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Thomas’s mobile rings before his alarm even goes, and he reaches for it without opening his eyes. “’Lo?” he asks groggily, bringing it to his ear.
“Put my brother on the line,” the man on the other end demands.
“Blrgh,” Thomas slurs. “Sod off, mate.”
He hangs up and lets the phone slip from between his fingers. It falls to the sheets where it lays cold against his skin, but Thomas just rolls over into the warmth of the body beside him and buries his nose in the hollow of the man’s throat.
“Who was it?” Edward asks softly.
“Only Jack,” Thomas mutters into his skin and that’s all he’s got before he’s asleep again.
****
“Don’t be cross,” Thomas says over toast and tea for breakfast. “But I might murder your brother. It’s the third time in two weeks. Why can’t he just ring you direct?”
Across from him, Edward sighs and takes a sullen bite of his toast. “Have I told you lately how dreadfully sorry I am about him?”
“Not lately, no,” Thomas says, watching the way Edward’s jaw moves as he chews, the working of his throat when he swallows. “But never mind it. I’ve an idea how you can make it up to me.”
Edward’s mouth kicks up on one side in a tiny smile as he recognizes the tone of voice. “I don’t think we have time for any of your games,” he says regretfully, but that’s not a refusal so much as tentative permission to be persuaded.
“We’ve fifteen minutes,” Thomas says. The clock on the wall says it’s closer to ten, but Thomas has been making excuses to Carson for years over his occasional lateness; one more day won’t make a difference.
“Mmm, do we?” Edward asks. He’s got the experience not to trust Thomas’s time-telling abilities, and he wipes his fingers clean on his napkin before checking his own watch, the braille one Thomas picked out for him after they’d been together four months and Thomas had had just about enough of that bloody talking clock.
“Well,” Thomas amends, “we’ve got time, anyway. We only need ten minutes.”
“Three minutes, you mean,” Edward teases and Thomas kicks him lightly under the table.
“At least eight and you know it,” Thomas says, playing indignant. “I can prove it, too. Get down on your knees.”
Edward sighs again in a put-out manner, but obligingly stands and grabs for his stick. “I’m not having it off with you in the kitchen,” he says primly. “It’s unsanitary.”
He’s leading the way to the sitting room, though, so Thomas smiles in victory and downs the last of his tea before following after. Edward’s waiting for him on the couch, deliberately affecting boredom, but the way he shifts in anticipation when he hears Thomas approach is telling.
Thomas doesn’t bother trying to be subtle, just pushes Edward back into the cushions and sits on his knees facing him, his legs on either side of Edward’s. They’re face to face this way and close enough that Thomas can spot the tiny freckles on Edward’s nose, can map the network of scars branching out from either side of his eyes. “Good god, you’re attractive,” Thomas breathes and kisses him squarely.
Edward laughs disbelievingly into his mouth, but he lets the kiss the happen, angles his face up to make it accessible. His lips are chapped (they always are, he worries at them so) but they taste like tea and marmalade, and Thomas knows it says something about him that those flavors go straight to his cock; he’s a domestic sort at heart, truth be told. Thomas pushes his tongue past those lips, trying to chase the flavor. Edward is less than helpful in this endeavor and does his best to distract him – first by bringing his tongue up to brush softly against Thomas’s, then by sliding his hands up Thomas’s arms to grip at his shoulders. Thomas gives him a sharp nip, and lets his own hands move up from their permanent home on Edward’s chest to wrap around his neck and tangle in his lovely curls.
They snog for another minute or two, but then Thomas remembers they’ve got a time limit, and he pulls back. He can’t really feel it from his kneeling position, but he can tell from the flush high on Edward’s cheekbones and the shake of his hands that Edward’s cock is already getting hard. Thomas would very much like to get that inside of him, but well – ten minutes. Instead, he opts for the next best thing.
“I’m going to blow you,” he says decidedly, pulling further back and away. His knees protest as he shifts backwards and down to kneel on the floor, and he laments for a moment that he’s not ten years younger before remembering what a bastard he was at seventeen. And how lonely he’d been, for that matter. Not to mention sexually deprived.
