Art by the amazing sartsumas on tumblr.

"You landed alright, darling?"

Thomas held his cellphone with his shoulder while he tried to fish his keys out of his pocket and find the right one on the key ring.

"Yes. The turbulence was terrible, but I am on terra firma once again, none the worse for wear... ah!" He'd finally got the key in the lock, the others jangling as he turned it and grabbed his luggage, dragging it inside after him.

The comforting smells of Sullivan St. Tattoos greeted Thomas when he set his things down, and he paused for a moment, closing his eyes and breathing in the familiar scent of Green Soap and leather sofas.

"So, how did it go in Boston?" There was a smile in Miranda's voice and it made Thomas grin. He flipped the light switches and collapsed onto one of the waiting room couches with a groan.

"Honestly? I just wanted to get home. It was great, the people were lovely and welcoming, but…"

"Though far I roam, that thought shall be, my hope, my comfort, everywhere; While such a home remains to me, my heart shall never know despair."

Thomas laughed softly. "Elizabeth Browning?"

"Anne Brontë."

"Ah! So close." Thomas fiddled with the hem of his shirt. "Overall the tour was incredible. I got to see the country, I was booked solid at every event, but you're right. There's nothing quite like home. The last three cities were almost too much."

He tilted his head back, reveling in the silence. "What about you?" he finally asked, his voice a low murmur. "How are things back home?"

Miranda's voice was a little too light. "Oh, you know, the same as usual. I think Teddy's working himself up to proposing."

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "Really? That'll be, what? Husband number… seven?"

"Hush. Number three, and you know it. And I'm not quite sure I see why it matters."

"It doesn't. Enjoy him, I hope he sticks. So you'll be Mrs. Barlow soon?"

"Yes, it seems so."

"You ever wonder how different our lives could have been? Maybe you and I really should have gotten married. We'd be well off, probably living in some ridiculously excessive town house in Kensington. No divorces, just plenty of lovely affairs in between trips to our private island in the Bahamas where we'd roll around in obscene amounts of money for fun."

Miranda laughed, and the sound of it made something flare bright in Thomas's chest. God, he loved her.

"I don't know," she said at last. "I rather think we're both happier this way. You would have been miserable as a barrister, and if you had married me, you'd still have to speak to your father on a regular basis. I'm not sure all the money in the world would make up for a single conversation with him, let alone a lifetime of them."

"No, I suppose not."

The sound of beeping from the outside drew his attention, and Thomas stood to pull the blinds and take a look. A moving truck was backing into a spot across the street. "Huh. It looks like someone's let the shop across the street at last."

"Oh, new neighbor? I hope he's good looking."

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Might not even be a 'he'."

"No one expects love, Thomas."

He laughed. That was Miranda's go-to excuse for almost every bad decision he'd ever made - that she'd ever convinced him to make.

"Yes, well, I'll settle for the new neighbor being less of an idiot than Evan was. Looking down his nose at me every time he saw me outside. Fine arts gallery my arse. You can't glue a few newspaper cutouts to a plastic doll's head and expect anyone to pay 5,000 dollars for it. We both went to Cornell, Evan. We both know you're full of shit."

Miranda laughed again and Thomas got serious once more.

"You're happy?" he asked her.

"Yes, darling."

Thomas nodded. "Good. Me too."

"I'll talk to you in a few days, I'm off to meet Teddy." She hesitated. "Do me a favor, Thomas? Go on a date?"

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Too busy for a date. I'm booked solid until July."

"Go anyway. Otherwise, what was the point?"

And he didn't have an answer to that, so he said goodbye and hung up the phone.

People had warned James that the New York air would be too hot and humid. But for now, in mid-April, it was lovely, and almost exactly like home.

He was grateful for the cool air coming in through the open windows as he wiped sweat out of his eyes for the tenth time, trying to figure out the best spot for his ficus tree after moving his furniture around ad nauseum. His balcony was already spilling over with begonias, pansies and chrysanthemums, and he had several English vines in hanging pots near the balcony doors. He should get just enough sunlight outside for all of them for at least a few hours each day.

