Chapter Text
“Have you seen him?” Lord Crozier asks.
He's peering out the wide windows of the orangery. There is a wall of rain obscuring the hedges and the rolling hills beyond them. The world outside seems entirely grey, but inside it Avonmore it is warm, and smells like Earl Grey and citrus.
Thomas is arranging tea service on the cream linen tablecloth. “Sir?”
“My nephew. He went out riding this morning and hasn’t come back. It was already raining then, the fool.”
That would have been hours ago, Thomas thinks. It’s cold outside, and once the rain soaks through Little’s coat, it will be colder still.
“I haven’t, sir.” Thomas tries not to sound too worried. Tries not to wonder whether Edward wore his gloves. “Perhaps he called upon Captain Fitzjames?”
“Why in God’s name would he do that?”
“I’ve - seen them together, sir. Thought maybe they were friends.”
“Friends?” The word sounds ugly when Crozier says it, and a blotch of colour rises on his cheeks. “Christ. Let’s hope not.”
His Lordship gazes out the window a moment longer, as if expecting Little to emerge dramatically from the fog. But there is nothing to see except the rain. No sound of hoofbeats approaching, only a constant drumming on the glass windows and glass ceiling.
“If he doesn’t return soon, I may need to go out looking for him. Don’t know what he was thinking.” Scorn tries to blot out the shine of Crozier’s concern, but it’s still obvious in every word.
The day progresses, and Thomas tries to keep from staring too long out of windows. Storm clouds are approaching, thundering in like black horses, promising more rain to come. He wants to volunteer to go out into it, cold and damp be damned. Let me be the one to find him. Let me be the one to bring him home. He thinks that he’d be drawn to Little somehow, magnetism or - or gravity or something like that. A hook on a line in a lake, tugging them toward each other.
When the sky begins to darken, Crozier decides to ride out to the Fitzjames’ and see if Little is weathering the storm there. Thomas helps him on with his coat and gloves, just as the first clap of thunder rattles the house.
“Be careful, sir.”
“I’ve ridden in worse than this,” Crozier says with a shake of his head. “If Edward returns before I do, see to him, will you?”
“Of course.” Thomas’ heartbeat is steady. His hands are steady. He does not flinch at the thought of ‘seeing to’ anyone.
“With any luck, he’s sheltering with Ja- the Captain.” Crozier clears his throat. “Well. Not lucky for Edward. Of course. But for my own peace of mind.”
“Safe travels, your Lordship.”
Crozier touches the brim of his hat before setting out into the rain, leaving Thomas in the doorway (is his whole life meant to be lurking in doorways, watching the people he loves walk away from him? It seems a bad lot, even with room and board and a steady income. For once, Thomas wants to be the one traveling beside them. Leading the way, even. Going somewhere new.)
An hour passes, marked by the solemn notes of the hall clock. The butler is just gathering the groundskeeper and stablehands for a potential search party, when one of the maids interrupts them.
“He’s back.”
Thomas freezes, spoonful of broth halfway to his mouth.
“His Lordship?” the butler asks.
“No, sir. Mr. Little.”
Thomas is getting to his feet before the butler even gives the order.
“Mr. Jopson, you should take yourself upstairs. A hot bath may be necessary. If he wishes to have supper in his rooms later, we will make up a tray.”
“Very good, sir.” And that’s as ugly a lie as Thomas has ever told.
He bites into into his cheek as he climbs the stairs, heading down the hallway toward the dressing room. What’s the matter, Thomas? Oh, just draw him a bath, easy as that. Just help him undress and let your eyes wander all over the skin you can't touch. Just warm the man up until he's flushed and opal-eyed, just act like it means nothing to you.
Christ, he’s ruined. A body isn’t meant to be in love this long, he decides, not without being loved back. All that affection takes its toll on the heart, and Thomas’ heart is shite enough already.
Little is waiting in the dressing room that adjoins one of Avonmore’s full baths. When Thomas enters, the man is sitting in an armchair and staring at nothing. The blinds are open but the sky is overcast with the storm, and Little hasn’t even turned on a lamp (Thomas does. When the room floods with light, Little looks at him at last.)
He’s soaked through, still in his sodden greatcoat, still buttoned up to the chin in a linen shirt gone sheer from rain. His hair is slick to his forehead and his eyes are feverishly bright on Thomas’ face. The fire at least has been lit, thank God for that. Thomas would be afraid for the man’s health otherwise. He still is, a bit.
“Oh,” Little says, in his low, lovely voice. "I am sorry."
That is not what Thomas was expecting. It occurs to him that Little apologizes too much, for things he has no right to.
“Whatever for, sir?”
“To cause any worry. Trouble. It’s very good of you to -”
“Sir-”
“Edward.” A droplet of rainwater clings to Little's jaw, runs down his throat. Thomas follows it with his eyes until it disappears beneath the man's collar. “Would you? You did once.”
“Edward.” Thomas says it the way he’s said it in his mind, when he’s alone and when he’s dreaming. When he's brave with himself and his broken heart. “Edward, I’m going to draw you a bath.”
He hangs a towel in front of the fire to warm before he escapes into the large tiled bathroom. He twists the taps and lets the tub start to fill as hot as it can, breathing deeply while the drum of water will drown out the sound of his panic. There are soaps on the ledge and Thomas adds them haphazardly, grateful to have a task in front of him. He's so much better when he's got a job to do, and soon the air is thick with the scent of lavender and bergamot. Clean porcelain and polished brass and copper.
When he returns to the dressing room, Edward gets to his feet, as if he's rising from the supper table to mark the entrance of a fine lady. He’s shivering though, and the sight makes goosebumps climb up Thomas’ neck. Perhaps the chill is catching.
“I got lost,” Edward says, and Thomas nods.
“Of course. It would be easy for anyone in this fog -”
“Not like that.” Edward’s mouth barely moves as he speaks. His lips have gone pale as the pages in a book. Thomas grits his teeth against the urge to pull him close and rub the colour back into his skin - dry his hair, kiss him everywhere the damp has touched him until his body only remembers summer.