Edward frowns and tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “You know, I’m sure you’ve got this backwards. I’m meant to be making it up to you, not the other way around. For Jack, remember?”
“Don’t talk about your brother when I’m going down on you,” Thomas says, undoing Edward’s zip and reaching in to palm his cock. “And don’t you worry. I’m getting exactly what I want.” He is, too; nothing gives him more pleasure in life than bringing Edward off – not even the first cigarette in the morning or the last glass of wine at night.
“But you’ve only just-” Edward hisses on an indrawn breath as Thomas pushes a hand under his pants and wraps his fingers around him.
“What’s that?” Thomas asks absently, eyes fixed on his prize. He gives it a few firm strokes, and then a few more, because the sound of Edward’s breath catching in his throat is so lovely, isn’t it?
“Brushed your teeth,” Edward finishes in a rush. “You just brushed your teeth. You haven’t time to do it again.”
“I’ll chew a mint,” Thomas tells him with a grin. “Now lift up.”
It’s a shame to let go of Edward’s cock, especially with the tip all lovely and wet already, but he does have standards, and that means getting Edward’s trousers at least a bit of the way off. Edward does as he’s bid, planting his hands on the sofa cushion and hoisting himself up long enough for Thomas to grab the waist of his trousers and wrangle them down, dragging his pants with, to about mid-thigh.
“There we are,” he says. He wraps his hand back around the base of Edward’s cock and leans in quickly to lick the rest of the way up to the tip. Edward hisses in surprise and his hips jerk forward. Thomas grins savagely at the reaction, rolling the taste of salt and skin around in his mouth for a long moment. Then gets ahold of himself and gets down to business.
Edward grunts when Thomas wraps his mouth around his cock, then gasps when he takes him all the way down. Thomas’s lips meet his own fingers, and it took him years to get this right, but it’s worth it for Edward’s ragged breathing, for his little whimpers of pleasure as Thomas pulls back and then slides his mouth down again, taking in all he can take. He does it again, and again after that, and his eyes are closed but he can feel the spit spilling down over his hand. He can remember a time when that wouldn’t have been such a turn-on, when he would have had to worry about the look of the thing instead of the feelings. Feeling is where it’s at now, though, and he reaches up with his gloved hand to wrap around Edward’s wrist. Edward hisses, this time in pain, and Thomas pulls back abruptly.
“Sorry,” he says, voice rough. “Sorry, I forgot.”
“It’s okay,” Edward says, but his teeth are clenched in pain and Thomas eyes the burn on his right arm tentatively. It doesn’t look bad, certainly not as bad as it had the day a month ago when Edward had managed to scald himself so badly making tea. It looks mostly healed, actually, but that doesn’t mean it’s stopped hurting completely.
“You want me to fetch the aloe?” Thomas asks.
Edward shakes his head. “I’m fine,” he says. Thomas isn’t so sure, but he trusts Edward.
“You want me to put my mouth back on your cock?” he asks instead.
“By all means,” Edward says grandly and his face doesn't look quite so pained anymore, so Thomas does.
He wraps his hand back around Edward and gives the head a few kitten-licks. Edward sighs happily and does what Thomas wanted in the first place, reaches down to touch Thomas’s mouth. Thomas feels a surge of pleasure, and wraps his mouth obligingly around his cock again. He sucks, hollowing his cheeks, and Edward’s fingers skate there instead. His breath catches, and Thomas closes his eyes again. He breathes deep through his nose and then pushes himself downward again. Edward’s hips stutter, so Thomas does it again, finding a rhythm and making it stick. He can hear Edward panting, can feel him trembling, and it’s so easy, so very easy to take him apart. Edward’s hand cups his jaw, then moves up to clench in his hair, yanking slightly. Thomas groans, mouth full, and reaches to palm himself with his gloved hand. The pressure makes him whimper and tighten his other hand, still wrapped around Edward. Edward gasps harshly, rocks his hips up once, twice, and that’s all the warning Thomas gets before Edward’s crying out and coming.