He dragged the ficus across the living room, setting it next to the sofa and grimaced. No. Maybe next to the piano? He dragged it again across the floor and stood back. Terrible.

He groaned as his phone rang. "This is Flint."

"You fucking wanker."

James grinned. "What is it now, Gates?"

His friend and business partner of five years, Hal Gates, sounded absolutely fed up. But then, he usually did.

"James, I swear to you, I am going to fucking wring Billy's neck with my own two hands."

"Billy… Billy… Remind me which one he was again?"

James had to hold the phone away from his ear as Gates's voice came over at double the volume. "You are not fucking telling me that you don't fucking remember who you left in charge of the shop in Brixton!"

James laughed. "Oh, that Billy."

Gates muttered something on the other end of the line that sounded suspiciously like, "Fuck me, I'm getting too old for this shit."

"So Billy's giving you trouble?" he asked, as an extended olive branch.

Gates huffed and puffed. "James. James. He's determined to get the royal wedding."

James frowned. "That's impossible. We've never done a royal event. We're not on the approved list of vendors for Buckingham."

"Yes. I know that. You know that."

James laughed. "Billy doesn't know that."

"Billy doesn't know that."

James made a snap decision and moved the ficus back next to the sofa. He wasn't thrilled with the placement, but there wasn't a better option.

"Okay. So Billy wants to do Harry's wedding. Why is this an issue? I wanted to be a pirate captain when I was a boy, but you don't see me sailing the seven seas. Wanting something doesn't make it happen."

Okay, his cactus. Where should his cactus go?

"He's been cold-calling fucking dukes, James."

James tripped on his way to the kitchen and slammed his hip into the corner of the table.

"Bloody shitting fuck!"

"That's exactly what I said!"

"No, I just – ugh, never mind. Hal. He can't do that." James winced as he pressed down on his hip. That was going to bruise.

"You're telling me? I've been going out of my mind trying to explain to the gentle giant that this is going to fuck us."

James groaned, collapsing into a chair and rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Okay. I – I'll talk to him. I'll give him a ring and I'll figure this out, don't worry."

"Forget the fact that Harry and Meghan definitely had a florist picked out within three seconds of their engagement. I don't need to tell you, James, that he's gonna destroy our chances at ever getting put on that list of vendors, do I?"

"You just did, Gates. I said I'll take care of it."

"Right."

The line fell silent for a moment. "So, eh. You settling in okay?"

James rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Go get back to work, you tosser."

Gates was grinning loudly on the other end. "Keep me posted."

"Yeah, yeah." James ended the call without even bothering to say goodbye. James Flint and Hal Gates didn't do goodbyes.

He stared at his half-unpacked boxes and messy flat. Then he glared at his cactus.

"Ugh." He dialed Billy.

Over the next several days, Thomas watched in between appointments, as craftsmen, architects and designers came and went from the shop across the street.

He caught a few glimpses of the man who seemed to be in charge, though he never got a good look at him. He was tall, well built, and inescapably ginger.

Whoever the man was, whatever he was selling, he was clearly starting off with a decent budget, which meant the store was probably part of a chain.

So Thomas was surprised when he glanced outside one morning and saw the shop's sign had gone up.

Walrus Cottage Blooms.

A truck was unloading out front, and the sidewalk was an explosion of color, hundreds upon hundreds of flowers being moved inside in enormous buckets.

"A flower shop?" Thomas murmured to himself.

"Thomas, your ten o'clock's here," Abigail called lightly from behind the front desk.

Thomas started from the kitchenette where he'd been spying out the window. He glanced at the cup of tea he'd been making. Wonderful. He'd over-steeped it.

"Send them back, Abby, thank you."

The door opened and a group of giggling teenage girls came in, chattering excitedly about piercings. Thomas laughed softly, heading to the back of the shop. Abigail's voice trailed after him, asking them for their ID cards and what they'd all like to pierce. She handled walk-in piercings, and was very popular with the students in the area. The boys and the girls.

He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, glancing back towards the window again.