But instead.
He approaches the man slowly, professionally even, and slides the soaking coat from Edward’s shoulders. He pretends his hands belong to someone else. Pretends he’s watching this scene play out behind glass, at a safe distance, where it can’t hurt him.
“Compasses don’t work when there’s too much metal about. I didn’t know that.” Edward's voice is distant and distracted. His words don't seem like they're meant for Thomas. “Sometimes you’d get all - turned around. Like you were in a maze. Once I spent two hours - O'Kelly had to find me. Christ knows what he thought."
Thomas hangs Edward’s coat by the fire, then stands there silently. He studies the sheen of water reflecting on his hands.
“I remember looking at the pin - it just kept spinning.” Edward’s voice cracks open on a laugh. “So I kept walking. Thought I was imagining things.”
Thomas doesn’t know what to say, but he wants to hear anything Edward feels safe to tell him. He comes closer once again, and leans in to unwind Edward’s scarf, careful not to let his fingertips brush against skin.
“He died the next day. Not even hours later. I didn't even know, they told me -” Little's eyes suddenly focus, as if realizing that Thomas is in the room with him. He stiffens and pulls back. “Christ, you don’t have to - do anything.”
“Let me.” Thomas slides the braces from Little’s shoulders (his hands are steady.) “You’re freezing.”
“Am I?”
The braces hang at Edward’s sides, and Thomas is faced with the buttons of his shirt. He once had a particularly lovely dream about biting each one off as he slowly dropped to his knees, but that sort of thing feels profane right now. There's a weight in his chest, and Thomas is having trouble breathing beneath it.
“Doubt your hands have enough feeling in them right now to get this shirt undone.” Thomas unbuttons it briskly, mind carefully blank as more and more of Edward’s careful armour is stripped away. He hangs the shirt by the fire too, glad for a small respite from looking at Edward's face.
The roar of running water rings in his ears, but he can still hear his clanging heartbeat underneath it. It seems obvious that there’s something wrong with him, that he should have known he wasn’t fit for the army. How could he have missed it? No one else’s heart is this loud, surely. No one else’s heart chips away at their ribs.
“I wasn’t always like this,” Edward says to his back. Thomas quickly turns to look at him, the man standing there in his damp undershirt and trousers, fabric clinging to him with rain. “I’m - not always like this.”
“I know.” Thomas walks back to him, a hook on a line in a lake, tugged through dark water. “I know you.”
He reaches out and Edward stops his hands.
“I thought of Avonmore.” Edward searches Thomas' face like he's lost, like he's still out wandering in the storm and Thomas is a lantern. “In the dark, when I thought I might - I saw myself back here.”
An anguished sound breaks free from Thomas’ throat at the image (Little alone and terrified, Little lying in the dirt and the darkness, Edward -)
“And - and I saw you, Tom.”
“Sir -” Thomas tries to keep his head clear in the warmth and the steam but Edward's thumb is tracing his wrist, sliding beneath the cuff of his shirt.
“I saw your face and I - God damn me, I wanted -”
“Edward,” Thomas says, and the other man hisses out a breath at the sound of his name. “Please -”
He doesn’t know who moves first. Suddenly he is flush against Edward’s body, suddenly he is pressed back against the floral wallpaper and he is being kissed.
A snarl or a sob rattles out of Edward, vibrating against Thomas’ chest. Edward’s mouth is on his and it is open and wet, biting at his lips; Thomas' hands have somehow found their way into his hair, tilting Edward's head to kiss him more deeply. He distantly hears Edward cry out at the slick taste of his tongue, and Edward’s hands are on his hips, thumbs pressed into his hipbones, pulling them together. He's hard against Thomas - Thomas can feel the outline of his prick through his trousers, and he's ready to beg, ready to drop to his knees and offer anything, is -
“No,” Edward gasps, stepping backwards. “Oh God - I’m -”
The whole world tilts, slides into the sea.
“Sorry.” Thomas’ lips still work even though they’ve been burned clean off. “Sorry. I’m sorry, I -” He stumbles as he pushes off from the wall. It may have been the only thing holding him upright, and he nearly stumbles again. The world is spinning beneath him and even though he reaches out to steady himself, there's nothing to hold onto.
Edward's looking at him with horror, like Thomas is a monster. He’s put so much distance between them, he's so impossibly far away, and the tub is still running and oh fuck it’s over. Thomas did the thing he swore he wouldn't do, he's ruined it and ruined - everything, he’ll lose his job, he’ll lose Edward and -
Thomas staggers from the room like he’s drunk. He jerks open the door and he flees, trips down the hallway with the taste of Edward’s tongue (rain and rain and salt and lemon) in his mouth. He has to cling to the railing on the staircase or he’ll fall; his knees feel like water and can’t carry his weight. Sorry is the only word in his head, sorry so sorry over and over until it's only noise and shapes, no meaning left.
He’s going to be sacked. He’s going to be removed from the house, and he doesn't bloody care. Little will reveal him for what he is, and his Lordship will send him on his way and it doesn’t even matter. Leaving Avonmore won’t be the worst of it. The worst has already happened.
Thomas finds himself leaning against the doorframe of a room he can’t remember walking into. It’s the library. The library, empty and dark with rain lashing on the windows. A room that was shut to all the staff until Edward opened the door.
God, he might be sick.
He wishes he had something to break. A glass to shatter. A heart to squeeze into pulp, useless as any other part of his useless body (better not. It’d be a mess to clean up and he’d be the one doing it.)
There's nothing he can do to fix this, so he does the only thing he knows how.
He goes back downstairs. He does his mending. He lets the walls close in on him and he keeps his hands busy.
He does his job.
(Thomas is twenty-five when his mother dies.
He watches it happen in increments, like the way she’d slice the apples for her pies - each piece thinner and thinner until the last was nearly translucent. You could see right through her in the end.
Thomas sits at her bedside until some kind person lifts him up and takes him away and makes him eat and drink and sleep. He can't remember who it was. His Lordship pays for the doctor and pays for the medicine and pays for the funeral besides. Then he hires Thomas back - after three months away - as his valet.