Thomas doesn’t choke, but only because he knows Edward’s body practically better than his own and was ready for it. Instead he pulls back and then off, swallowing what he can and letting the rest spill out of his mouth and down his chin. He must look a sight, but he’s buzzing with energy and second-hand pleasure, and that’s the important thing, anyway. And Edward, he’s so fucking pretty right then, chest heaving and head tilted back, mouth slack with pleasure as he comes down. Thomas waits him out, rubbing himself lightly through his clothes.
“Right. My turn,” Edward pants after a moment. “Come up here.”
Thomas does, climbs up and settles back onto Edward’s lap, this time leaving the man to support his full weight. He doesn’t worry; Edward’s thin, but strong, and he can take it. He undoes his trousers himself, shoves them and his pants down just far enough to get himself sorted. His breath catches when Edward reaches between them with his left hand – the uninjured one – and starts to jerk him off. It’s clumsier than usual, but the calluses on his fingertips feel rough and wonderful. It’s a bit dry, and Edward must feel it too, because he pauses his movement and brings his hand up to his own mouth to wet his palm. Thomas shudders at the sight, and then again when Edward slips his hand back down and grips him once more.
“Mmm,” Thomas says, breath catching and stuttering. “That’s it, that’s it.”
“It’s enough?” Edward asks, and he’s breathless, as well.
“God, yes,” Thomas grits out through clenched teeth. “Keep going.”
He thinks suddenly that he’d like to kiss Edward, and they’re close enough for it, so he does. He leans forward and presses his lips against Edward’s, mashes their mouths together in a rough snog that’s sure to leave Edward’s poor chapped lips bruised and tender. They kiss and they kiss and then Edward’s hand grips harder and changes rhythm just so, and Thomas has to pull back to breathe harshly, eyes falling shut. It’s good, it’s so good, and he wants it so much. He can feel it building up, higher and higher and almost, and-
“Oh, God,” Thomas says as he comes, spilling out over Edward’s hand and forearm, over his own button-down and Edward’s undershirt. It’s a mess, he can tell even from this position, and he’ll have to change, but not yet. He keeps his eyes closed as he comes down, works on getting his breath back and just enjoying this closeness they have going on.
He starts when he feels Edward’s hand (the clean one, he notes absently) come up to stroke his cheek, but he lets it happen, lets the fingers trail over his open mouth, then work their way upward. They skim his cheekbone on the other side of his face, then push back. A thumb grazes his ear and fingers brush through the damp hair at his temple.
“I always forget,” Edward whispers, “how beautiful you are.”
Thomas snorts with laughter, ruining the moment. “Sorry,” he says, opening his eyes to see Edward looking disgruntled. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.” Thomas knows he’s good-looking, is the thing, and he knows Edward means it, but still, that’s a hell of a line.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” Thomas says when Edward continues to pout. “You know how that sounded. So what, you just wander around thinkin’ I’m ugly, or…?”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Edward says grumpily, and Thomas laughs.
“Love you,” he says, and kisses him gently. When he pulls back, he catches sight of Edward’s watch. “Oh shit,” he breathes.
“What?” Edward asks, alarmed.
“Sixteen minutes,” Thomas laughs. “Carson’s going to murder me.”
****
"What kept you?" Sarah asks when Thomas sidles up to her some twenty minutes later in the clock aisle of Abbey’s Antiques. He can tell by the grandfather clock she’s lurking near that he’s later than usual, even by morning-sex standards. Still, he’d taken care to slip in through the hidden entrance at the back of the shop when no one was looking, so unless O’Brien turns snitch, it’ll hopefully seem like he’s been taking morning inventory back there the whole time.
Thomas smirks, satisfied and happy, mouth minty fresh. “Early morning phone call,” he says by way of explanation, and lets her sort that one out for herself. “Why, antiques going somewhere?”
“You’ll be the one going somewhere,” she says seriously, “Straight to the DWP if Mr. Carson catches you late again.”
