Philip gripped the sides of Thomas' head as if it were about to fall off.
The footman was lost above him, glistening with sweat, slipping his cock between Philip's thighs relentlessly, grinding faster and faster, and moaning softly as his release grew near.
Philip tilted Thomas' face toward his so that they were eye-to-eye and inches apart. He never ceased to adore the look on his lover's face as he came. His tough, scathing, scowling Thomas completely wrecked and vulnerable and—more often than not—weeping just a bit.
"Look at me, love," Philip whispered desperately. Thomas barely had the wherewithal to open his eyes but managed to squint through the curtain of black hair that had fallen across his forehead.
"That's it … keep them open … I've got you… my raven … "
Thomas whimpered and Philip felt his own climax imminent as Thomas' belly and groin pushed, pulled and crushed his cock with every thrust.
"My love … oh god, my beautiful raven," Philip cried out.
Thomas could only stutter, "Ph-phil … ah f-fuck … god!"
The two men came within mere seconds of one another, and Thomas collapsed onto Philip's chest, shivering and gasping for breath. Philip ran his fingers through Thomas' hair with a shaky hand and lifted his head to kiss the footman on top of his head.
"Oi. Don't … don't kiss me like me gran," Thomas growled and attempted to swat Philip away.
The duke snickered and ruffled Thomas' hair, "How you could ever compare me to your grandmother while you're naked in my bed and lolling about in my seed is beyond my comprehension."
Thomas groaned and rolled off of his lover to lie beside him. He placed his hands behind his head and sighed, "If you're gonna kiss me after that, do it properly at least." He looked over at Philip and grinned.
Philip turned onto his side and gave Thomas a deep kiss. He leaned back to see Thomas' reaction.
"What did you think of that?" Philip said lowly.
Thomas shrugged, "Mmmm, 'twas a bit of alright. My gran always used more tongue, though."
Philip slapped Thomas on the chest, "You filthy, cheeky bastard!"
"I am exactly that and you love it," Thomas said smugly.
Philip hummed low in his throat. His Thomas, his lover, his raven was right. Philip had always nicknamed his lovers (at least the ones who slept with him more than once; there were only two or three) but he had felt "raven" was particularly clever and congratulated himself on it whenever he said it aloud. He adored Thomas' glossy black hair and—like the legend of the ravens at the Tower of London-had told the footman that his "kingdom" was going to fall when he went back to Downton. Thomas, who had initially rolled his eyes whenever Philip said it had grown accustomed to it … and actually liked it, much to his own chagrin. Philip now leaned on one elbow, looked at Thomas, let his fingers dance softly through the dark forest on Thomas' chest and said words he had never uttered before.
"I'd marry you … if you were a woman."
Thomas blinked at him in disbelief.
"Bollocks!" he shouted, "I'm skint! Or did you fucking forget that when your cock was in me mouth?"
"Well, yes. I mean, no!"
Philip was flustered. He hadn't expected Thomas to be so angry.
"And it's easy for you to make such grand declarations because it's not real! None of this is real ..." he snorted and reached over to the nightstand to grab his pack of cigarettes.
Philip felt as though his entire world had collapsed.
"No, no, no, love. I mean it," he said with an edge of pain in his voice. (Philip had declared his love for Thomas two nights' prior while his cock was in Thomas' mouth. The footman had sat back on his heels and laughed, then went back to finish his task.)
"It is real. It's very real. To me."
Thomas pulled out a cigarette and stuck it between his lips and muttered, "Alright, I'll play along. What would your dear old mum say if you brought me to tea?" He struck a match and watched Philip, slightly bemused. "If I were a lady, of course."
The duke said quickly, "Oh, well. She'd be resistant, of course, seeing as you're … that we're not-"
Thomas cut him off, "Of the same class? Meaning I'm low class. Your bit of rough."
"Well, yes," Philip said and felt his discomfort growing. "It's just a fact; it's neither of our faults. You know, she would see how much in love we are and with your charm and your good looks, you'd win her over in no time. She just wants her beloved boy to be happy and finally get married."
