Ah, yes.
A pure, sweet jolt of electricity, warm and tingling, shot through Thomas' fingers the moment he first touched the soft, smooth, golden skin of Jimmy's neck.
It had happened quite by accident. Jimmy was playing piano after dinner one night and Thomas, nervous as hell around Jimmy any time of day, was pleased to find himself chatting amicably and almost confidently with the footman. Thomas had even managed to feign a sense of casualness, resting his elbow on the top of the piano and leaning his hip into it to calm his wobbly knees.
Keep breathing, keep breathing, Thomas said to himself as he tried not to swoon at Jimmy's nimble hands running up and down the keys. And don't look down at his mouth. Just focus on what he's actually saying, you stupid git.
Mrs. Hughes' dulcet burr interrupted Thomas' thoughts. "You play well, James," she called over her shoulder.
Thomas was floating. He discovered that his limbs suddenly had a mind of their own. He stood up straight and moved behind Jimmy. "There's no end to Jimmy's talents, is there?" he heard his voice say as watched his hands wrap themselves around Jimmy's shoulders, giving them a slight squeeze. He realized with a shock that the middle and index fingers of his left hand were resting on bare skin. He sensed Jimmy's pulse, feeling the life flowing through the young man, and found himself rapidly becoming very, very hard.
"His lordship's gone up." Four murmured words sliced through Thomas' ecstasy.
O'Brien. Goddamn cow.
Thomas let his fingers drag slowly across Jimmy's neck, and attempted to savor the last milliseconds of contact as he stepped away to attend to Lord Grantham. He did his best to give O'Brien a cold, unaffected stare as he walked past her, his erection so tight in his too-small trousers that it was almost difficult to walk.
O'Brien tried to catch up with Thomas on his way upstairs, but upon hearing the distinctive swoosh of her long black skirt against the bannister, he quickened his pace and his awkward stride turned into a painful trot.
"Whatever's the matter, Thomas?" O'Brien sneered after him as he made his way toward Lord Grantham's room. "You've got Bates' job … now you've got his limp as well?"
Thomas kept walking.
"D'ja need a walking stick? Or perhaps a stiff drink would help," O'Brien called down the hallway as Thomas opened Lord Grantham's door.
For one of the few times in his life, he had decided to take the high road and not look back.
Lord Grantham was puttering about his bedroom, looking out the window, checking his reflection in the mirror, and inspecting his dozen or so snuffboxes for any egregious nicks or scratches.
Thomas stood patiently holding Lord Grantham's dressing gown over his right arm and rocked back and forth slightly on the balls of his feet. Jesus, can we just get on with it. Why must you always be so fucking slow? He flexed his left hand, trying to recreate the sensation of Jimmy's skin on his fingertips.
"Everything alright, Barrow?" Lord Grantham asked as he put the lid down on the case containing his snuffboxes.
"Yes, my Lord. My hand's just giving me a spot of bother tonight. Must be the weather turning," Thomas said, unfolding the dressing gown and holding it up to slip over Lord Grantham's shoulders.
A line of concern furrowed Lord Grantham's brow, "Ah, I see. You may want to have Dr. Clarkson take a look if it ever becomes too painful," he said.
Like what's about to burst from my trousers, Thomas thought while smoothing down the silk fabric. "It's nothing an honest day's work won't cure," he said pleasantly.
Lord Grantham turned and waited for Thomas to tie the robe closed. "Hmpf. Well, an honest day's work is the tonic for any man's ills, I dare say," he proclaimed.
Honest day's work, Thomas inwardly groaned. Says the man who can't dress himself and needs his newspapers ironed.
"I quite agree, my Lord," Thomas said, stepping back to admire his work. "I'm certain I'll be right as rain tomorrow."
This is the tonic for my ills.
Thomas shut the door to his room and shoved the desk chair under the doorknob. He kicked off his shoes and practically danced out of his clothes with hurriedly folded each piece neatly and urged himself to move faster.
Come on, come on, COME ON!
Finally undressed, he jumped onto the cot and pulled his undershirt up so his chest was exposed and then yanked his underwear down to his thighs, hissing in pain as he finally freed his erection from its confines.
In a nod to propriety, Thomas always kept his undershirt and underwear on in some fashion. He particularly liked the feeling of constriction around his thighs, like he was still partially dressed and getting away with something illicit. Much like he had the day before …
Under the guise of needing a rest because of a sore back, Thomas had crept into Jimmy's room while he was away on his half day. He could barely breathe standing in the middle of the small, sunny room, completely overwhelmed at the intimacy of being surrounded by Jimmy everywhere he turned. A photograph of a smiling man and woman on his beside table. A faded postcard of the Eiffel Tower tacked above the headboard. A well-loved deck of cards thrown onto the floor, the box threatening to spill its contents.
Thomas walked over and stood in front of Jimmy's dresser and gazed down in awe at the array of objects that were fortunate enough to find themselves on or in Jimmy every day.
He traced his fingers on the top of a small jar.
"I'm jealous of his damn pomade," Thomas whispered with a sad laugh.
He raked the bristles of Jimmy's hairbrush trying to find any loose golden strings and put them into his pocket with a soft pat for safekeeping. He was tempted to slide Jimmy's toothbrush into his mouth but before he wrapped his fingers around it, he caught a glimpse of himself in one of Jimmy's many mirrors. The reflection he saw was one of a man he barely knew anymore.
What the hell are you doing? Who ARE you? You are SO pathetic.
Overcome by embarrassment, Thomas suddenly backed away from the dresser and stumbled until his legs bumped into Jimmy's cot. He plopped down onto the thin mattress in disgust, put his elbows on his knees and laid his head in his hands. He ran his fingers through his hair and choked back a sob. It hurt him so much to have so much within his reach and it had been so long … so damn long … since he had felt the love of another man.
Thomas sat up and tenderly loosened a stray thread from the coverlet. He tucked it into his pocket for safekeeping, too. He sighed in surrender, shaking his head at the ridiculousness he felt. You've gone this far, he thought. If you're going to sink even lower, might as well enjoy the ride.
He inhaled deeply and gingerly put his head on Jimmy's pillow and pulled it close to his face. His nostrils were filled with Jimmy's scent that was almost like the seaside, the way the salt and sun collect on the breeze.
Do you ever lie here at night and think of me? he wondered. Am I in your dreams?
He closed his eyes in quiet joy. You are my dream.