Thomas scoffs. “Old Carson’s an antique himself. I wouldn’t be half surprised if he sold before this lot.”
“Would you not, indeed?” a voice says from right behind them and Thomas’s heart drops into his stomach, because he knows that voice and it’s the voice of trouble.
Sarah gives Thomas a look, the one that means ‘you and your big mouth.’ It’s a look Thomas knows well and sees often. As one, they turn and come face to face with-
“Mr. Carson,” Thomas says, aiming for casual.
“Thomas,” Carson says curtly. “Late again, I see.”
Thomas shoots Sarah a look, but she just shrugs and goes back to staring at the clock. They’re friends, but it’s none of her concern if Thomas gets himself into trouble day after day. She’ll help him when he needs it, but right now he supposes he’s on his own.
Thomas, for his part, doesn’t think it’s worth trying to pretend he was simply in the back room this whole time; Carson wouldn’t confront him about it if he wasn’t absolutely sure Thomas was nowhere to be found. Instead, Thomas tries another tactic, one that’s worked before once or twice.
“Sorry, Mr. Carson,” he says brightly. “Only, I was here so late yesterday, making the shop money. I’d think that would be something you’d approve of, profits. I mean, I know Mr. Crawley wants us to bring in money, but if you don’t think it’s important...” He trails off meaningfully.
“You’ll kindly leave Mr. Crawley out of this, Thomas,” Mr. Carson says and sniffs angrily. “Very well. We’ll forget about it. Just this once.”
Thomas looks down at his hands and grins. He knew that’d do the trick; Carson’s man-crush on the owner of the shop is notorious and honestly a bit disturbing, and if he thinks it’ll please the man, he’ll let even tardiness go unpunished.
Then Carson continues, “Now, go man the register,” and Thomas’s head snaps up in disbelief.
“What?” he asks, hoping he’s misheard. There are a lot of things that need doing in this store every day, and some of them are downright awful, but the checkouts are the absolute worst, hands down.
“Someone needs to see to our patrons, Thomas,” Carson says, “and since you’re so concerned with our profits, I think it had best be you today.”
Thomas looks from Carson’s stern face to Sarah’s amused smirk and knows there’s no way he’s getting out of this. “Fine, then,” he mutters, and stomps off across the shop to the counter near the door.
He’s barely behind the till when a pretty dark haired girl in a knit sweater steps up and slides issue one of The Handy Black Cat English-French Dictionary across the counter. Thomas hates to see something from the Black Cat section go; he’d curated that collection himself, spent hours scouring the city’s thrift shops and fighting in bidding wars online for every piece of it. Still, that’s the nature of the job, and on the bright side, the more he sells, the more he can replace with even better pieces.
“Choice well made,” Thomas says, taking up the pamphlet carefully and flipping it over to check the price. It’s in particularly fine condition, and he imagines the soldier who carried it mustn’t have used it that often. Maybe he’d been killed before he got the chance, or perhaps he’d already known the language. “You’ve an interest in the Great War?”
“It’s for a friend,” she explains, and she gives him that shy smile girls sometimes do – the one he knows can only end in broken hearts and the imprint of someone’s open-palmed slap against one side of his face.
“Ah,” he says noncommittally, not wanting to encourage her. On the other hand, though, it’d be a shame for her to walk away without knowing what she’s buying. If it were a chair or wicker basket, he wouldn’t care, but old clocks and cigarette paraphernalia are his two passions, and he can’t stop himself from saying, “Made in 1915, you know.”
She must know, it’s written on the front cover, but she cocks her head like she’s interested, so he goes on. “Shipped out from London. Twenty-four pages in this one, and a calendar on the back. There’s a whole series of these, each slipped into a pack of Black Cat cigarettes to help our boys at the Front.”
“You’re quite knowledgeable,” she says, flashing him that smile again. “I suppose you must pick it up, working here.”
