Another quick contribution to the still-tiny pool of George/Mark fics. Not my best work, but sssh. Ssh. xD
Unorthodox
Mark Smeaton has an uncanny ability to worm his way into people's thoughts, and into their affections. It's a subtle thing, and for many it starts with just a smile, the pulling of the corner's of Mark's mouth that ends with an expression that manages to get under the skins of even the most hard-hearted at court. The man's natural talent only enhances this, and George knows for a fact that there are many at court that envy Mark's swift, graceful fingers, and the way they can coax beautiful melodies out of his instrument. Even with his peasant background, which even George's dear Annamaria cannot ignore, he has managed to charm over half the court.
Including myself, George thinks wryly as he tangles his fingers in Mark's, drawing a breathy laugh from the musician even as Mark turns his head, dark eyes glimmering with amusement. He could learn to love those eyes, George thinks; learn to love the playful glimmer present in them, the come-hither light that accompanies the dark irises when Mark gives him that promising smile from across the decorated rooms and halls of Henry's court. They're so very different from Jane's, whose eyes are turned coldly towards him more often than not, and George winces as the thought of his wife enters his mind, which makes Mark sigh.
"Hush, Boleyn," he says, and George lowers his head, resting it against Mark's dark curls as he lets out a huff of laughter, his chest to Mark's back. He could learn to love this, too: the feeling of Mark's skin, darker than the milky cream of many of the ladies, but still smooth against his fingertips, and pliant against the palm of his hand. It's part of the subtle beauty Mark has, George supposes—not classic (and not only because they're both men), but still lovely all the same.
"How many times have I told you to stop calling me that when we're like this?" George murmurs, not lifting his head, and Mark's body shifts alongside his for a moment before an answering chuckle reverberates through him. He turns his head, and George has to lift his then so that he's hovering slightly over his bedmate while Mark smiles at him, that same playful, promising smile that lured George to his room that one night seasons ago.
"Whatever you say, Lord Rochford," he purrs, and George's hand clenches where it rests on Mark's arm even as Mark raises his head slightly to brush their mouths teasingly together.
The fond feeling in his chest is irrational. He's supposed to find the slender figure of a woman to be beautiful, and to let his eyes wander appreciatively over a pale, full bosom. He should be taking those small, pale figures to his bed, should be carding his fingers through their long, silken hair; should be breathing in their womanly scents and admiring their hooded, secretive eyes. They are beautiful—or at least, they're supposed to be. But he finds instead that the rough beauty he sees in Mark—the lithe but strong frame, the darker skin, the short black curls, the darkness of his eyes, the smell of his skin in the dark—is far closer to the definition of beauty than anything else he has ever encountered.
Later, when Mark lays asleep, breathing evenly beside him, black curls deliciously sprawled against the white pillows, George can't resist the faint, fond smile that stretches across his face.
Yes, Mark may not be a traditional beauty, but to George, he's lovely all the same.