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The smell of blood is thick and coppery in the air, metallic, permeating the entire wing, and as he runs down the corridor, Thomas wonders how anyone could have missed it for so long, allowed it to get so strong. All it needs is some mud and shit mixed in, and it would smell exactly like the front, like the place he’d barely escaped from with his life, the place that’s followed him here, all the way back to Downton, and tried to claim one more life.
Thomas’ boots skid on the floor as he rounds the corner, and for a moment, everything is laid out in front of him like a tableau: the crumpled sheets, stained dark and dripping, Edward’s ghastly pale face, turned to the side, his curly, reddish hair lying lank on the pillow, and one hand extended, reaching towards Thomas, its wrist a garish, gore-smeared mess. Thomas coughs, choking on the bile that threatens to rise up in his throat, and charges forward, his fingers fumbling and clumsy as he grasps Edward’s wrist, fighting through the carnage and trying to find any whisper of life, any sign that he might still be there…
~*~
… and finding it, feeling a faint, fluttering thrum under his fingertips, and Thomas nearly sobs with relief as he clamps his hand down over the wound, putting pressure on it so it can’t bleed anymore, and bellowing for help, his cries waking everyone in the ward.
The next hour or so passes in a blur; Thomas switches to the part of himself that had survived in the trenches, the part that knows how to save a man’s life, and he’s never wanted to save one more than this one. He barks orders at the nurses, frightening one poor girl to hysterical tears, but he can spare no sympathy for her, nor would he. She has seen nothing of what he’s seen, she doesn’t know what the war is truly like. He works with grim, focused determination, first stemming the blood flow and then stitching the wound closed. By the time the Major arrives, sleepy-eyed and wearing his pajamas under his overcoat, the lieutenant is stabilized, although still too pale, his heartbeat too weak, and when the Major decides the man needs a blood transfusion, Thomas wordlessly rolls up his sleeve and bares the inside of his elbow.
The Major raises an eyebrow at that, but performs the procedure anyway, and as Thomas watches the blood drain from his arm and into Edward’s, he thinks he sees a faint flush of color return to the lieutenant’s cheeks. He prays silently, thanking a god that he stopped believing in a long time ago for the type O blood flowing through his veins, a twist of birth that he never thought about but ended up being a blessing.
Even after the transfusion is done, Thomas lingers, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion and his hands shaking with nerves, and the Major allows him to stay. He settles in a chair beside Edward’s bedside, on his side without the bandages and clumsy stitches, and watches his chest rise and fall as the sun rises and paints the room in golds and reds.
~*~
Edward doesn’t stir until midmorning, and by then Thomas’ eyes feel like they’ve been filled with sand, but he refuses to leave. He’s been excused from his morning duties—at Lady Sybil’s insistence, and he half-thinks she’d be in here beside him if they could afford to lose two able-bodied workers in one morning—and when Edward starts to move and shift, he squeezes his hand gently.
“Hello there.” He wants to kick himself almost as soon as the words leave his lips, what a ridiculous thing to say, but then Edward turns his head and opens his eyes, and Thomas has never felt such joy course through his body.
“Corporal Barrow?” Edward’s voice is faint, hazy, and when he swallows his throat makes a dry, clicking sound. “Where are we?”
Thomas leans in, telling himself it’s so Edward won’t have to strain his voice, knowing it’s because he wants to be close to him and feel his breath on his cheek. It’s cruel, taking advantage of Edward’s blindness this way, but it’s not as though it hurts anyone. “Still in Downton.” He squeezes Edward’s hand again, folding his other hand over the top of it and fighting to not lift it to his lips to kiss. “You gave us quite the scare last night.”
Edward’s brow furrows, and Thomas wonders if he doesn’t remember, if the blood loss has affected his mind, and he opens his mouth to explain when Edward sighs and shifts his hand between Thomas’, and his mouth snaps shut. Thomas scarcely dares to breathe as Edward squeezes his hand back, so weakly but definitely there, and stares up at the ceiling with his blind, blank eyes.
“Who saved me? Was it you?”
Thomas nods before remembering Edward can’t see, then clears his throat. “Yes, sir. I’m the one that found you.”
Edward sighs again, and pulls his hand out of Thomas’ grasp. “Then I’m sorry for wasting your time, Corporal.”
Thomas sits back in his chair, stung, and a thousand words bubble up at the back of his throat, fighting to break past his teeth: it wasn’t a waste of time—how could you do that, Edward, why would you want to leave me behind—weren’t you listening, didn’t you hear me tell you to fight your claim—you can do it, I know you can, you can take what’s yours and be a finer lord than your brother ever would be—don’t leave me behind, you’re the only person in this great bloody hall who cares about me, don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave…
But instead, he swallows them down and stands up, brushing the creases out of his pants. “I’ll go get the Major, sir,” he tells Edward, and moves towards the door. He’s almost gone before Edward speaks up again.
“Corporal?”
He turns, and is glad Edward can’t see the way his face lights up, the way he wants to come back slathering at his bedside like a puppy. “Yes, sir?”
“Go and have a cigarette.” Thomas thinks, just for a moment, that he sees a faint smile dancing at the corner of Edward’s mouth. “I can’t smell the smoke on you, so it’s clearly been too long.”
~*~
Edward does not move to Farley Hall. Ladies Sybil and Isobel campaign heavily for him, and for turning the Abbey into a convalescent home, and telegrams fly fast and furious between the Abbey and the front. Matthew Crowley allows it, of course—for a man who is set to inherit great wealth, he came from the middle classes, and Thomas can respect him in a way he doesn’t respect any of the others—and within two weeks time Thomas has been promoted, given dominion over Carson (something he takes deep and gleeful pleasure in knowing), and the Abbey is a working home for injured men. By then the scabs on Edward’s wrist have grown thick and solid, and he’s allowed to resume his daily walks around the grounds.
It doesn’t matter what Thomas is doing when that time comes; he makes time for Edward’s walk. At first, Lady Sybil offered to assist him, and accompany the lieutenant on some of them, so that Thomas could have a rest, but his constant refusal has tempered her efforts, and she no longer tries to ask. She may care for him, in her own way, Thomas thinks greedily, but Edward is his. He saved him, he reads his letters to him, he encourages and persuades and even gently bullies the man as needed, and no one else can have him. Not while he’s here, not while he still resides in Thomas’ domain.
Edward doesn’t say much on their walks, more focused on using his cane to sweep the ground in front of him for obstacles. Thomas no longer needs to tell him what’s coming up; he’s learned to push things away with the tip of the cane, and tap carefully around larger items, finding his own way around them. Every time Edward flicks a small stone off the path with his cane, Thomas feels his pride and respect for him grow, for the way he’s learning, all over again, how to move through his environment.