Thomas comes returns to Avonmore with eyes ringed purple and a year's worth of lines around his mouth. Little does not. Neither does he return the year after. There is too much happening in London - Thomas hears his Lordship speak of it over dinner. He reads the headlines on the papers Crozier studies with his morning coffee.
Thomas wonders about Little much too often - how he's doing, and where he is doing it, and he reads that book of poetry until his vision blurs (when you come back, he thinks, I’ll slip poems under your door. You'll never know who they're from and I'll never tell you, never, as long as I live. But maybe you’ll guess.)
He is twenty-six when England goes to war, and Edward goes with it.
Thomas is twenty-seven, twenty-eight, and the world reels like a carriage on black ice, horses screaming. His heart beats too fast and there are rations and there are wounded men and overfull hospitals and headlines, Christ, there are headlines. There are too many dead and too many missing and Crozier drinks too much and falls down the main staircase, weeping for the first time that Thomas has ever seen ("They’ve no idea, none at all, they're children, fucking children and I'm meant to send them -”)
In the village, a girl gives Thomas a white feather and her mother spits on the ground as she walks past. He avoids the village for a bit after that, after hearing reports of what they’re doing to conchies in London and Manchester.
But he lives. He loses two stone and he lives. He takes on extra work during seeding and harvest, and he burns himself red and raw-skinned and he lives.
He helps his Lordship to bed at night and cleans the sick from his shirt in the morning. He moves the entirety of the wine cellar somewhere it won't be found (into one of the gardening sheds, under the cover of nightfall with help from the remaining footman. It's at his Lordship's request, and Thomas ignores the butler’s righteous and ongoing screed that every bottle is numbered and recorded and accounted for.)
His Lordship is violently ill for a time, but he lives too. And somewhere in France, Edward Little shines like a candle flame, the only light in Thomas’ world. (When you come back, Thomas thinks, I’ll make you laugh. I’ll linger in the parlour looking at your face, I'll steal sips of your wine. I'll say all the things I cannot say in gestures and in glances and it will be enough.)
Every letter that arrives for his Lordship makes the whole of the manor go quiet, waiting for news of who has been lost. Thomas doesn’t ask any questions, forces himself to live on the scraps of information that Crozier lets slip (once, glancing dangerously at an open letter left on his Lordship’s desk. I am well, he read in that familiar, rounded script. I am well, in Edward’s beloved hand, only one year into the war. The three words felt like three burns from the edge of a hot frying pan, and Thomas wanted to press his mouth to the page. Instead he stood there in the empty study, shaking and silent. Thank God. Thank God.)
Edward comes back from the Front, sick with trench fever.
He spends three weeks at Lady Brassey’s Convalescent Home, and his Lordship writes letters to him there while Edward is too ill for visitors. Thomas holds each envelope in his hand before they're sent off, watching them go like the paper ships he used to make as a child and set adrift in ponds and creeks. Wondering where their travels would take them.
When Edward is sent back to Belgium, Thomas blacks out. Mortifying and true; he hears the news and then wakes up on the ground in the kitchen, with a circle of maids peering over him. He blames it on the heat and exhaustion and is sent to his room to rest. That night he tries to write something down for the first time, just so he has somewhere to put all the ache. He's not allowed to write Edward any letters, can't send him an etching as if they were sweethearts, but maybe if he lays it all out on paper it’ll be easier to carry. Even if no one else sees it. He can vomit this feeling into words, and his stomach won’t perpetually twist, and his mouth won’t sting with bile, and he'll be young again. Clean, and hopeful, and unbent by love.
(When you come back, he thinks -
But there's nothing else to say. Come back, is all that he's left with. Come back come back comebackcomebackcomebackcomebackgodfuckcome -)
He stares at his pen and paper instead of sleeping, years of love caught in his throat like dry bread. The pages remain blank.
Thomas is twenty-nine when the war ends.
Twenty-nine when Little returns to England.
Thomas waits for him like a lantern in a window, unsettling the dark.)
The rain continues.
Toward nightfall, a message comes from Captain Fitzjames that his Lordship has been prevailed upon to stay and wait out the storm (the man that delivers the message comes on horseback - the roads being impassable by car. After soup and a cup of tea, he’s sent back with word that Crozier’s nephew is safe and accounted for.)
Which leaves Thomas alone to attend to Mr. Little that evening.
He’s successfully avoided the man since that afternoon. A footman brought a tray up for his supper, so Thomas knows he didn't drown himself in the bath. Thomas has kept himself busy since, in a distracted and unhappy way, but he hasn’t run off. Hasn’t packed his bag and crept into the storm like a stray cat. That must mean something - that some blue-eyed part of him thinks that he can fix this. That he can convince his - friend that he has nothing to fear from Thomas.
That Thomas will never touch him again.
He goes over it all in his head when he’s supposed to be helping the butler count crystal, and checking for leaks in the study. First, he’ll apologize. He ought to have done that properly from the start, ought to have stayed and had it out. He’ll apologize and then he’ll leave Avonmore if that’s what Little wishes. He doesn’t think Little is the type to call the authorities, has more faith in him than that. But perhaps if the man were sufficiently scared - or disgusted -
Thomas’ stomach twists as he climbs the stairs toward Little's room and stands outside his bedroom door, steeling himself for the worst. He tries to bring to mind the look of horror on Little’s face from that afternoon, just so he’s prepared for it, but it keeps shifting (Little on horseback, telling Thomas to come closer slowly. Little in the parlour, candlelit, smiling at him. Little in bed, chilled with sweat, reaching out for Thomas’ hand.)
He pushes his hair out of his eyes. Then he knocks on the door before he loses his nerve, and waits until the man calls out to enter.
Little freezes in place by the window when Thomas comes in, as if he'd been pacing the floor. He opens his mouth but says nothing, so Thomas seizes his chance.