At some point Thomas was going to have to go over there and introduce himself.

As things turned out, his first meeting with the florist across the street did not end up going according to plan.

James was just putting the finishing touches on a sample arrangement for an event at the Freedom Tower the following week when the bell of the shop clanged violently behind him, and someone charged in through the front door.

"What in Christ's name -? How can you-?!"

James turned sharply to find a blond man pulling off latex gloves and looking positively apoplectic with rage. He stepped right into James's personal space, and James instinctively took a step back, knocking into the table behind him.

"Do you realize I almost maimed a client just now, because I cannot stop sneezing?" He gestured wildly behind him towards the window. James glanced past to read the sign above his shop– Sullivan St. Tattoos. His eyes widened.

"Oh! That's – that's terrible, I'm so –"

His apology was cut short by a violent sneeze.

"Oh. Bless you."

The blond man glared at him, eyes tearing.

James frowned. "Are you generally allergic to pollen?"

Rubbing at his eyes, he shook his head. "No, no, I've never been-"

"No, wait, don't do that. One moment." James maneuvered him into a chair and went rummaging beneath the register.

"Here!" He held up a bottle of eye drops triumphantly, stepping back in front of his new neighbor. "Do you mind if I-?"

"Uh…" Startlingly blue eyes blinked up at him, rubbed red and tearing. "Yes, um. Alright."

James tilted his head back with a finger under his chin, promptly administering a couple of eye drops to each eye.

The man blinked several times.

"Better?" James asked.

"Yes, actually, that is-" another violent sneeze echoed around the shop.

"Ah! One more second!" James went back behind the register and came back with a pill and a bottle of water. "Here. It's... Claritin? I think that's what the American version is called."

At this point, the man no longer looked angry. He was baffled. "I – allergy medication?"

James nodded. "I keep some around just in case."

"Okay, but I still-" Another sneeze. "Oh, bloody hell." He threw the pill back and downed half the bottle of water in one go.

"That should start working in about ten minutes. I wouldn't take a needle to anybody until then."

"No, really?"

James laughed. "Honestly, you'll probably feel better sitting in here."

"Where all the flowers are?"

James nodded to the front door. "It's the wisteria, the purple ones outside. Even people who aren't allergic to pollen can sometimes have some sort of reaction to wisteria. I don't usually stock it, but I'm doing a wedding for an extremely particular bride."

The man blinked slowly, eyes still streaming a bit, before he finally nodded. Now that his anger had abandoned him, he seemed embarrassed.

"I – I'm sorry about storming in here, I-"

James shook his head. "It's fine. Completely understandable. I would have been cross as well." He held his hand out. "I'm James. James Flint."

The way he was staring at James, the man wasn't quite sure what to make of him. Finally, he dropped his gloves on the table and took his hand. "Thomas Hamilton."

Thomas's hand was larger than his, warm and dry. And now that he wasn't all terrifying fury and sneezes, James was struck by how incredibly attractive he was.

Thomas blinked several times, squinting. "You're English?" he asked.

Old habits and ingrained pain made him answer reflexively, "From the UK, yes." And then, realizing Thomas was not about to tease him as his schoolmates used to, he elaborated. "Scotland, actually. From just outside Aberdeen."

"Oh. But your accent…"

James shrugged. "Moved to London during Uni. Went to secondary school in England as well, and you know what little gobshites boys that age can be. I phased out the accent over time."

"I'm sorry." Thomas frowned.

James's laugh was good-natured. "Why? It wasn't you teasing me."

"Still. People can be absolute tossers." He gave James a small crooked smile and that was it, James was gone.

Fuck.

Sincere blue eyes, wide shoulders… And somehow, Thomas had gone from storming in a minute ago to putting James at enough ease to bring up one of his worst memories like it was nothing. He wasn't quite sure how it had happened, but he'd-

Another colossal sneeze made him jump, and Thomas groaned. His hair was sticking up in every direction, his eyes still streaming, and misery was coming off of him in waves. James's heart went out to him, it truly did.