“That’s very well done,” he tells him one day, as they sit in the pavilion on the grounds, far from the Abbey and secluded from everyone else. Thomas likes it out here, has always liked it out here, and he sometimes fantasizes about pushing Edward backwards onto the marble floor of the structure and kissing him until he’s gasping and panting underneath him, pleading for more. Thomas has spent more than one night touching himself, stroking himself under his blankets, to that very thought.
Edward shrugs, dismissive as always of his own accomplishments, and Thomas lights a cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a cloud above them. “It’s true, you’ve come a long way, and…”
“May I have one?”
Thomas stops, and looks over, his brow drawn low. “I’m sorry?”
“A cigarette. May I have one?”
“I didn’t know you smoked.” Thomas is secretly delighted at the prospect of sharing with Edward, and strongly considers offering him the one he’s just lit, if only so their lips could have touched the same thing. But he takes out his cigarette case and lighter instead, putting one slim cylinder in Edward’s hand and waiting for him to put it in his mouth to light it.
Edward draws deep on the cigarette; too deep, and he yanks it away from his face so he can cough. Thomas pounds on his back, amused, until Edward gains control of himself.
“I don’t,” he admits, and almost smiles, and it’s like the sun breaking through the clouds and lighting up the entire world, as if Thomas had never seen the light before. “But it seems a good time to start.” He draws again, more carefully this time, and blows the smoke out immediately.
“I can tell.” Thomas leans closer, and he can hear the cheek in his own voice. “You’re doing it entirely incorrect.”
“Am I?” Edward looks genuinely surprised. “What’s the right way?”
“You need to hold the smoke in your lungs for a moment, or you shan’t get any kind of benefit from it.” Thomas demonstrates, drawing deep on his own cigarette and holding the smoke in, then exhaling noisily for Edward’s benefit. “Like that. Perhaps not for that long, though. It may surprise you to know that this isn’t my first cigarette.”
“Truly shocking, Mr. Barrow.” And this time Edward really does smile, for the first time since Thomas has known him, and it’s good they’re alone, because Thomas ogles him like a lovestruck schoolgirl as he takes a careful, shallow draw on the cigarette, holds the smoke, and blows it out. “Like that?”
“Just like that.”
~*~
Summer comes to the Abbey, hot and cloying, and cicadas shriek in the trees. Their uniforms, made for a colder clime, grow damp and pungent under their arms and down the line of their backs, and Thomas finds himself almost nostalgic for the days when he could escape to the basement of the Abbey with the other staff, where it’s always cool and shady.
Bewilderingly, Edward loves the heat, and pesters Thomas to take him out on the grounds more often, finding him with unerring precision during the day and appearing at his elbow. It would be tremendously annoying, if it were anyone else; when it’s Edward, Thomas finds his heart melting, and he can deny the other man nothing, even if his requests entail Thomas getting sweaty and disgruntled out in the heat.
They eventually reach a compromise of sorts, and take their walks along the edge of the woods, where Thomas can stand in the shade and Edward can let the sun beat down on his shoulders, illuminating the reddish tints in his hair and making them shine like copper pennies. He walks more confidently now, using his cane like an extension of his arm, and Thomas thinks, with regret, that soon he won’t need him at all.
Edward shows no sign of wanting further independence, though, and keeps his arm linked companionably through Thomas’, a touch and closeness Thomas has come to crave, and keeps up a steady banter of questions about the crops and fields around them. Thomas knows nothing about farming, and can only give him nondescript, vague answers, which just makes Edward ask more questions. It nearly reaches the point where Thomas asks to borrow a book from the Abbey’s library, just so he can keep up with Edward’s barrage, but then Edward shifts his language and starts asking questions Thomas can answer—what shape are the leaves? are the plants close to the ground or do they grow high? are there flowers, or only green?—and the issue resolves itself, thank heavens; Thomas hadn’t been looking forward to studying a dry tome on farming.
August dawns sticky and humid, and even Edward’s craving for heat subsides a bit. He’s more content to take walks in the woods now, despite the greater difficulty of walking on a wooded trail, and Thomas takes a certain satisfaction in how he grips his arm more tightly and presses closer against him, pretending it’s because Edward wants to be close to him and not because he’s afraid of falling. The summer has been quiet on the front as well, and with fewer soldiers in the Abbey, Thomas takes to asking Daisy to make them sandwiches before they leave, and they eat in the woods.
He likes watching Edward eat, likes watching the careful way he uses his hands, long-fingered and graceful, the way he takes small bites and how his throat works as he swallows, and Thomas longs to press his lips against Edward’s pulse, to hide his face in the crook between Edward’s neck and shoulder and breathe deep, filling himself with his scent. He wants to touch him, more than a simple arm offered in guidance, but to really touch him, to slide his hands under his clothing and over his pale, secret skin, to learn every scar and freckle on his body, to see him trembling with anticipatory lust underneath him. Thomas knows that Edward could decide to go back to his estate at any time, that he’s done all he can do at the Abbey, and he lives in fear of waking up one morning to find that Edward decided to leave during the night. It would be fitting, with the rest of one Thomas Barrow’s life, if Edward were to slip away in the night without saying goodbye. But every morning he’s in the Great Hall, eating his breakfast and talking quietly with the other men, and Thomas feels his heart lighten at the sight, and sometimes he lets himself believe that Edward is lingering behind because of him.
“What are you going to do when this is all over?” Edward finishes his sandwich and reaches for one of the canteens, and Thomas nudges it a little closer to his hand.
“Don’t know.” Be with you. Stay with you. Go somewhere we could be together, and not have to be afraid, or called foul, or ridiculed. “I thought I might go into business.”
“Business?” Edward wrinkles his nose, a habit he’s picked up recently and one Thomas finds hopelessly endearing. “The business of what?”
“Supply and demand.” Thomas looks out into the woods around them, trying not to stare as Edward’s throat works while he drinks, and lights a cigarette. “When the war ends, so will rationing, and I want to be the supplier to people’s demands.” It’s still a very nebulous idea, but it’s beginning to take shape, and he glances over, pathetically desperate for Edward’s approval. Edward had been going to university before the war, and if he thinks it’s a good idea, Thomas will know he’s on to something.
Edward lowers the canteen, a trickle of water escaping the side of his mouth and trailing down his chin, and before he catches it and wipes it away, Thomas wonders what it would be like to lean in and kiss it away. “Where would you get your own supply?”
“I’ve met a man.”
“Is he trustworthy? Where did you meet him?”
In a tavern, actually, but Thomas doesn’t want to tell Edward that. He draws long and deep on his cigarette, giving himself time to think, and to deflect the question. He’s good at that, he learned long ago how to deflect unwanted attention and scrutiny. “You don’t think I can do it.”
“I didn’t say that.” Edward leans forward over his knees, his brow furrowing and his expression serious, and for a moment it feels like he looks Thomas right in the face with his blasted, wasted eyes. “I’m sure you’d be quite good at anything you tried. I’m simply concerned about the wisdom of purchasing goods from someone you don’t know and trust. There’s a reason the big houses always buy from the same people, especially when they need to buy in bulk.”