“Sir.” He closes the door behind him but does not come any closer. He tries to ignore the tremor in his voice. “They sent me. I couldn’t refuse or there'd be questions. But I understand if you’d rather I not -”
“Mr. Jopson, you must let me say something."
Oh. Thomas goes quiet, waiting for the axe to take his head clean off. Little nods to himself, swallows, looks anywhere but Thomas.
"God, I am so sorry.”
Thomas has no reply. He tries to remember what the hell he was going to say, all the speeches he had planned, but they're gone. In no version of the terrible events he imagined was Little the one apologizing to him.
“Let me assure you that the events of this afternoon will not be repeated. I regret it. More than I can say. I did not intend to -” Edward stops suddenly, scrubbing his hands across his face. He looks absolutely wretched.
“Of course, sir. I know.” Of course, Little regrets it. Of course it will not happen again. Thomas did not need to be told this.
“I would hate to think our friendship was forever tainted by -” Little swallows. “You were simply performing your - your duties and I sullied it with my - base inclinations.”
"Your -" The rest of that sentence dies in his mouth. Little is still speaking, but Thomas can't put it together, can only stare at the shape his lips make, trying to understand.
“It is wrong. I know that. And you must believe me, I’ve tried not to want you in this way, I swear, but -”
“Tried - not to? Wait, you -" Thomas feels light-headed and he wills his heart to last just a few moments longer. Just beat, old thing, until Thomas can ask the question. “You - want me?”
At the window, Little drops his head. “Please don’t make me say it.”
Thomas just - stares at him. He couldn’t say another word if he wanted to, shocked into silence (there is something dangerous growing inside of him, in his bones, in the marrow; if he holds his breath, he can hear its leaves rustling.)
“To my shame -” Little stutters, “Yes.”
“To your shame?" Yes, he said yes he said yes. "Why?”
“Because you have only ever been decent and - kind. I’ve tried not to think of you - I am trying not to, but -”
(Summer finally crashes over Avonmore. After years of war and winter, all the roses bloom at once.)
“I think of you,” Thomas says, “every single night.”
Little’s head snaps up.
“I think about you.” Thomas crosses the room weightlessly, feet barely skimming the ground. “And I frig my cock and pretend it’s your hand.”
Edward's breath hitches as Thomas approaches. He reaches out, pressing a shaking hand to Thomas' chest as soon as he’s close enough to touch. Thomas doesn’t know whether that hand is meant to pull him closer or keep him at a safe distance. He doesn’t much care when the result is the same; Edward is touching him.
“I want you.” If Thomas can't say it now, what sort of man is he? If he can't say it now, he deserves every white feather he's ever been given. “I always have. And I am - I am not ashamed.”
A broken, hiccoughing sound escapes from Edward’s throat. It's more like a sob than anything else, but then he’s leaning in to kiss Thomas and nothing else matters. He fists both hands in Thomas’ jacket and his mouth is wet and open. He kisses like he's a drowning man, desperate for air, and Thomas tugs him closer by his hair until their chests are pressed together. Their hips. Edward wants him, Edward is kissing him and the whole shining world is spinning beneath his feet.
Edward shudders, writhes against Thomas where their bodies touch. Thomas pulls back to kiss the edge of Edward's jaw, the lobe of his ear and the soft skin behind it. He scrapes his teeth lightly over Edward's neck, tugs aside the collar to get his mouth low on his throat, on his collarbones. He breaths against his skin, and Edward clings to him, arms wrapped tightly around Thomas' waist.
“Your mouth,” Edward murmurs, a bit wild, a bit wondrous, “Tom, your mouth -” and Thomas tilts his head up to find Edward’s lips again. His body is so warm it makes Thomas dizzy and his hands can't stay still. There's too much to touch: the down of Edward's hair, the sandpaper of his jawline, his broad chest and firm stomach. Thomas slides one hand down the front of Edward’s shirt to his trouser placket, feeling out the shape of him through wool and pressing - just - so -
"Tom -" Edward bites off a cry, pulling back to look at him with eyes blown black.
Thomas wants to laugh. He feels languid and whiskey-drunk with wanting. He wants to tear his shirt off, spread his legs, take and take and take whatever Edward will give him. He would crawl on his knees if he was asked, body empty and crying out for Edward's thumb in his mouth or prick down his throat, or anything, anything at all.
But he can feel Edward’s heartbeat rattling in his chest, almost as fast as Thomas’ own. He can see the fluttering pulse in Edward’s jaw, and he breathes against the wave of desire that fills his lungs.
Slow. Slow down.
His hand stills at the waist of Edward’s trousers. “Will you let me?”
“You would?” Edward’s voice is rough with disbelief. He clearly hasn't a clue how lovely he is, or how long Thomas has wanted this. Thomas will have to show him.
“I’d do anything," he says.
The man nods, dumbstruck, and thank God for that. Thomas tugs open his buttons, letting his trousers fall open at his hips. He pushes up Edward’s shirt until he can get his hand on the man’s stomach. His skin is warm and soft as silk, and there’s a thick trail of black hair below his navel. Thomas pets it and Edward shivers.
“Sit down on the bed.”
Edward obediently stumbles backwards to sit, thighs falling open and chest heaving.
"Good." Thomas allows himself a brief moment to admire the man before dropping to his knees.
“Christ.” Edward hisses out a breath as Thomas presses kisses up his linen-covered thigh, a kiss to his bare hip, a kiss where his cock pushes hard and hot against his underclothes. He palms Edward through the fabric, then follows his hand with his mouth. On the coverlet, Edward’s fingers are clenched in a white-knuckled grip. When Thomas glances up, he sees that Edward’s other hand is pressed over his mouth. His hips rock restlessly again, and he flushes as he meets Thomas' gaze.
“I’m so sorry -” He’s too much a gentleman, even now, trembling with restraint. Thomas can’t have that.
“Anything,” he says again. Taking pity on Edward's wrecked expression, Thomas pushes his trousers and pants farther down on his hips, revealing his gorgeous prick at last. The sound Edward makes is like a cry of pain, and Thomas’ own cock aches in sympathy. He can feel it between his legs, oversensitive against the rough wool of his uniform.