"Yeah, but I've got no money, no nothing. What would you have done about that one, eh?"
"It would have taken a bit of work but with my title and my ahhhh … connections (Philip chose his words carefully as to not emphasize their very wide class difference) and your beauty and your cunning, we could have had the world at our feet, you and I together."
"The Duke and Duchess of Crowborough," Thomas said in an accent not quite his own. "I quite like the sound of that."
He took a long drag on his cigarette and exhaled.
"What would me dear gran have thought?" he laughed and shook his head, "Utter bollocks."
Philip decided to ignore him and pushed forward. He had spoken too much and it was too late to take any of it back, especially when it was coming from the crevices tucked deeply away inside his heart. He wanted to grab Thomas by the shoulders and shake some sense into him-to let him know of his complete sincerity.
Philip instead focused on the soft line of hair below his lover's navel.
He began to stroke it up and down with the back of his hand and said quietly, "You would have given me the most beautiful heir."
The smile left Thomas' face and he shivered under his touch.
"He'd have your pale skin and your lips and your dark, dark hair," Philip added wistfully. "He'd have brown eyes, of course. He'd had to have had his father's eyes."
Thomas' mood changed from one of amusement to one of reflection and almost sadness.
"So you've given this a lot of thought, yeah?" Thomas asked gently.
"Yes," Philip sighed.
And he had. Philip had desperately tried to be drawn to full creamy breasts and thighs. He had been with numerous whores, two of whom he dismissed before they barely entered the room, one with whom he simply talked for an hour, one who managed to please him orally and one that left him absolutely broken.
She was beautiful, dark hair, dark eyes, had all of her teeth. He had the tip of his cock touching her warm, inviting sex but just as he was about to push his way inside her, he was struck by a wave of nausea, dizziness and regret, and had backed away from her, gathered up his clothes, threw a few pound notes on the table and walked out the door, leaving the poor girl both offended and bewildered.
"I can't help the way I feel," Philip said softly and rolled over onto his back to avoid looking at Thomas.
They lay together staring at the ceiling in silence as Thomas finished his cigarette. He leaned over to stub it out in the ashtray—a crystal one worth more than Thomas would make in five years.
He looked at it glimmering in the candlelight and thought for a moment. He then said quietly, "I could always come work for you."
Philip tried to hide his delight and managed to speak evenly, "Yes, yes you could. You certainly could."
"I'll hand in me resignation tomorrow if you like."
Philip bit back a yelp of, "Yes!" and instead said, "Oh. I- I- couldn't poach you from the Crawleys. Not like that it. It would be bad form, very bad form indeed."
Thomas shook his head in slight disgust and sniffed, "I haven't been with them that long. They'd probably be glad to see the back side of me anyway."
Philip silently agreed with him, and it broke his heart to have to tell him that it couldn't happen any time soon.
"No, these things must be handled delicately. We just need to wait a proper amount of time and then you'll have your job."
Thomas nodded in agreement, blew out the candle and turned onto his side to go to sleep.
"May I write to you?" Philip said into the darkness.
"S'ppose so." Thomas mumbled and shrugged.
Philip turned to him, slightly taken aback at Thomas' dismissive response and opened his mouth to speak. The chip the footman had on his shoulder both intrigued and repulsed Philip, but the intrigue always seemed to win out.
Thomas rolled over onto Philip's chest and reached out to caress his cheek.
"Of course you can write to me," he said and smiled as warmly as he possibly could. He rubbed his knuckles against Philip's five-o-clock shadow and added in what Philip believed (and it was true) in all sincerity," Please. Please do."
"Kiss me please, my raven," Philip said almost breathlessly.
Thomas crawled up to him so that they were touching foreheads, then their lips met in a passionate kiss.
Philip pulled away first, slipped his hands around the back of the footman's neck and stammered, "God … god, Thomas. I love you."
Thomas' mouth curled into a sly smile.
"I know."