Thomas is so baffled and delighted by Edward’s unexpected compliment that he almost misses the wisdom in what he says. Edward has a point, though, and Thomas mentally kicks himself for not realizing it; he’d been a servant long enough to know how fiercely businesses compete for the contracts from the big houses, and how trust builds between them.
“You have a point,” he allows, his pride not letting him admit how good a point it is. “I’ll talk to the man more.”
Edward sits back, looking vaguely satisfied and pleased with himself, the intensity gone from his face. “That would be a good idea, I think.”
Thomas draws again on his cigarette, then takes his case out of his coat pocket. “Would you like a smoke?” Edward hasn’t asked for one since that first time, in the spring, but he feels he should offer, especially after getting that advice.
Edward waves a hand at him. “No, thank you.”
Thomas smirks, and his tone is cheeky as he snaps his case closed and slides it back in his coat. “Couldn’t handle the burn, sir?”
Edward snorts, and then smiles one of his rare smiles. “No. I realized that it made me smell like tobacco smoke too, and if I got used to the smell, I wouldn’t know when you were coming to see me.”
It’s a fortunate thing that Edward is blind, because Thomas can feel his jaw drop, his own cigarette tumbling from his mouth and onto the dirt at his feet, and he feels stupid, pathetically grateful tears prick at the corners of his eyes.
~*~
Summer gives way to autumn, and Edward grows maudlin and quiet on their walks. When Thomas finally screws up the courage to ask him why, he admits that autumn is his favorite season and he spent his years on the front dreaming about coming home again, and watching the colors change across the English countryside. Thomas, who understands all too well the filth and grey drudgery of the trenches, uses all the adjectives in his vocabulary to describe the changing leaves, and Edward smiles softly at clumsy descriptions of burning.
~*~
Winter, and America’s entrance into the war (too late, in Thomas’ ungrateful opinion), drives them into the Abbey and increases Thomas’ workload, and it grows too cold and treacherous with ice to take Edward on his walks. He’s too thin and frail for the drafts that creep into the Abbey through every crack, and it drives Thomas mad when the other men and the nurses bother him and keep him from checking on his love.
He can admit it now, what he feels, if only to himself—he’s fallen completely, hopelessly, head-over-heels in love with the quiet blind man, and he hates himself for it. How could he be so foolish, letting himself fall for another nobleman, another man whose birth places him forever out of his reach? That duke should have taught him, he should have learned his lesson from the whole sordid affair, and yet here he is, mooning over another man he can never have.
Sometimes, when he’s lying in his bed at night, panting and sweating, his hand drying sticky and cradled against his chest, he wonders if he does this to himself on purpose, if he chases unattainable, unavailable men because he doesn’t think he deserves to be happy. It’s the kind of self-reflection and self-loathing that he’s only capable of at night, when the hour is late and he’s all alone, and as he drifts off to sleep he vows, sometimes, to stop this foolish behavior, to quietly draw away from Edward and harden his heart to him. Those vows last until morning, sometimes all the way through breakfast, until he spots Edward shivering in the Great Hall and rushes to fetch him a blanket, gently chiding him about forgetting again, and Edward smiles faintly up at him and once in a great while reaches up to touch his hand as Thomas drapes the blanket over his shoulders.
The mornings when Edward touches his hand are the best and the worst, all in one, for how they make Thomas’ heart throb in his chest, swelling until it feels like he can’t breathe, and for how they melt his resolve like frost on a windowpane when he holds his hand against it.
~*~
Christmas comes to the Abbey, and Thomas spends a very busy weekend shouting at hallboys as he supervises the decorations. The holiday has put him in a worse humor than usual, his ire clearly visible as he scatters hallboys and nurses alike in his wake, as he agonizes over whether or not to get Edward a gift. He saw a walking stick in the village on his last half-day, longer than usual and slender, carved of dark walnut and topped with a simple hook, and for possibly the first time in his life, he covets somethings not for himself but for someone else. He wants to see the stick in Edward’s hand, better than the old, scuffed one he uses now, sweeping back and forth as Edward goes about his day and resting between his knees as he sits in the Great Hall and listens to the other men read the paper aloud.
It wouldn’t be appropriate, he knows, for a servant to buy his lord a gift—and what possibly could a servant get for their lord or lady that they would want?—but Edward isn’t his lord. They are… friends, perhaps, although Thomas doubts in his heart of hearts that the friendship will survive the war’s end. It’s not unheard of, for friendships to form across the classes, especially those friendships formed in the trenches, and no one can deny that he and Edward are close. It’s not unthinkable to assume that friends would purchase gifts for each other, and on Christmas Eve day, after a week of waffling back and forth, Thomas rushes to the village. He reaches the shop just before it closes, and secures the walking stick for far too much money—the shopkeep must sense his desperation, the cheeky bastard, and Thomas is sure he raises the price out of spite—and tucks it into his coat as he hurries back to the Abbey, his breath pluming in front of him.
Wrapping the stick presents a challenge, and it doesn’t look nearly as nice as Thomas would prefer, but he supposes it doesn’t matter. It’s not, after all, like Edward will be able to see it.
He creeps downstairs to the gathering, and moves around the edges of the Great Hall. He has to admit, it looks beautiful, the hallboys having done a fine job under his direction, and everything glitters and shines. For all that he hates the Abbey, it can be very lovely, under the right set of circumstances, and Thomas allows himself to admire it from a distance.
The staff moves to and fro, offering drinks and small snacks to the veterans, and Thomas smirks as he accepts a glass of wine from a tray carried by none other than Carson himself. “Thank you, Carson,” he purrs, relishing the chance to dispense with the respectful title, and it’s a Christmas present unto itself to see Carson swallow and bob his head in the faintest, least gracious nod possible.
Thomas spots Edward by the fireplace, resplendent in his full dress uniform, but his attention is occupied by other soldiers, and Thomas sulks, waiting for them to relinquish him. He might be able to get away with familiarity and cheek around Edward, but he’s not so far gone as to think that other soldiers and officers will take it from him. So he waits, and impatiently watches the clock on the mantelpiece, watching it tick away the hours. No one comes to talk to him, which he doesn’t find surprising; he’s never been a man who fits in easily, and even here, in a refuge of the crippled and lame, he’s still an outsider, pushed to the fringes of society. He’s used to it, or so he tells himself.
The other soldiers start to drift away, and Thomas finally sees his chance. He swoops in, approaching on Edward’s side with heavy footfalls to alert him, and Edward turns his face in his direction as Thomas steps up beside him. His cheeks are flushed and rosy, making the scars around his eyes stand out in vivid relief, and Thomas wonders unkindly if he’s drunk.
“Thomas?”