"God blind me, sir." Thomas touches Edward's prick gently, traces the tips of his fingers up a heavy vein to circle the tip, basking in the way Edward gasps as he does. He needs a delicate touch, Thomas reckons. A man this fine is something to be savoured. "Aren't you pretty."
His cock is bigger than Thomas' own, thicker, and he draws his mouth over it with a sigh, letting the head briefly catch on his lower lip.
“Tom, you -”
“Do you want this in my mouth?” Thomas asks, pressing a dry kiss to the head, and following it with a lash of tongue. Edward tastes like the ocean Thomas has never visited, and the sound he makes is obscene. “Do you want me to get it wet and let you spend down my throat? I’d like that, sir.”
At the ‘sir,’ Edward’s hips jerk, a shallow and helpless thrust. Thomas almost grins; he might have seen that coming.
“Or would you like my hand? Milking it out of you slowly, keeping you right on the edge. I could do that, keep you there for an hour maybe. Could kiss you at the same time.”
“Kiss me now. Would you?” Edward's voice is so tentative and polite that Thomas wouldn't dream of saying no. He rises up on his knees and Edward leans down, slotting their mouths together.
“Or would you like something else?” Thomas asks, lips damp against Edward's. He hardly dares say it, just the thought makes him wild. "Would you like to be between my legs? Lie me down like I'm your proper sweetheart? God - Edward, would you -"
“I want everything.” Edward’s voice is rough. "I want you."
“All right. Yes. Everything."
He kisses his way back down Edward's chest, undoing buttons as he goes.
"Let me taste you first - is that all right? Is this -”
“I won’t last.”
“Just a taste -”
“Oh.” Edward’s hands curve against Thomas’ skull as he lowers his mouth to the man’s cock. He feels the stretch at the corners of his lips as he takes as much as he can. He can't take all of Edward, not nearly enough and Jesus, he wants so much more. “You - oh .”
Thomas pulls off slowly, hollows his cheeks as he sucks at the head before relaxing his jaw, trying to take Edward deeper. With his free hand he drags blunt nails up Edward’s thighs, tugs gently at his stones in a way that makes Edward nearly sob. Thomas tastes him - tastes the salt sweetness of him, tongues at the fluid that spills over in slick pulses. I'm doing this to you, he thinks, You're this wet for me, because of me. He forgets about his own pleasure, about his cock in his trousers, desperate to be tugged or sucked or rubbed up against something (Edward's leg would do at this point.) Tom could stay here forever, he’d never get tired of the sounds that Edward makes. They could build a statue to commemorate his legacy, here in this room, on his knees with his mouth stretched wide. A sinner and a penitent both.
“Please,” Edward says, tugging gently at Thomas' hair. Reluctantly, Thomas draws slowly off the man’s cock. “I want to know -" He smooth his hands over Thomas’ shoulders. Then hesitantly, he moves them to his collar. “May I?”
Thomas immediately goes still.
He doesn’t know why. He has dressed and undressed many men in his life, helped his Lordship and his Lordship’s guests out of their trousers too many times to count. But he has never had the favour returned.
He doesn’t know if it’s something he’ll care for. Doesn’t know if it’s something he can stand. No one's ever looked at him bare, or not since he was a lad. No one's ever - touched him like this.
But for some reason, against his better judgement, he's nodding.
Edward looks so grateful, as if Thomas has just given him a gift. His hands are impossibly careful on the buttons of Thomas' shirt, like he's afraid he might break something. Like Thomas is precious (he doesn't he know that Thomas is shoe-leather at this point, nothing fragile about him. Or maybe he does know that, but his hands clearly don't.) There’s an unbearable intimacy about it - the slow movements, the unintentional brush of skin on skin - and Thomas swallows back an unexpected well of emotion. There's no reason for him to be so affected by it, but when Edward’s hands start at his cuffs, he realizes he’s trembling.
"All right?" Edward asks, and Thomas nods again, unable to speak.
Edward kisses each of his palms as he slides them free from Thomas’ sleeves. His shirt falls to the floor, and a prickle of goosebumps rises over his chest.
“Stand up.” There’s a trace of imperiousness creeping into Edward’s tone, and Thomas likes it more than well enough to obey. When he gets to his feet, Edward just looks at him. His eyes move over Thomas’ shoulders, down over his stomach to his belt, his hips, the desperate curve of his cock beneath his trousers. Maybe he's too underfed for Edward's tastes. Maybe his ribs are too sharp. Maybe -
Edward makes a pained sound, and tugs Thomas forward by his belt loops. He does not expect the man's mouth on his naval. Does not expect a slow, hot kiss to his exposed skin. A moan breaks from Thomas like water trapped in stone as Edward's lips drag across Thomas’ stomach, hipbones, chest.
“I haven’t - since I returned,” Edward presses his forehead to Thomas’s breastbone. His hair is damp with sweat. “And there are some things I’ve never -”
“That’s all right,” Thomas leans down to kiss him. “I’ll take care of you."
He helps pull Edward’s partially undone shirt off over his head. “Lie back,” he says, “sir.”
Edward does. Sprawled backwards on the rust-green coverlet, eyes tightly closed, he is more a work of art than a person (Thomas would pay to see him in a gallery.) There are whorls of black hair on his stomach and chest, and he’s solid, with a spattering of scars on his ribs. Stubble shadows his jaw and throat, and his nipples are incongruously pink and soft like a woman’s. They're the colour of rose petals, and Thomas wants to take them between his teeth. Later, he promises himself, drunk on the wild notion that he’ll have time.
He kneels and pulls Edward’s trousers off properly, one leg after the other. Edward has a bruise on his left knee like a violet, and Thomas presses his lips to it. He lets his mouth wander a bit: kisses his thigh, and then his hip. Presses his face to the thatch of dark hair at the base of Edward's cock, lush and fragrant. An entirely selfish creature, Thomas gives one last kiss to the head of Edward's gorgeous prick - briefly, before he gets too carried away. He feels Edward’s moan more than hears it, a vibration that hums in his hands (once, when he was young, a maid let him put his palm on the lid of the gramophone as it played, and Tom will never forget the feeling of music.) Then he straightens up, undoes his belt and slips out of the rest of his clothes. He toes off his shoes and socks, feels the warmth of the firelight against his naked back.