“Suppose I must,” he says, because he can’t tell if she’s flirting and he doesn’t want to encourage her; when he’d waited tables in his youth, he’d have encouraged her, but here and now it’s not worth the trouble. Instead he smiles politely and tells her, “That’s twenty pounds.”
She fishes the money out of her bag while he carefully wraps up the booklet. Their hands brush when she pays him and once again when she takes the wrapped package, but though she throws him a final wistful once-over, she only thanks him and walks away with her purchase. Thomas sighs in relief, but then the next customer steps up with four ancient glass bottles and – deal lord – a wicker basket, and the sigh turns into a groan.
It’s one customer then another after that, and none of them buy anything interesting. Thomas checks prices and taps them out on the register without paying much attention, and between purchases he sneaks his the trashy romance novel from under the counter and thumbs through the pages, looking for the good parts, the sex scenes he knows must be in there.
Eventually, he catches Sarah’s eye across the shop and lets her see the desperation there, the hint of homicide at having to man the counter all morning. The look must stir something in her cold heart, because a few minutes later Daisy comes scurrying over, looking harassed and a bit frightened.
“Miss O’Brien said I’m to take over the checkouts,” she says, and Thomas smiles at her, genuinely pleased.
“Well,” he says, “Good luck, then.” He pats her on the shoulder and hurries away to hide in the shelves. It’s not until he’s safely ensconced in the bureau section that he feels secure enough to pull out his phone. He’d felt it buzz a few times ages ago but Carson had been watching him so he’d left it go. He’s got a missed call from his sister – she’s been nagging him about getting together for coffees, but he’s been putting her off, because more nagging siblings in his life is exactly what he doesn’t need just now. There’s also a text from Edward, and when Thomas opens it, he almost wishes he hadn’t.
Dinner with my mother tonight at seven. Don’t worry, Jack won’t be there.
“Oh, wonderful,” Thomas mutters, because that’s just how he wanted to spend his evening, but then he sees Carson turning the corner looking thunderous, and can’t do anything but shove his phone back in his pocket and make himself scarce.
****
“Oh,” Mrs. Courtenay says when the maid Estelle shows them into the drawing room. “You’ve brought your friend again.”
Edward blinks twice very deliberately. “My boyfriend,” he corrects through clenched teeth.
“Yes, him,” Mrs. Courtenay agrees carelessly, giving Thomas an unimpressed once-over. “Well, don’t just stand there like a statue, Barrow; help Edward to sit.”
“I can sit on my own, Mother,” Edward grits out.
“Don’t be impertinent, dear,” Mrs. Courtenay scolds.
“There’s still time,” Thomas says from the corner of his mouth, low enough that only Edward can hear. “We can still do a runner.”
Edward quirks a smile and holds out his free hand. Thomas spares a glance for Mrs. Courtenay (who looks like a disapproving old bat, as always) before grabbing it with his.
The three of them make small talk for the next ten excruciating minutes. That is, Mrs. Courtenay fills Edward in on all the gossip circling around her book club. Edward, and Thomas by extension, learns all about Mrs. Turpin’s daughter running off to Manchester with a Spaniard, and Mrs. Darby’s husband having an affair with his secretary, and also of Mrs. Collins’s son leaving Cambridge to become a traveling minstrel or something like that. Thomas, who has had more than a little practice tuning things out over the years, stares vaguely at a vase on the mantel, one of the less racy Greek ones. Edward, more polite but less well-trained in the practice of ignoring his mother, keeps his blank gaze turned in the woman’s direction while at the same time tracing shapes idly onto the back of Thomas’s gloved hand.
Mrs. Courtenay has just started in on all of the friends she has who still have single daughters in yet another bid to lure Edward back around to heterosexuality when the door opens and Estelle shows Jack into the room.
“Oh, Jack,” Mrs. Courtenay says, standing to embrace him.
Beside Thomas, Edward groans.
“Thought he wasn’t going to be here,” Thomas whispers.
“She must have only told us that so we would come,” Edward replies, not bother to keep his voice down.
