’s, suddenly nervous that if they weren’t touching, it might all be undone.

Roger’s plate appeared, with a fresh serving of eggs and toast, and Edward ladled a few sausages from his own plate onto Roger’s. “Eat,” he said, smiling at him. “You mustn’t vanish on me.”

Roger obediently went to pick up his fork, realized it would mean releasing Edward’s hand, and awkwardly grasped it in his left. Edward let out a low, beautiful chuckle and released his right hand; Roger reluctantly transferred the utensil over and began to eat.

For a few minutes there was only the sound of their eating, and then Edward said tentatively, “May I ask…”

Roger hastily swallowed his mouthful of toast. “Ask anything.”

Edward inexplicably flushed. “It’s just, you said…since we were children?”

Now it was Roger’s turn to blush. “Yes,” he admitted. “I think I was about fourteen when I first realized.”

“Fourteen,” Edward echoed, looking suddenly devastated. “So long.”

“When was it for you?” Roger asked, smiling helplessly when the question made Edward refocus his gaze on his face. “When you realized that you…”

He trailed off, unable to say it, but thankfully Edward picked up the trail. “That I love you?” Roger nodded, feeling as though he could have cooked the eggs on his plate on his cheeks. “Five years ago,” Edward said softly. “It was five years ago.”

“So long,” Roger echoed. “What made you realize?”

Edward gave an elegant shrug. “It was not one thing in particular, I think,” he said. “More, I looked at you one day, and realized that looking at you brought me joy, of a type I had not felt before, as did speaking with you, and merely existing around you. The rest became obvious in time.”

“That’s it exactly,” Roger breathed. “Joy.”

They smiled at each other for a moment, and then Edward cleared his throat and broke their gaze, with some visible effort. “What exactly did Vincent say to you?” he asked, picking up his last piece of bacon and crunching it. “I must know exactly what I am to thank him for.”

Roger, feeling daring, stole Edward’s coffee cup and took a sip. Edward beamed at him. “He told me that if I wanted you, I would have to ask for you, for you would never speak,” Roger said, putting the cup back down in front of his own plate. “He would not break your confidence and speak of the true nature of your feelings, but he encouraged me to tell you of my own.”

“Impossible man,” Edward muttered, but Roger could see he was fighting a smile. “Impertinent to the last.”