"How long are you going to be keeping the wisteria around, did you say?"

James grimaced. "Just a few days. But I'll be moving it into the back room. You should be fine. You might want to consider rescheduling with whichever client you're working on right now."

"Great."

"I'm really sorry, I-"

Thomas sighed. "No, it's alright. I don't have the time to reschedule. I'll have to tell her to come back after hours, and I had a –" He stopped, chewing at his lip. "Never mind."

"No, what?"

"I, er. Had a date tonight," he said, clearing his throat.

"Oh."

Well, of course he had a date. He was one of the most beautiful men James had ever seen.

"No, really. It's fine. A mutual friend set us up, and I wasn't actually interested… It's a relief to be honest. I was looking for an excuse to cancel."

James wasn't sure how much of that, if any of it, was true. But a tiny sense of victory sang through him nonetheless.

"Well, let me make it up to you. I'm new to the neighborhood, and I clearly don't know anyone. I'd be happy to come by with a takeaway whenever you're done with your client tonight. Food, maybe some beers?"

Thomas frowned. "You don't have to do that, I'll just-"

"I want to." Fuck, he sounded much too eager. "What I mean is, er… You'd be doing me a favor. Otherwise I'll end up sitting here eating on my own with just the wisteria for company."

Thomas huffed out a short laugh and a blush rose to James's cheeks. "Just the wisteria for company? That would be tragic."

Blue eyes sparkled at him. His heart was beating in his throat.

"Okay," he said at last. "I'll see you tonight. Just ring the buzzer round about nine?"

James nodded.

Thomas stood, and oh… he was tall. James hadn't noticed through the fury and sneezing.

"Thanks for the drops and the…" Thomas trailed off then cleared his throat and turned quickly, walking out. The bell on the door rang once again, and then he was gone.

A loud sneeze sounded from outside a moment later.

James rang Thomas's bell at exactly nine o'clock that night.

He'd actually miscalculated how long it would take him to get down two flights of stairs and cross a street and arrived three minutes early, so he'd paced in front of the door until it was time.

James shifted on his feet, moving the bag of Chinese food from one hand to the other as he waited, feeling only slightly awkward. Had Thomas even remembered his offer?

A minute later, however, a key turned in the lock, and the door to the tattoo parlor swung open. Thomas smiled at him, wearing the same clothes from earlier, though his eyes were no longer irritated, and his blond hair glowed in the combined light from the streetlights and the shop.

"Hi," he said softly.

James fought down a faint blush. "Hi."

Thomas stepped back, letting James in.

The shop was… not what James had expected a tattoo parlor to look like. Not that he'd ever been in one, but he definitely hadn't pictured a posh waiting room with expensive leather sofas, a deep mahogany coffee table, and beautiful, bright colored art on the walls. James had a decent enough grasp of art to recognize the pieces were expensive. There were several artistic black and white photographs of tattoos as well, and James found himself completely fascinated.

"Your work?"

Thomas nodded. "I'm just finishing up. You can wait in here, if you'd like, or you can come back and see Anne's latest addition. She doesn't mind."

"Anne?"

Thomas smiled. "One of my regulars. The appointment I had to reschedule earlier."

Right. James grimaced. "Sorry about that, again."

Thomas shook his head. "No need to worry. Haven't had any issues since."

In truth, James was curious. He'd never gotten a tattoo himself, and never seen anyone else get one. He wasn't squeamish, so he didn't think he'd have an issue, but he also didn't want to intrude. Regardless of whether or not Anne minded, getting a tattoo seemed like a private affair.

"Alright," Thomas said, when James told him he'd wait. "Ten minutes, at most." And he slipped back into the hallway.

A faint buzz came from the back room as James continued looking around the waiting room. He set the bag of Chinese food on the coffee table and picked up an album, sifting through it.

It was all photos of Thomas's work. James turned pages in fascination, eyes widening at the images and the colors. He'd never seen tattoos like these. They looked like watercolor paintings, shades blending into each other, the images themselves lovely and whimsical. He'd always thought tattoos were just a form of branding – taking a picture and staining it into your skin. These tattoos were art, only Thomas had used skin as his canvas, instead of paper or cloth.