“Yes, it’s me.” He takes Edward’s elbow, ignoring the questioning look he gets from another veteran. A few months ago, he’d called Edward by his given name during one of their walks, and then waited, cringing, to be reprimanded for his familiarity. Edward had simply stayed quiet for a moment, and then answered using Thomas’ given name, and they’ve used them with each other ever since. “May I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course.” Edward lets him lead him away, sliding his arm through Thomas’ with the ease of old practice, and Thomas leads him to a secluded corner of the hall, where he’s hidden the walking stick. “I wanted to speak with you anyway.”
“Did you?” Thomas can’t help but smile at that news. “Well, here I am.”
“I’ve gotten you a gift.”
Thomas’ steps falter, and he turns to stare at Edward. “You did?” His voice sounds strangled, and he pauses to swallow before trying again. “You didn’t have to do such a thing.”
“I wanted to.” Feeling how they’ve stopped, Edward reaches into his uniform’s pocket and pulls out a slim, elegantly wrapped box, passing it to Thomas. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Thomas Barrow.”
Thomas takes the package with numb fingers, feeling the thick paper and heavy ribbon and realizing it alone probably cost more than the cane. His own gift suddenly feels tawdry and cheap, even without seeing what’s in the box, and he needs to fight down the bile that threatens to rise up in his throat. “Thank you, Mr. Edward Courtenay,” he mumbles, and then slowly peels the paper away, opening the box underneath.
Edward bought him gloves, and as Thomas lifts them reverently out of the box, he realizes that this is the finest, softest leather he’s ever felt, smooth and pliable, the stitches on the gloves nearly invisible. He’s silent, overwhelmed by Edward’s kindness and generosity, but it must make the other man nervous, because he shifts his weight from foot to foot. “Do you like them? Did you find all three?”
“Three?” Thomas looks back into the box, and there, cradled in folds of tissue paper, is another glove. He lifts it out, and feels stupid tears prick at the corners of his eyes; it’s the lightest leather yet, as flexible and supple as a virgin’s thighs, and it’s a left-handed glove with the fingertips cut away, the first two fingers gone all together. It’s a glove made to hide an unsightly scar with dignity and grace, and it’s the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for him.
“I hope you don’t think me too forward,” Edward says, still shifting his weight back and forth, his lips drawn back over his teeth in what is supposed to be a smile but looks more like a grimace. “I simply thought, perhaps, that you’d want something a little lighter when spring came, or something that wouldn’t keep you from doing…”
“It’s perfect,” Thomas interrupts, and Edward stops prattling to smile at him, a smile Thomas has never seen before, wide and guileless and pleased, and it takes every ounce of willpower in Thomas’ body to not cup his face and lean in for a kiss. “I don’t know how to thank you enough.” He glances around, making sure they’re alone, and peels off his old glove, exposing his hideous scars to the air just long enough to slide the new glove over them. It fits like it was made for him—which it probably was—and he flexes his hand around the new leather.
“It looks magnificent.” In a fit of sudden courage, Thomas reaches out and takes Edward’s hand, holding it between both of his with its palm down, so Edward can feel the new glove covering his scars. “Thank you very much.”
Edward glides his fingertips along Thomas’ palm, and he tries to ignore the way his stomach flutters at the touch. “You’re very welcome. Merry Christmas.”
Thomas swallows, not wanting Edward to take his hand away, and blurts out, “I got something for you, as well.”
Edward smiles again, and it’s worth any embarrassment Thomas’ poor showing of a gift might cause him to know that he put that smile there. “That was very kind of you. I certainly didn’t expect anything.”
“I did, though, cos we’re friends.” Before he can shove his foot any deeper down his throat, Thomas lets go of Edward and retreats, grabbing the cane and bringing it back, nudging Edward’s hand with the hook. “You can probably tell what it is, just by the feel, and it’s not as nice as what you got me, but…”
“You got me a walking stick!” Edward sounds positively delighted, and Thomas shuts his mouth fast. He watches as Edward peels the paper away, dropping it to the floor at his feet—the privilege of wealth, knowing someone else will pick it up, Thomas thinks ruefully, but he can’t be angry, not now—and runs his hands the length of the stick. He licks his lips, imagining Edward’s slender poet’s hands on something else long and cylindrical, but forces the thought out of his mind as Edward beams at him. “Thomas, it’s perfect.”
He holds it out in front of him, sweeping it back and forth and knocking the wrapping paper to and fro. “You see? It’s long enough, the other was too short.”
Thomas laughs in relief, ducking his head down, and takes Edward’s elbow in one hand. “Yes, I thought that when I saw it. I want you to only have the easiest time getting around the Abbey, yes?”
“Yes,” Edward agrees, and he leans in close, dropping his voice so that Thomas has to lean in too in order to hear him. “But I think having you here to guide me is the best solution of all.”
For one giddy, shining moment, Thomas thinks Edward is going to kiss him, and he tilts his head back a little, his lips already gone soft and half-parted in anticipation. But then Edward straightens back up and the moment is lost. Thomas can’t even complain, though, as he walks Edward back to his room, a bounce in his step and a twinkle in his eye, his new glove still on his hand. They say goodnight at the door, and Thomas spends the rest of Christmas Eve lying on his back in his room, staring at the ceiling with a silly, ridiculous smile on his face, perfectly content for the first time he can remember.
Outside, snow falls softly on the countryside, and by the morning, the entire world will be blanketed and hushed by thick, pristine whiteness.
~*~
In January, the boiler for the Abbey breathes its last shuddering, noisy breath, and it’s only fitting that the wretched thing shuffles loose its mortal coil in the middle of a cold snap, when temperatures have plummeted and the grounds are festooned in white and glittering with icicles. It’s a mad scramble, moving the injured men into room with fireplaces, gathering wood, and distributing blankets, and Thomas is staggering and almost drunk with exhaustion by the time things finally calm down. He’s reeling, clumsy-footed and aching, desperate for rest, but he still goes to check on Edward before he turns in. He will bank his fire personally and make sure he stays warm before he retreats to his own quarters.
He had moved Edward first, before the true madness had begun, and he’s a small, curled up lump under his blankets when Thomas slips into his room. His fire is burning low, nearly to embers, throwing a reddish glow onto the walls, and Thomas moves to it, tossing on another log to feed the flames through the night. He watches as sparks rise up off the fire, escaping into the chimney, and it almost looks like they’re dancing, like a thousand shivering stars moving to join their cousins of ice and water in the night sky.
“Thomas?”
He turns, and Edward is sitting up in bed, his face turned towards him, the blankets puddled at his waist. His nightshirt has come open at the collar, and Thomas can’t help the way his eyes are drawn to Edward’s collarbone, stark and sharp under his skin, the light from the fire casting dancing shadows across it.
“It’s me,” he answers quietly, and pokes at the fire with an iron, banking it so it will burn slowly and warm the room through the night. “Just checking your fire.”