Jack turns to glance at them when he hears this, and his eyes are sharp and wicked. Thomas wishes, not for the first time, that he didn’t look quite so much like his brother – it’s disconcerting to see that familiar mouth curled up into a cruel sneer and that lovely nose stuck up in the air.
“Ah, Barrow,” Jack says, and Thomas knows he’s going to pay very dearly for hanging up the phone this morning. “Still here, I see. Haven’t been carted off to prison yet, then? I know how you enjoy your time behind bars.”
Thomas scowls, but doesn’t say anything. It’s a fine line between defending himself and insulting Edward’s family, and it’s too early in the night to cross that yet. He’d like to tell Jack to stuff it, that he hasn’t been behind bars, as it were, for over eight years, and even then it’d only been twice – once for a drunken brawl as a lad and once for petty theft after a bad breakup when he was twenty. And anyway, he’s never actually been to prison, only spent a few nights in lock-up.
Arguing all that won’t do him any good, though, so he forces a painful grin and says, “You know me; I never turn down a free meal.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Jack agrees pleasantly. “I can’t imagine you eat well on a store clerk’s wages and a government pension.”
“Jack,” his mother warns, but it’s too late for that.
Edward looks stricken, a high flush – not the good kind – forming on his cheeks at the insult. He tries (and mostly succeeds) to not show these days how much it still bothers him that he can no longer manage his late father’s business, but there are times even now, years after, when the devastation of losing his sight in that accident comes crashing down upon him. Those are the days he doesn’t get out of bed in the mornings and Thomas brings him tea and sweets and a hot water bottle and then calls him six times a day to check up on him. It would be better, Thomas thinks, if Edward’s job as a freelance sports writer kept him a busier, gave him less time to dwell on things. It would also be better if Jack would shut his damned mouth, and Thomas is about thirty seconds off from telling him so.
The door opening does nothing to defuse the tension in the room, but it’s a distraction, at least. Estelle steps carefully into the room – all too familiar with this kind of drama – and clears her throat lightly. “Dinner,” she announces.
“Ah, at last,” Mrs. Courtenay says. “Let’s go through, then. Barrow, help Edward to the dining room.”
“I can stand on my own,” Edward mutters, still flushed. “I can walk.”
“’Course you can,” Thomas says, squeezing Edward’s hand once and then letting go. He stands up on his own and lets Edward do the same, confident the man can navigate the path to the table with only his stick and his wits. Mrs. Courtenay wrings her hands anxiously at the display, but doesn’t say anything, and neither does Jack.
Only a few more hours, Thomas reminds himself as they go through. Only a few more hours now.
****
It’s a very quiet first course. Mrs. Courtenay at first makes stilted small-talk that goes unanswered by either of her sons, and eventually she just gives up. Thomas just stabs at his halibut and baby kale and tries to ignore the tension. It’s not the first awkward fancy dinner he’s been to; he’s made it a habit since he was young to date rich men, and Philip in particular used to enjoy making pointed innuendo in front of his parents when they’d have Thomas over. That doesn’t mean he enjoys it, but he’s dealt with worse. At least he and Edward are sat together – Thomas once had a Turkish boyfriend (and hadn’t that been an interesting three months) who used to sit between several of his pretty lady friends at every get-together and leave Thomas to fend for himself; in retrospect, it’s not surprising that relationship hadn’t worked out.
Over the salad course – spring greens in shallot dressing – Jack bores them all with his latest business venture. Or well, he bores Thomas anyway; it doesn’t matter how much the business means to Edward, Thomas simply can’t find it in himself to care about life insurance premiums and deductibles. He can see that Edward is interested, though, but it’s in the clenched-fist way where he thinks Jack is bollocksing up the company and hates that he can’t do anything about it. Thomas wishes very much there were something he could do about it, but the most he can manage is to reach over and give Edward’s knee a hard squeeze. It doesn’t make anything better, but it does get Edward to take a deep breath and force himself to relax enough to get through the course.
It’s not until Estelle brings the beef wellington out that the real reason for the invitation tonight becomes apparent, and it’s so par for the course that Thomas doesn’t even realize what’s happening at first.