Turning another page, James saw a flier with a picture of Thomas in the top corner, announcing his participation at an event in Los Angeles. The next several pictures were taken in the same hall. Another flier appeared after that one – Chicago, and more photos. San Antonio, Seattle, Detroit, Boston, Orlando…

James's eyes widened and he glanced back towards the back room again. The buzzing had stopped and voices were coming down the hall. He stood just as Thomas stepped into the outer room, a tall, red-haired woman right behind him.

"Anne Bonny, this is my new neighbor, James Flint. James, this is Anne."

Anne narrowed her eyes, sizing him up. "So you're the reason Tom almost fucked me over earlier?"

"Um…"

Thomas laughed. "You don't give me nearly enough credit, dear. And you can't blame James for something so completely out of his control."

Anne's expression clearly said, "Try me," but she remained silent, opting only to grunt in response.

"You already know the proper care for the next few days. Warm water and soap, thin layer of cream. You won't be able to reach this one, so have Jack help you with it, alright?"

Anne was still glaring at James and he shuffled his feet awkwardly. Anne Bonny might possibly be the most terrifying woman he'd ever met, and she'd only been in the same room with him for a minute at most.

"You sure you're okay with this one?" Anne asked with a sneer.

"I think I'll manage." Thomas grinned, and James's stomach flipped over.

At last Anne shrugged. "See you in a month for the rest of it, yeah?"

Thomas nodded, and like that, Anne was gone. She didn't even say goodbye.

"Lovely, isn't she?"

James cocked an eyebrow at Thomas and the other man laughed at his expression. "Oh, yes, terrifying, but she's soft under all that bluster, I promise you."

"How many tattoos does she have?"

Thomas moved to the front desk and wrote something down in a ledger there. "This is her third with me, though she has several others."

James nodded, waiting awkwardly for Thomas to finish doing whatever he needed to do.

"Well, that's that. Now, unless you want to eat in the waiting room of a tattoo parlor, surrounded by the smell of antiseptic, why don't we move up to my flat?"

James grinned. "That would be great."

Thomas's apartment was another surprise. It was warm and inviting. Gone was the smell of antibacterial soap, to be replaced with vanilla and –

"Cinnamon?"

Thomas smiled. "I made scones this morning."

"You bake?"

His laughter was as warm as the flat. "Only when I need to bribe my receptionist. She had to stay late last week, and that was the condition."

And that was possibly one of the most endearing things James had ever heard.

Thomas's flat was open and inviting, the living room easing into the kitchen. There was more art here, in shades of bright blues and turquoises and greens, and sofas of the kind James would never want to get up out of once he'd sat down.

The balcony doors were opened wide to the night, and the chill April air was breezing lightly into the room.

"Oh, that's my place, up one floor," James said, pointing across the street and up.

Thomas joined him at the balcony door.

"That's quite a lot of flowers."

James raised an eyebrow. "Florist," he said, pointing at his own chest.

"Right."

They smiled at each other, and with a sudden desperation, James prayed Thomas was as gay as he was. Which was very, very gay.

"So," Thomas exclaimed, turning towards the kitchen, "I smell Mr. Chow's. Chopsticks or fork?"

James had to shake himself a bit to remember they were supposed to be eating dinner. "Oh, right, er – I've always been terrible with chopsticks, actually."

Thomas tsked at him as he opened a cutlery drawer.

"Yes, I know. Make fun of me all you want, I made my peace with my own shame a long time ago."

Thomas grinned and handed him a fork, sitting on one of the sofas with a sigh, and pulling out cartons.

"In this house, there is no shame, James." It was a joke, but something settled warmly in his heart. James smiled, sitting next to Thomas and grabbing an eggroll.

They talked as they ate. Thomas loved his life in New York City, but still missed England, and he listened happily to James talk about his own life there until he'd moved last month.

"I opened my second shop two years ago, and it was doing so well, that I received several requests to do events here in the US and I finally decided to expand overseas…"

Thomas shook his head. "That's incredible."