Edward’s eyes are open now.
Thomas knows where everything is kept in this room. On the vanity, there is oil that Edward uses in his hair and his whiskers; it smells like artemisia. He brings it to the bed.
“Show me,” Edward asks, and Thomas kisses him and kisses him, and does.
It shouldn’t be as easy as it is.
It’s been years since someone properly had him, but he never took much warming up beforehand. He’s the kind of man who likes the ache, and - thighs spread wide across the hips of Edward Little, oil shining on his fingers - Thomas is liquid gold. He stretches himself while Edward stares up at him, mouth open in a gasp that Thomas wants to taste.
“Christ, you’re beautiful.” Edward’s fingers tremble on Thomas’ hips, featherlight and tentative. He makes a cut-off, choking sound as Thomas takes his cock in his oil-slick hand, strokes it slow and tight for a moment. Then Thomas rises up on his knees and reaches behind himself to guide Edward’s cock where he wants it.
“There we are,” Thomas whispers. "Just there, sir."
It burns but in a blissful way, and Thomas bites down on his lip to give his body something else to think about for a moment. His stomach muscles clench and his thighs tremble in an effort to relax. Inch by blessed inch, Edward is inside him. Thomas can feel the man's heartbeat between his legs, and the tightening of fingers on his waist, holding him in place.
“Don’t - ah, move.” Edward’s voice is impossibly tight, jaw clenched. Sweat prickles at his hairline, like diamonds in the firelight. “Please -”
Thomas doesn’t move. He waits, breathing slowly through the sensation, luxuriating in the pleasure-pain of it. Edward looks ruined, and when Thomas shifts just slightly to run his fingers through Edward’s hair, the man cries out.
“Jesus - Tom, if - if you move, I’ll -”
The thought of the man spending just like this makes a wave of desire roll through him. “Let me have it then.” He wants that. He wants Edward utterly undone.
“No - not like this. You’ve barely - give me a moment.”
Thomas exhales unsteadily and waits, eyes locked with Edward’s. Eventually, he reaches out for Thomas' hands, takes one in each of his.
“Like this? Can we -?”
“Yes,” Thomas says, and has never meant anything more.
It doesn’t take long. They keep their hands laced together as Thomas works himself slowly on Edward’s cock. He can't keep his eyes off the man’s face as he is fucked: the bitten lips, the dour brows, those long bloody eyelashes that first made Thomas such a wreck. There’s an ache in his chest like a blade, but it’s a dull thing compared to the pleasure that he feels every time he moves, and every time he bottoms out, and every time Edward gasps beneath him.
"I'm nearly - God, I can't -"
“You can,” Thomas murmurs, “You can, you can,” and Edward grits his teeth, shakes his head frantically and holds on. Sweat rolls down Thomas’ spine, drips down his forehead, and the noises Edward makes - bitten back and swallowed down - are something that will be burned into Thomas' memory permanently. Thirty years from now, he’ll wake in the dark and hear the same melody in his ears. Fifty years from now, he’ll touch himself at the thought and lick his fingers clean.
Edward’s thrust become more frantic as the end approaches. His hips lift urgently from the bed, grinding his cock into a spot that makes Thomas see bonfire night behind his eyelids.
“Oh, yes sir."
Edward pushes himself up into a sitting position and wraps an arm around Thomas’s back. The change in angle is good, better than good, and Thomas' prick is trapped between their writhing bodies. The friction of Edward’s hair and skin is all he needs - he goes off far sooner than he thought he would, spurting across Edward’s chest and stomach, fingers clenched on Edward’s biceps and so good so fucking good he nearly goes blind with it -
"Kiss me," he manages, and Edward does. It's less a proper kiss than shared breath, but it's what Thomas needs as he trembles through the aftershocks, boneless with pleasure.
A gentleman until the end, Edward waits for Thomas to nod before he continues. Then he holds him tightly in place, fucking him in earnest. The bed frame jostles against the wall with each thrust of his hips and Thomas is oversensitive and wrung out but still wants more. His cock aches and his hips ache and he thinks he could come again if Edward just didn't - stop -
“You beauty -” Edward gasps, “You beauty, you -”
He bites down on Thomas’ collarbone as he comes.
Time gets away from him a bit after this. Their foreheads are pressed together and Thomas feels dizzy, drunk with touch. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to leave this bed, doesn't think his arms and legs will allow it. He breathes against Edward's skin, and Edward is saying something quiet, and Thomas can't quite make out the words.
It happens again, and now Thomas is lying down. One of Edward’s hands is in his hair, and the other is around his waist. Thomas is sticky with sweat and spend and still feels holy, like a saint. He should be surrounded with candles. Old women should be leaving offerings at his feet.
“You. You are utterly -” Edward doesn't finish that thought, blushing and glancing away shyly. Thomas is too fond of him, it’s ridiculous.
“So are you,” he says, and Edward huffs a laugh.
He brushes his thumb across the red mark he left on Thomas’ collarbone, the faint indent of teeth. A frown darkens his face. “I shouldn’t have been so rough. I didn't realize -”
“It’s all right. I like it.”
“But I hurt you -”
“Hush, love, it’s -” The word leaves his mouth before he can censor himself. He doesn't even think about it until it's too late.
Edward's face goes expressionless and Thomas - cannot speak, cannot come up with a way to repair this. He should pretend Edward misheard - make him laugh, distract him. The longer he waits the worse it will be, he should just -
“I loved you too.”
Edward should have just punched Thomas in the stomach, the effect would be the same.
“Back then." Edward swallows. "Did you know?”
The room is blurry, Edward's face suddenly out of focus. Thomas doesn't know why his eyes are failing him. and he doesn’t know why his heart wants to kill him but it does (he decides then and there not to let it.)