“Thank you.” He hears Edward shifting behind him, and the thoughtful silence that usually precedes an odd question or observation. He’s not disappointed.
“What about you? Will you be warm enough?”
“I’ll be fine, my lord. I’m made of sterner stuff.” Thomas looks over his shoulder in time to see Edward make a face, and he realizes that, in his exhaustion, he’d slipped into a servant’s speech and used the flat, emotionless voice of an employee speaking to their master, and that he’d used Edward’s title for the first time in ages. He clears his throat and tries again, using his natural voice, his real one, the one he saves almost exclusively for Edward. “My room is always chilly. I’ve gotten used to it, and it’s a blessing in the summer.”
“But it’s not summer, and with the furnace broken, you’ll freeze.” Thomas smiles a little, touched by Edward’s concern, and opens his mouth for more reassurances. Edward beats him to it, and what he says makes Thomas’ mouth drop open entirely. “You could stay in here, if you like.”
Thomas stares, rendered completely speechless, and he wonders if Edward knows what he’s just suggested, if he knows how Thomas has fantasized about the two of them in bed together, how he wants to curl around him and breathe deep his scent and taste his skin and teach him everything two men can do together that is different but never foul. Yes, he wants to cry, yes, I’ll stay here, I’ll stay beside you, I’ll be your everything if you just stay, if you don’t leave me, if you’ll never let me go, if you’ll only love me…
Instead, he licks his lips with a dry tongue and offers a faint protest. “There’s no cot in here.” It’s not unusual for a valet and his lord to share a room while traveling, but the valet is always on a cot.
Edward shifts, the room’s dim light flickering over his face and playing on his scars, and sounds shyly, endearingly uncertain when he responds. “We could share the bed? If only so you don’t freeze.”
It takes all of Thomas’ self control to not vault across the room, tail wagging like that idiot Isis when she retrieves a ball or a stick, and burrow into the bed, latching onto Edward like a limpet and curling all his limbs around him, burying his face in his neck and feeling their bodies pressed together. As it is, blood flows to his groin and, despite how tired he is, things start to rise to attention. He very unsubtly adjusts himself, feeling guilty, but not very, for taking advantage of Edward’s blindness.
“Only if it’s not any trouble,” he offers, and Edward nods.
“None at all.” And Thomas thinks he sees a look of relief pass over Edward’s face, but it could be wishful thinking on his part, or the room’s dim, flickering light.
As Thomas slips out of his uniform, down to his undershirt and the long, woolen pants he’s taken to wearing under it with the change of the weather, Edward shifts back down into the blanket nest, lying on his side with his face turned towards the wall. He’s left Thomas ample room, and as he slides into the bed, he wishes he could lie on his side as well, wishes he could wrap his arm around Edward’s waist and press him to his chest, wishes he could see if they’d fit together like a pair of spoons. That would be madness, though, especially if Edward doesn’t reciprocate, and Thomas can’t count on being lucky enough for a man to suffer a fatal heart attack after he’s embarrassed himself again. Nor would he want Edward to die; they might not be able to be together, not the way Thomas longs for, but as long as Edward is still in this world, things are a little brighter, a little better.
Thomas lays on his back, the space between he and Edward a vast gulf, and sighs, quietly resigning himself to an evening of uneasy rest, for fear that he might do something untoward in his sleep. Imagine he’s a girl. Imagine you’re lying beside a woman, imagine you’re lying beside O’Brien, and simply spend the night sleeping. It’s sage advice, and Thomas rolls onto his side, so their backs are facing each other. The bed is warm, and softer than any other Thomas has ever slept upon, and he feels sleep start tugging at him almost immediately.
“Goodnight, Thomas.” Edward’s voice is soft and melodious, and as Thomas closes his eyes, he thinks that he could hear that every night for the rest of his life and never get tired of it.
“Goodnight, Edward.” Thomas slips off to sleep as easily as any babe, a faint smile still on his lips.
~*~
Thomas wakes with the dawn; he’s always been an early riser, and a lifetime of working as a servant has left him unable to sleep into the morning. Still, yesterday’s adventures have left him tired and groggy, and he moves slowly through the layers the sleep, coming back to himself reluctantly, unwilling to leave behind the dream that had shaped itself behind his eyelids. He’d been sharing a bed with Edward, and sometime during the night the other man had rolled over, reaching out for Thomas as if in the throes of a night terror, and Thomas had pulled him into his arms, held him there like something sweet, something treasured and worth protecting, and they’d spent the night curled round each other like a pair of napping kittens. And yet, the more Thomas pulls himself towards the waking world, the more it feels like someone really is in his arms, and his still sleeping mind convinces himself that it’s another footman, a man from the past that he’d had an affair with, or possibly that duke, being kind for once in his miserable life, and it’s only when he opens his eyes and sees a shock of gently curly hair, glinting red in the fire’s dim light, that he realizes what really happened.
Thomas goes completely still, every muscle suddenly tense, and looks down. Sometime during the night, they’d both turned around, and Edward is pressed against his chest, his face tucked close to Thomas’ shoulder, and he’s deeply asleep, his side slowly rising and falling, taking Thomas’ arm along with it. Thomas blinks, his mind refusing to believe what his eyes are telling him, until he notices a shiny glisten of drool on Edward’s chin. Somehow, seeing that silvery glint, that very human, very imperfect glint, makes the whole scene come crashing in around his ears, and Thomas shivers a little.
He… what should he do? What can he do? He went to bed with a nobleman last night, a nobleman who expressly invited him into his bed to keep warm and for no other reason, and he’s somehow ended up cuddling him, somehow ended in a position that could get Edward disgraced and himself imprisoned and whipped. He should have known better, he should have known, and Thomas silently berates himself for his foolishness. It doesn’t matter how much he wants a lover, how much he wants someone to care about him; he can’t keep letting himself get into these situations, he can’t keep letting his loneliness and isolation drive him. He needs to be an adult, a man, and stop wishing for things that will never come true.
He loosens his arm from around Edward’s waist, trying to slide back and away wordlessly, quietly, leaving Edward to his slumber and giving Thomas a chance to go back to his own quarters before the rest of the house starts to stir. He has his arm mostly drawn back, his hand almost completely off Edward, before Edward makes a soft, sleepy sound and tightens his own arm around Thomas, pressing his face closer.
Thomas wonders, idly and with no small amount of jealousy, what woman Edward is dreaming of; whoever she is, he hates her, and wishes her nothing but ill will. Edward should be his, not some nameless, faceless woman’s, and his resolve melts when he feels Edward’s breath on the side of his neck. Just a moment longer, then, just a moment of feeling Edward’s weight in his arms, feeling Edward’s long legs tangled with his own, feeling Edward’s lips nearly ghosting across his throat. Just a moment, and it will be long enough to last a lifetime, so that when Edward goes away and leaves him behind, Thomas will be able to think back and remember this, remember what it might feel like to be loved and cherished.