“Darling,” Mrs. Courtenay says to Edward after Estelle’s left again, “How are you? Really, I mean.”
Edward’s plenty worked up by now, but he’s got amazing restraint when it comes to his mother’s nagging. He only blinks hard and says, “I’m fine, Mother.”
“Are you, really?” his mother presses. “I do hate the thought of you living all alone in that-”
“I don’t live alone,” Edward cuts in. “And there’s nothing wrong with my flat; it’s in a perfectly safe neighborhood.”
Jack snorts out a laugh at that, and Mrs. Courtenay turns wounded eyes on him.
“Don’t laugh, Jack!” she wails. “It’s not funny! He shouldn’t be out there all by himself when he can’t even take care of himself.”
“I’m not by myself,” Edward repeats quietly, but Thomas notices he doesn’t say anything at all about her other accusation. They’re wearing him down, anyone could see it.
“Oh, don’t fret, Mother,” Jack says carelessly, going back to his plate. “Edward is fine where he is.” At this, Edward’s hand twitches under the table, and Thomas reaches over to give it a squeeze – their equivalent of a shared look. It really is too much to hope for, Thomas supposes, that Jack is coming to their defense. He’s proven correct when Jack continues, “Barrow is, at least, hospital-trained. If Edward manages to, ah, walk into a door or anything, he’ll be in safe hands.”
‘Hospital-trained’ is a bit of a stretch, Thomas thinks. He’d volunteered at an emergency clinic (the one where he and Edward met, as a matter of fact) as a part of a community sentence right after his brief foray into larceny, but that had mostly been typing up reports and making coffee. Regulations had required he have the very best of first aid training, which meant he could very effectively do things like bandage a gash, apply pressure to a wound, wrap a sprain, administer an EpiPen, perform CPR, and use a defibrillator. And while all of those things are good life skills, none of them matter overmuch in his current relationship. To be fair, Edward had walked into a door at one point, but that had only been the once and at least four years ago.
It’s getting to the point where Thomas knows he’s going to need to cut in and come to Edward’s defense, no matter how weak that would make them both look to the others. Edward’s still holding his own, though, and their clasped hands give him the strength for another push back.
“I don’t need a minder, Mother,” he says, frustration evident in his voice and the tilt of his head. “And I’m perfectly capable of looking after myself, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Thomas is willing to bet the old lady hasn’t noticed, actually, but that’s got nothing to do with Edward, and everything to do with Mrs. Courtenay’s marvelous gift for self-delusion. She’s never thought much of Edward’s blindness, she’s all but told them countless times, always sniffing in that posh way of hers afterward. She never seems to understand that while Edward’s not too fond of it himself, he’s learned to live his life again (or maybe he’s built a new one entirely out of the ruins of the last) and he doesn’t need to be treated like a child.
“Yes, well,” Jack sneers. “Your track records says otherwise, doesn’t it?”
And that’s when Thomas realizes what this is really about, this whole affair – the calls, the dinner, everything. They’re not worried Edward is going to hurt himself accidentally. No, they’re worried he might do it on purpose. Again. It’s been years since the last time he tried and he’s been so much better since then, especially since he’s taken up writing, but the worry, Thomas knows, never truly goes away. And after that incident a few weeks ago – that legitimate accident, mind – where Edward burnt himself so badly on the tea kettle, well, it’s no wonder they’re staging this intervention now.
Edward must realize what they’re on about, too, because he swallows hard and says roughly, “And what would you care if I did… have an accident? It wouldn’t affect you any. Or Daddy’s business.”
“Edward!” Mrs. Courtenay says sharply. “What are you saying? Of course we care! Jack only wants what’s best for you.”