“No.” He barely manages the single syllable. His voice is thick and sounds like a stranger's.
Edward kisses Thomas' collarbone, and then his jaw, and then the corner of his eye. His lips come away wet, but Thomas pretends not to notice.
“Can you stay? For a little while?”
These are stolen moments and they both know it. Thomas will be needed; he’s probably already been missed. Time is not a luxury that he was born swimming in.
But the war is over. Somehow Edward made his way home.
“For a little while," he says, ignoring all the reasons he should go. He lies there in the darkness, watching Edward’s eyelashes dip. Listens to his breathing even out, feels the hand in his hair go limp and heavy. He waits. He won’t fall asleep, he tells himself, he’ll just stay here for a few moments more. Just a few.
He waits.
He lives.
“I loved you too,” Thomas says, the words as quiet as he can make them. (Edward breathes like a stone skipping over a calm sea, and Thomas loves him still.)
He wakes slowly, damp with sweat. The rain is still coming down hard outside, and Edward’s mouth is warm on the back of his neck. Thomas smiles in the darkness (thank God, it’s still dark, there’s time) and arches his back. When his hips shift, he feels the hard outline of Edward’s cock, and the man behind him moans.
“Awake, are we?” Thomas asks, grinding back against him.
“Christ,” Edward gasps, his voice beautifully ruined. “Thomas, you - can’t.”
Thomas purrs at the slide of skin behind him, the warmth and rasp of Edward’s chest hair.
“Can you? God, could you again -“
“Yes.”
“Please, can I -“
Thomas is still slick and loose from earlier. The slight tenderness is nothing compared to the want he feels. It is a simple matter to place Edward’s hand against his knee, show the man how to spread him. He feels the tentative nudge of Edward's cockhead, hears Edward cry out softly behind him.
“Oh - you’re wet, you’re still -”
For you, Thomas wants to say. Wants to tell Little that he’ll keep himself just like this, all the time, every moment, so that Little can fuck him when and wherever he pleases. He’ll keep himself slicked and stretched and ready for Little to slide into, to take and wreck at the slightest notice.
Instead he makes a sound of protest as the pressure against him retreats. Edward is pulling away, leaving Thomas bereft, starving -
Large warm hands are turning him onto his back. Edward climbs on top of him, slots between his thighs like he was always meant to be there.
“I want to see your face,” Edward murmurs. “Is this all right? Like - like this?”
It shouldn’t feel so heavy and precious, but it does. Edward wants to see his face, and Thomas doesn’t want to see anything else for the rest of his bloody life. In the darkness he stares at the man above him, trails gentle hands through his beard and wild hair until Edward moans, a broken-sounding thing.
“Can I -“
“I’ll go mad if you don’t.”
They fit together too well. Edward is inside him again, that pleasure that borders on pain, the stretch Thomas can feel in his stomach and his heart. It is slow and patient, and with every thrust Edward gasps a little, presses a desperate kiss to Thomas’ mouth and jaw and throat. His hands push Thomas’ knees back against his chest, the rock of his hips like an ocean as Thomas is filled and filled again.
“I would have you,” Edward says, teeth clenched together, “like this -”
“Yes -“
“Always.”
Everything in Thomas sings at that word. Neither of them say anything else for a very long time.
The next time Thomas wakes, Edward has rolled onto his side, facing away from him. He takes a moment to lie there and fall in love with Edward's back and his shoulders and the hair that curls at the nape of his neck. Beautiful.
Thomas, on the other hand, smells like sex. His thighs are sore, and his clothes are - God, who knows? They’ll be in a fine state when he finds them. It’s still dark out, but not dark enough, and he feels shabby in the queasy grey light.
He needs to go. He should have left a long time ago.
He moves as quietly as he can, a silence drawn from years of practice as a servant, unnoticed and unnoticeable. He holds his breath as he peels himself from the bed where Edward sleeps. The night air is a shock to his skin, and he feels for his trousers and shirt on the floor, pulling them on briskly.
(Congratulations, Thomas, on being another member of the help willing to spread his legs for the upper crust. He won’t look at you again, will he, now that he’s had you. Hope it was worth it.)
The monologue in his head is not a flattering one, but perhaps that comes from getting what you want.
“You’re going?” Edward mumbles, voice dull with sleep.
Thomas doesn’t stop dressing, but the cruelty in his head becomes less vicious. “Yes, um. Past time I did.”
“Right. Of course.” Edward shifts beneath the covers, running a hand through his hair and making even more of a mess of it than it was before. It makes something catch in Thomas’ throat, like a snag in a silk. “If there’s any trouble -”
“There won’t be.” Thomas is less worried than he should be, perhaps, but he won’t make Edward fret over it. Not for a moment.
“Would you come with me?"
Thomas is searching the floor for his jacket, and it takes a moment for the the words to reach him, distracted as he is. He straightens immediately, jacket crumpled in his hands. He looks at Edward and just - looks.
"If I left. Here, I mean. England. If I went somewhere, would you -”
There's a soft thump as the jacket slides out of Thomas' grip and lands at his feet. He doesn't bother bending down to grab it, can't quite remember how that's done. Edward sits up in bed, and the sheet slides down his chest. Thomas is briefly distracted from the absurdity of the question by Edward's absurdly pretty nipples. Unfair.
“That sounds - sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t have even - I know it is a - question.”
“Just a bit,” Thomas says, throat very dry.
“I don't have any immediate plans, it would take time. And I know you love my uncle. I know you wouldn’t leave lightly.”
Thomas shakes his head. "That is not -"
“But I might need to be somewhere other than - here. For a few months, perhaps longer. I have family in America, and - money, and - it would be nothing to have you with me.”
"As your - servant." What other options could there be? It's not a bad offer, at least they'd be together.
“As my friend.” Edward shifts again, and the sheet slides down to his hips. Against his will, Thomas is drawn forward to touch his skin. He presses a thumb into the muscle of Edward's shoulder just because he can, rubbing out the tension there. Then he presses a kiss to the same spot.