He closes his eyes, breathing in Edward’s scent—warm and like the woods they walked through in the summer, a scent like sunshine dappled across a forest floor—and for a brief, shining moment, Thomas is completely, entirely happy.
Then Edward shifts in his arms, coming awake with a soft, muttered sound, and all the anxiety and stress comes slamming back down. Thomas remembers what he is, and how the rest of the world sees him—foul, unnatural, abomination—and goes stiff again. He can’t pretend this never happened, but he can act as though it wasn’t anything he’s going to treasure and remember for the rest of his life.
“Thomas?” Edward’s voice is thick and muzzy with sleep, and he tilts his head back, his blind eyes blinking owlishly up at Thomas.
“Yes.” Thomas’ voice is high and tight, even to his own ears, but there’s nothing he can do to bring it down. He forces a laugh, the sound shrill and brittle in the cold air, and pointedly moves the arm he has wrapped around Edward. “Seems we’ve gotten ourselves into an awkward position, haven’t we?”
Edward blinks again, and then his eyes go wide. “Oh!” He pulls away, a flush rising up high and rosy on his cheeks, and as he pulls his legs away from Thomas’, Thomas swears he feels something brush against his thigh that shouldn’t be there, something stiff and hard, and he forces himself to shrug it off. It’s morning, that’s all. Nothing more, nothing less. He shouldn’t spin castles out of clouds.
“My apologies.” Edward sits up, immediately shivering as the cold air hits him, and Thomas laughs quietly, more naturally this time, and gently pushes him back down into the bed as he vacates it. The cold air will take care of his own morning issue soon enough, he knows.
“You have more time to sleep, if you care to. Breakfast won’t be for another two hours.”
Edward obediently snugs back down in the blankets, keeping his blind eyes turned toward Thomas as he dresses in a hurry and then banks up the fire again. “So why are you up so early?”
“I have to get to my work.” With anyone else, Thomas would be irritated by the question, but he finds Edward’s naivete strangely charming. “Making breakfast takes awhile, especially for so many people.” He forces a bluff, hearty tone, as if he doesn’t wish with all his heart that he could climb back into that bed and stay there all day. “I also have to make sure none of the men froze during the night.”
Edward nods, and stays quiet, not speaking again until Thomas is nearly out the door. “Thomas?”
“Yes?” Thomas is horrified when he almost adds my love to the end of that question, and bites his own tongue.
Edward mumbles something, then turns his face downward.
“What?”
“Never mind. It’s foolishness.”
Thomas laughs, surprised, and steps back into the room, knowing that he’s lingering and not caring. “Now you’ll have to tell me. You can’t leave me in suspense.”
Edward squares his jaw and turns his face to him. “You never told me how you’re different.”
It’s amazing, truly, how this young man consistently rips Thomas bare, how he leaves him open and vulnerable, how with a simple question or observation he makes him feel like he’s had his chest torn open and his beating heart laid out for all to see. Instinctively, Thomas looks away, chewing on his lower lip; he knows Edward can’t see him, but he still can’t find it in himself to meet those blank, scarred eyes.
“I’ll make you a promise,” he says, finally, after far too long a pause. “If, by the time you leave the Abbey, you haven’t figured it out, I’ll tell you then. Agreed?” It’s weak, he knows it’s weak, but it’s the best he can manage on short notice.
Edward frowns, but he nods his head and lays back down, his face pointed towards the ceiling. “Will you read the paper with me after breakfast?”
“I will.” And Thomas flees, his thoughts muddled and hopelessly confused, and as he nearly runs down the hall, his heart pounding in his ears, the boiler roars back to life beneath his feet.
~*~
Spring comes round again, with the scent of earth and flowers and life creeping back into the world, and Edward grows restless. He starts venturing out on his own, armed only with his walking stick—the stick Thomas got him for Christmas, and every time Thomas sees it in his hand he feels warmth spread throughout his chest—and starts moving around the estate and the grounds in slow, ever-widening circles. Thomas frets over him terribly, afraid that he’ll get lost and be unable to find his way back, picturing all sorts of wretched, lonely fates for him, and when time allows, he slips away from his responsibilities and goes to find him. Edward, in a manner that Thomas would find infuriating from anyone else but oddly endearing from Edward, is always pleased when Thomas finds him, and slides his arm companionably through Thomas’ to be guided back to the Abbey.
He tells Thomas about his journeys during the walks back, and Thomas is amazed at the things Edward finds that he doesn’t notice: a cluster of songbird nests, high in a tree, invisible to the eye but heard and identified; a patch of wild onions, found by scent when they’re barely more than sprouts; a crumbling brick in the wall of the Abbey, discovered under Edward’s questing fingertips. Thomas tells Carson about the brick, so that it can be repaired; picks the onions when they’re grown and drops them off in the kitchen; and tells Lady Crowley about the songbirds so she can sit under the tree and listen to them sing. His sudden helpfulness and good humor doesn’t go unnoticed, and he finds, to his amazement, that people who shunned him for years begin talking to him, including him. It’s an odd, heady sensation, and he tells Edward about it one balmy evening as they walk back to the Abbey and stars begin to flicker in the sky.
Edward just smiles at him, soft and secret. “You’re helping them. Why wouldn’t they like you?”
“They never liked me before.”
“Were you ever kind to them before?”
It’s not a question Thomas can answer easily, and Edward saves him embarrassment by squeezing his arm gently. “Perhaps they’re seeing good in you they’ve never noticed before.”
“I’m not good.” Thomas mutters it under his breath, but Edward hears him all the same.
“Nonsense. You’ve been nothing but good to me.”
A thousand thoughts run through Thomas’ head, a thousand ways to respond. I’m good because of you; you’re the only one who ever understood me, who ever took the time to get to know me; I’m good for you because I want you to like me; I’m good for you because I want you to love me; because I want you I want you I want… He can’t say any of that, though, and instead swallows around a throat that is suddenly full and heavy. “If you insist, sir.”
Edward makes a face, and Thomas realizes that he’d slipped into servant speak again. He grimaces, clears his throat, and tries again. “You’re the first who would say that.”
Edward is quiet for awhile, then makes a soft sound that’s almost laughter. “Then perhaps you’d saved it all for me.”
Thomas laughs too, but his chest feels empty and barren, like everything he’s saying is a lie. “Perhaps I did.”
~*~
It’s summer, hot and cloying, lazy, and Thomas realizes that he’s known Edward for more than a year. Edward seems to realize the same, because he begins creating wild, fanciful stories about how Thomas is different, and presents one every time they meet. It’s cute, the things he creates, the stories he spins out of the air, and Thomas indulges him in his fancy. Sometimes, when he’s like this, Thomas is reminded of how very, very young Edward really is.
“Your family weren’t really clockmakers at all; it’s a ruse you’ve spun to hide your identity as a master of the trapeze arts for a traveling circus.”