Thomas puts up with a lot from Edward’s family – sneers about his working-class background, insinuations about his criminal record, a complete refusal to acknowledge that he and Edward are lovers, calls at bloody three in the morning – but this is just too much. Jack Courtenay might care about what’s best for his brother deep down, but it’s very deep, if that’s the case. Jack cares about himself, and the company, and his mother, in that order, and if his brother were to slit his wrists (again, Thomas thinks with a shudder), Jack would probably say good riddance and wash his hands of the whole affair. His early morning phone calls are proof of that – if he really wanted to help, he’d call them at decent hour like a normal human being. And Thomas, he’s just not going to stand for all that.
“And I suppose you know what that is better he does, yeah?” The words are out of his mouth before he’s quite thought them through, but he stands by them.
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Courtenay asks. She’s hasn’t often seen this side of Thomas, not in the six years he's been with her son. He’s been on his best behavior around her for the most part, not least because he’s so damn happy to be with Edward that he’s willing to put up with insult after insult.
“You’re so high and mighty, aren’t you,” Thomas goes on, ignoring the look of death Jack’s sending his direction. “The both of you. Deciding what he can do, where he can live. He is a grown man and he can take care of himself, and if you can’t deal with that, it’s your problem, innit, not ours. So why don’t you – the both of you – just fuck off and leave us alone.”
There’s a short shocked silence, and then Edward clears his throat. “Yes, well. That about covers it, I’d say.” He takes up his cane and pushes himself back from the table. “I think we should go now. Don’t worry, we’ll see ourselves. I know the way. Goodnight, Mother. Jack.”
Edward leads out of the room and Thomas follows behind, not sparing another glance for the two people still at the table. He can feel Jack’s eyes boring into him, though, and hear Mrs. Courtenay’s uneven breathing, and he thinks it’ll probably be a while before they’re invited back. In fact, he’d bet his mint condition copy of Raemaeker’s Cartoons on it.
When they’re in the hall, Edward stops and turns to him. “Well,” he says, and he doesn’t seem mad or upset anymore, so that’s something. “That was rather unexpected. You’re not usually so volatile.”
Thomas doesn’t know about all that; he’s plenty volatile, just tends toward sarcasm and passive aggressive sniping rather than active confrontation. He feels acutely embarrassed about he whole thing all of the sudden. “Yeah,” he says, rubbing his neck with his good hand. “Sorry about that. I didn’t actually mean to say ‘fuck’ to your mum.”
Edward smiles. “She’ll get over it,” he promises.
“Want me to call a taxi?” It’s not exactly a quick walk to the flat and tonight Thomas just isn’t in the mood for it.
“Sure,” Edward agrees.
So Thomas rings them a cab and they make their way outside. They wait in the cool darkness for their ride, Edward with his head tilted back as though he could see the stars and Thomas with his eyes fixed on Edward face. It’s been a long day, Thomas thinks, and he’s knackered. All he wants right now is to go home and crawl into bed, to curl up around Edward and sleep for twenty hours.
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself,” Edward says suddenly.
Thomas blinks, caught off guard. “What?” he says carefully. “When?”
“With the kettle. Or with the door.”
“Yeah, obviously,” Thomas laughs. “Those would be bloody awful ways to die, in the first place.”
“I'm serious,” Edward says. “I just want you to know that. I'm not going to try it again. I wouldn't, not if I have you.”
Thomas sighs and really thinks about what Edward is saying. It’s a dangerous way to live, he figures, being this in love with someone. Thomas wouldn’t kill himself if Edward ever left him, he’s too self-absorbed for that, but it’d wreck him, right enough. He wouldn’t recover, he thinks, or if he ever did it would be years down the line, another lifetime. It’s too late now, though, for second guessing; he’s already gone and gotten himself into something he can’t control. He’s nothing special, only a store clerk with a criminal record to his name and a passion for odd antiques, but he’s given six years of his life to this man and he wants to give the rest of them, as well.
It’s not news to anyone, least of all Edward, but it’s all Thomas has got to give. “I love you,” he says softly, and hopes that’s enough.
“I love you, too,” Edward says, and Thomas smiles, because yeah, they'll be alright.
Their taxi pulls up and Thomas reaches for the door. “Come on,” he says, “Let's go home.”