“You would have me be your kept man, sir,” Thomas murmurs, and Edward takes his hand. Looks up into his eyes.
“I would have you be whatever kind of man you like.” He kisses Thomas’ knuckles, and the gentleness makes Thomas flinch, like he’s had a static shock. “I would have you nearby.” Edward unfolds Thomas’ hand, kisses his palm. “I would keep you close to me. If that was something you wanted. I would want that."
Edward kisses Thomas’ wrist then, and Thomas sighs and leans down to steal Edward’s mouth for his own. He is climbing into the man’s lap, threading his hands through his hair as their mouths meet and the kiss deepens. It’s too easy to imagine other mornings like this: on a ship, in a hotel room, staring across tables at each other, living off private glances until they were alone. Edward might be melancholy but Thomas would take care of him. Edward might get lost sometimes, but Thomas would find him. He would make sure Edward ate, would wake him from nightmares. He would tug Edward's hair just sharply enough that Edward would gasp and kiss him. Thomas would help the man shave and then get to his knees for him. Thomas would love him, until -
Until Edward came to his senses. Grew bored and distant. Married a woman from the appropriate circles and left Thomas on a street corner with a suitcase and a few shillings for his trouble. Isn’t that what always happens with this sort of thing?
It won’t end well. These sorts of stories never do. Tom might get a few good weeks, just enough to forget himself, and then have the rest of his life to sweep up the ashes.
“You’re a terrible romantic, sir,” Thomas says quietly (the trouble is, he likes Edward Little. It’s the stupidest thing.) “I have to go.”
Edward buries his face against Thomas’ neck, breathes him in. Thomas savours the moment, trying hard not to think about anything beyond the walls of this room. He'll have time for that later.
“I know it’s a great deal to ask." Edward's voice is warm and rough against his skin. "But I - had to ask. I’ve wanted to.”
Thomas nods. Kisses him on the cheek before he leaves.
He navigates the darkness silently on the way back to his room. He's very conscious of where a floorboard might creak, or how gently to open a door so that the hinges don't whine. The house is asleep, for now, but it won't be long until the new day starts in earnest. Thomas has wasted too much time already, acting like it's something he can afford to spend.
He has almost reached the staircase that will take him to the attic, when he passes by an open window. The storm has stopped and the night sky is cloudless, clear as a river. Thomas pauses for just a moment, studying the shadowy hills, the trees beyond, the grey road disappearing on its way to the village. How many times has he walked that road and wished he would never come to the end of it?
He could say yes.
To Edward, to all of it. He could find some reason for going, no one on staff would need to know the truth. He’s clever, didn’t they always say he was clever? He could fit in with Edward’s friends and family, he’s certain of it. They’d be like Edward, so Thomas would love them. He’s been dreaming of running all his life, and now he’s got a ticket on offer, all he has to do is take it.
If only he knew that his Lordship was settled. Thomas couldn't leave Crozier with no one to take care of him, not after everything the man had done for Thomas and his family. He'd worry constantly about his Lordship's health, his well-being, his loneliness. There's no possibility of Thomas going anywhere without knowing that Crozier has companionship (he’d find another valet in a heartbeat, Thomas, don’t fancy yourself more important than you are. At the end of the day, you're not his family, you're a servant, and you aren't the only one he depends upon. There may even be someone in particular - you've noticed it yourself, you've long suspected, perhaps it's time -)
Thomas rolls his eyes at himself. Clutching at excuses, trying to convince himself they're true.
If only he had more savings, that’s another thing. He wouldn’t want to rely on Edward for everything. How long would it be before that wore thin? Thomas would need to have options if the whole thing fell apart (but he could sell the cottage, couldn’t he? His sister would be in favour of the income, she’d brought it up before. It wouldn’t be much, but it’d be something and then Thomas could feel more like an equal, and maybe he could find some work in America, he was good with people, maybe -)
“Stop it,” Thomas says under his breath. The words leave a puff of steam against the windowpane.
If only he had any certainty at all. That's the heart of things. He has no idea what might happen if he left, if they went away together. Edward might change his mind in a matter of days. Might leave Thomas in the middle of a foreign country, might grow callous and cruel.
At the horizon, there’s the promise of dawn, but some lingering stars are still visible in the grey sky. There’s an odd cluster of them that catches Thomas’ eye. They seem particularly bright for the early hour. Possibly even out of place.
Thomas doesn't believe he's seen them before.
Certainty, what rubbish. What absolute shite, what nonsense, what is he doing -
When Edward opens his bedroom door to the sound of quiet knocking, he finds Thomas standing there, breathless.
“Yes,” Thomas says. “I will. Yes.”
Edward is beautiful and sleep-mussed, dressing gown hastily belted around his waist. Tom watches him blink the drowsiness from his eyes, sees the slow transformation of confusion into hope. It is like dawn breaking. Like grey turning gold.
“You’ll come with me?”
“Yes.” Thomas swallows against the lump rising in his throat. If he starts crying - and he won’t, but if he does - he’ll never forgive himself. “Wherever you want to go.”
“You will.”
“I will.”
Edward tilts slightly, like he might fall over. He reaches a hand out to steady himself against the doorframe, and Thomas laughs, puts his fingers on top of Edward’s. Edward blushes pink as a sunrise (Thomas remembers that colour. It was everywhere once. He hasn't forgotten.)
By the time Thomas reaches his room, all the stars have vanished, and a sliver of the new day is rising. He stands at his small attic window, letting the light touch him.
He'll go back downstairs in a few moments, pretend he’s had any sleep at all and is ready to get to work. He'll bring Edward a cup of tea, perhaps, once the fires in his room are lit. His Lordship will return at some point, and with any luck the night has done him and the Captain both some good. Thomas is hopeful. It's an unfamiliar feeling, but he thinks he can remember how to hold it. It might just take some practice.
He stares out the window and listens to Avonmore waking up around him.
The sounds are comforting, and steady as a song.
Beneath his breastbone, his heart beats, and it is steady too.
Mostly steady.
Maybe a bit fast.