“You’ve caught me, it’s true.”
Edward is different now, the restlessness from the spring still upon him, still coursing through his veins, and Thomas realizes that the war, which seemed without end, must be finishing soon, and when it does, Edward will leave the Abbey and be lost to him. He begins creating fantasies of his own, visions of he and Edward side by side, as companions, as partners, as lovers, and finds himself slipping again into them, gazing off into space and imagining a future where they could be together. He tries to catch himself at it, tries to force himself to stop, knowing that his mental gymnastics are just as wild and ridiculous as the things Edward conjures, but he finds himself unable to dismiss them entirely. The last year has seemed like a dream, like a much-needed rest and holiday from his real life, and he knows he owes that to Edward. Losing him will force Thomas back to the misery and drudgery of his real life, and it’s easier to retreat into dreams than to face the reality of his bleak, lonely, empty future.
O’Brien finds him one day, standing out in the yard and smoking, brooding, and sidles up beside him.
“Now that’s the Thomas Barrow I know.”
He blows a plume of smoke at the sky, ignoring her for a moment before turning and giving her his attention. “I beg your pardon, O’Brien?”
She smiles, but it fails to reach her eyes. “Standing in the yard alone, smoking and hating the world. I thought you’d given all that up.”
He smiles back, baring his canines more than he has to, realizing too late that it’s his old smile, his aggressive, dangerous one, the one he never makes when he’s around Edward. “Why would you ever think that?”
“Because of your lieutenant.”
Thomas forgets, sometimes, that Sarah O’Brien is dangerously intelligent, and he hates being reminded of his own failings. He draws in another lungful of smoke, a distraction, a moment to think, and blows it out in her direction. “I wasn’t aware that I had a lieutenant.”
She smirks, and Thomas has a moment to think, unkindly, about how unattractive she really is. “You know the one I’m talking about, Mr. Barrow.”
“I assure you, I don’t.”
“Of course not.” She turns on her heel and makes her way back across the yard, her shoulders square and straight, and if looks were bullets, she’d fall bloodied and dying to the stone walkway.
~*~
“You’re really a Russian prince, fleeing the revolution.”
“Curses, I knew my accent would give me away.”
~*~
Edward lets himself into Thomas’ office one day—his office being a small desk sequestered away behind a curtain, but it’s still the most authority and privacy he’s ever been granted, and he cherishes it—holding a letter in one hand, his jaw set in determination.
“Can you read this to me, please?”
“Of course. Please sit down.” They both know that Edward could ask anyone to read it to him, and they’d happily agree—he’s popular with the other men, his quiet dignity and gentle ways winning over even the most oafish of the other veterans—and Thomas can’t help being pleased that Edward has chosen him over all others. He takes the letter, noticing the postmark, and he fights down a powerful urge to tear it to shreds and burn it in a candle’s flame.
It’s from Edward’s brother, and as Thomas reads it, trying hard not to stumble over the grand language, he feels Edward growing more and more tense across from him. He half-expects him to order him to stop, the way he did once long ago, but Edward listens through till the end, and then asks Thomas to reread certain parts again, to make sure he understands everything enclosed there.
“He seeks to depose me.” Edward’s jaw is held so tense it looks like his jaw is about to break, and Thomas wishes he could smooth his fingertips along the curve of his jawline, wishes he could kiss that icy fury from Edward’s mouth, wishes he could curl his arms around him and tell him that everything is going to be okay.
Instead, he lights a cigarette. “It’s your time to fight.” With any other nobleman, he wouldn’t speak so boldly, but this letter spells the beginning of the end. Edward is getting called back to his family, and he’s going to leave Thomas behind. The magic spell is going to end, and when it does, Thomas will just be another lowly footman again. He’ll never be a businessman, he’ll never rise above his station. He’ll never be loved, and despair makes him brave, reckless. “You need to stake your claim, and let him know his place.” Thomas smiles, but he’s never felt less humorous in his life. “He needs to know he’ll never be the next Lord Courtenay.”
Edward nods, some of the tension easing out of his jaw, and even as low as he’s feeling, Thomas takes a certain satisfaction in knowing that he’s the one to do that, that no one else can ease Edward’s mind the way he can. “Will you help me? This needs to be in my own hand.”
“I can.”
It takes some finagling, an extra stool, and one shouted at hallboy, but they eventually manage it, with Edward sitting on the stool between Thomas’ legs, with Thomas behind him and gently nudging his arm to keep him writing on a straight line, and reading back what he’s written to him. They get a few odd looks, but the ones Thomas shoots back are positively murderous, and they’re left unharassed.
The task itself is unpleasant, the words spilling from Edward’s pen full of bile and anger, but Thomas thinks he’ll remember it until the end of his days. He’s not been this close to Edward since the night in January, months prior, and he lets himself daydream, snatches of fancy caught between correcting the line of Edward’s arm and making sure he doesn’t write clean off the edge of the paper. He imagines Edward leaning back, into his arms, and how it would feel to wrap them around his slender waist. He imagines doing this every day, helping Edward with his correspondence, and kissing the back of his neck when he’s caught on a word. Once, Edward leans back, and his back touches Thomas’ chest. Thomas jumps backwards, and Edward mutters an apology before turning back to his letter. Thomas wishes he could tell him that the last thing he needs to do is apology, that he can lean on Thomas all he wishes, can use him as a footstool, as a throne, as a place to rest his head at night, as long as they can be together.
In the end, Edward’s letter is three pages, three very strongly worded pages, and he has Thomas read it back to him twice before he’s satisfied. He even addresses the envelope himself, with Thomas’ assistance, and when he’s written the last letter he sits back and turns his head. “Do you think he’ll listen?”
For a moment, Thomas can’t answer; Edward’s back is nearly touching his chest again, his arm is still curled around Edward’s to correct his writing hand, and with his face turned, it would be so simple to draw him in and kiss him. Thomas lets his gaze linger on the lines of Edward’s face, along his nose and throat and jaw and lips, and he licks his lips, wondering if Edward can feel his breath on his cheek. “I… I don’t know, my lord. You may have to go and fight for what’s yours.”
Edward nods, and doesn’t move, and Thomas wishes he’d move now, wishes he’d push back from the table and rise, because his closeness, his proximity, his scent and warmth and prettiness, is almost too much for him, and if they stay like this much longer Thomas is going to do something he won’t be able to take back. “I know,” Edward says, and Thomas tells himself that isn’t regret he hears in the other man’s voice, that he isn’t sad to be leaving the Abbey, to be leaving Thomas.
Edward lingers a moment longer, his lips parted, his face still partially turned towards Thomas, and just before Thomas gives in to his base instincts and leans in to kiss him, Edward sits forward, putting both hands on the table, and the moment shatters. Edward scrubs a hand over his face, his shoulders hunched forward, and Thomas fights the urge to lift a hand to his shoulder and massage his stress away.
“You’re actually a wealthy American tycoon, and are traveling the world in secret to know how the rest of us live.”
Thomas blinks, then sighs, regretting the loss of their moment, and takes his arm back so he can rise and help Edward to his feet. “If I were, you’d be the first to know.”
~*~
Letters fly fast and furious between the Abbey and Edward’s home estate, and the first leaves of autumn are starting to change by the time things are settled. Thomas lives in dread of what he knows must be coming, but the speed at which it happens surprises even him; one day, Edward is staying at the Abbey until the war’s end, and the next, he’s to go home the following afternoon.
Thomas helps him pack his things, ignoring the tight knot that refuses to leave his throat, ignoring how Edward himself seems moody and reluctant, and that night, Thomas’ pillow is soaked and salty by the time he finally falls into an exhausted, restless sleep.
He tries to avoid Edward the next morning. He’s a coward, he’s always been a coward, and he can’t bear the thought of having to say goodbye. It will be better, he thinks, if Edward just drifts out of his life, here and then gone, like he was just a dream all along. It was beautiful while it lasted, but Thomas is old enough now to know that these things never work out, that there’s never a happy ending for one Thomas Barrow.
Edward, however, has other plans, and seeks him out before lunch, and the sight of him working his way through the great hall, determined and with a basket in his free hand, following some unknown, inner map, is enough to melt Thomas’ resolve. “I’ve had sandwiches made,” he tells him, holding up the basket. “Care to take one last walk with me?”
“Of course, lieutenant.” Thomas touches Edward’s wrist, and Edward slips his arm through Thomas’ with the ease of long practice. “Let’s make it a walk to remember, shall we?”
Edward chatters nervously during the entire first part of their walk, talking about his estate and all the things he’ll need to do when he gets home, and Thomas barely listens. He’s trying to memorize the sound of Edward’s voice, its pitch and cadence, and the shape of his arm linked with Thomas’, the heat of his body so close, and the mild, soapy smell of Edward’s skin and hair.
Edward steers Thomas into the woods, and he goes along willingly enough, wishing their walk could never end. He’s so caught in his own melancholy that he barely notices when Edward’s anxious prattling dies away, or that they’ve slowed their pace to a crawl. It takes him by surprise when Edward stops walking, and he has to tug on Thomas’ arm to get him to stop.
“Are you all right?”
Edward nods. “Fine.” He doesn’t look fine; he looks pale and wan, chewing on his lower lip, and Thomas feels that damnable spark, that spark of concern and worry and love, flare in his chest all over again.
“Would you like to sit down? Or go back to the Abbey?”
Edward shakes his head, and abruptly moves, turning himself so he’s facing Thomas, standing close enough that Thomas needs to incline his head back a little to look up into his face, his dear, scarred, hopelessly beautiful face.
“Are you sure…”
“Thomas.” Edward interrupts him, and Thomas shuts his mouth with a snap. He doesn’t know quite when it happened, but this turned from a ramble through the woods into something else; the air around them is thick with tension, practically crackling with electricity, and he resists the urge to take a step closer and completely close the distance between them. “I have one last guess.”
“Sir?”
“About how you’re different.”
Thomas feels his heart sink, and he looks down, staring bitterly at Edward’s chest. It’s just one more chance to play that foolish game, and he was more the fool to think it was anything else. “Go ahead.”
Edward doesn’t speak up right away, and Thomas hears him shift before he feels Edward’s hands on his forearms, ghosting down the length of his arms to his hands, and he looks up, shocked, when Edward curls his hands around Thomas’, his long, poet’s fingers fitting across Thomas’ palms and his thumbs resting on the backs of his hands. No one has ever tried to hold his hands like this, not that duke, not the other servants he’s had, no one he’s ever known in a brief, dirty, desperate fling. This, he realizes, his heart leaping into his throat, is how he sees lovers hold hands.
Edward takes a deep breath and swallows, but his voice is strong enough when he speaks. “You prefer the company of men to women, and would be with them romantically, given the choice.”
Fear spikes through Thomas, that old fear that his father had beaten into him, the first time he realized his son was different: don’t let them know; don’t admit what you are; they’ll kill you if you know, so be fucking normal. He tries to pull his hands away, out of Edward’s grip, but Edward tightens around his fingers, holding him in place. “I…” His voice is high, rasping, barely recognizable, and Thomas draws in a shaking, ragged breath. “That’s… they’ll imprison you for that, sir. It’s a crime.”
“Is it?” Edward’s voice changes, becomes low and sad, and he starts to let go of Thomas’ hands. “A shame.”
It’s madness. It’s pure, utter madness, and it feels like Thomas’ world is spinning out of control. He isn’t prepared for this, he’s spent so long fantasizing about Edward that he’d never even considered that he could feel the same way, that they could be all the things he’s dreamed about, that they could be together, that he could have what everyone else takes for granted, what everyone else assumes is their due. It’s madness, and he should move away, he should end this now and walk Edward back to the Abbey and to his family’s waiting car and out of Thomas’ life. He should end this, and go back to what he knows, to what he is, and live out the rest of his days alone and isolated.
But it’s the look on Edward’s face, the rejection, the depression, a look Thomas knows all too well, one he’s felt mirrored in his heart a thousand times since the first time he realized he was different, that changes everything. This time, it’s Thomas who tightens his hands around Edward’s, and he takes a step forward, closing the distance between them and stretching up to press his mouth against Edward’s.
Edward gasps when he does, surprised, and for a split second Thomas almost pulls away, but then Edward is pushing forward against him, kissing him back, and he’s utterly awful at it, completely inexperienced and messy, and Thomas couldn’t care less. He parts his lips eagerly, letting Edward explore and practically devour his face, and he damn near forgets to breathe when Edward lets go of his hand to put his hand behind his head and keep him close. Thomas’ hand finds Edward’s shirt front of its own accord, gripping it in a fist and pulling him down, and Edward makes a soft, surprised sound in the back of his throat as he pulls away, gasping for breath.
“Come with me,” he demands, as soon as he’s got his breath back, pushing forward to kiss Thomas again. “Come with me, back to my estate, stay with me, help me, be mine, just don’t let me go back there alone…”
“Yes.” Thomas would agree to anything, anything to seal this moment forever, to have it branded upon his memory, upon his soul, and he laughs, high and bright. “Yes, I’ll come with you, as soon as the war’s over…”
Edward kisses him again, breaking off any further argument, and Thomas never knew what it felt like to have one’s heart grow wings and fly away.
~*~
Two hours later, Edward leaves, his family’s car picking him up and driving him away, and Thomas watches him go from the steps of the Abbey, a smile on his face and his lips still swollen and sore. He watches the car until it disappears into the distance, and goes back into the Abbey to write the first of many letters, the first of a series until the war ends and they can be together again.