James shrugged. "Yes, well, I'm not getting too excited. I may have to end up calling it all off if my manager in Brixton can't get a hold of himself." And he told Thomas about Billy and Gates and the royal wedding, and Thomas laughed so hard he had to put his food down, tears streaming down his face. James joined in.

"So where did the name come from?" Thomas asked him, when he could finally breathe again. "Walrus Cottage Blooms?"

Memory swept through him and James smiled. "It was the name of my grandparents' cottage, in Scotland. They raised me. My grandmother loved flowers, more than anything. They were everywhere, growing up. All over the cottage. Flowers and gingersnaps. My grandfather kept a garden for her, right up until she passed away." A note of melancholy colored his voice. "I was at my first year of university."

He took a moment, his memories turning slightly gray, blurred. He shrugged. "I think once she died, my grandfather had a hard time keeping the flowers growing, without her there to enjoy them. And he started to shrivel and fade along with them. He passed less than a year later."

"I'm sorry."

The smile James gave Thomas was genuine. As were his words. "No, it's fine. They were happy, and they loved each other, and me, and there was always color in our lives. Eventually, starting a flower shop seemed like the right thing to do."

Thomas's expression was hard to read. It was sad, and wistful, and almost hungry.

"What about you?" he asked him at last. "How did you end up becoming a tattoo artist?"

Thomas leaned back. "Oh, well, that's a story. Originally, my father wanted me to be a barrister."

"No!"

Thomas laughed. "Yes."

James tried to picture Thomas in a barrister's wig. He couldn't see it.

Thomas continued. "In truth, my father and I have always had a difficult relationship. He did not approve of my life choices. So of course, once I'd done my duty and received my degree at Cambridge, the only thing to do was to was run as far away as I could and choose the absolute opposite of what my father would consider a worthwhile education. I ended up getting my MFA in art at Cornell."

James snorted, waving towards the rice. Thomas passed it to him.

"I carried on for the next several years that way. Whenever I had to make a choice, I thought, 'What would Alfred Hamilton absolutely hate for me to do?' and did precisely that." Thomas shook his head sadly. "I took me a while before I realized…" he trailed off.

"What?"

Thomas sighed and spread his hands out. "For all my fighting, for all my rebellion, I had still ended up letting my father dictate my life to me. I wasn't doing anything because I wanted to do it. Even if I knew my father would hate my choices, he was still controlling me. That was… a difficult time in my life."

There was more to the story there, but he wasn't going to push. He waited patiently for Thomas to continue, and after a long pause, he did.

"Some of my friends decided to go get tattoos on the last day of our third year, and dragged me along. And-" Thomas's eyes sparkled, and he shrugged. "I don't know? I was completely taken by it. People who willingly put themselves in the hands of a stranger to change them in a way that was so permanent, artists who only got one shot at creating perfection? It was a leap of faith, and artwork achieved through pain and precision, and I fell in love. It was… beautiful."

James suddenly found it difficult to breathe. The way Thomas described it, tattooing sounded almost… intimate.

"I like people. I like connecting with them, understanding them. There's something about tattooing someone that leaves them entirely open to you. They're putting themselves in your hands, trusting you with something close to their heart, and with the ability to make this life-altering change to them. And I think that idea, that connection, is what attracted me to it, more than anything else."

James blinked and he was back to sunny Sunday afternoons at home in Scotland. To his grandfather showing him how to care for the different flowers in the garden, the smell of baking coming from the open kitchen window. He was surrounded by daffodils and bluebells and primroses and his grandmother laughing. Thomas was right - it was a deeply personal image, one he couldn't share so easily.

"It's something I've considered doing before. My grandmother… I've thought about getting her favorite flowers somewhere, but it never seemed right. I never really thought a tattoo would do it justice. The colors would never compare to the real thing, the lines would never look as soft, but those photos downstairs… I've never seen work like that."

Thomas ducked his head, a faint blush staining his cheeks.

He had put that blush there. The thrill of it pushed James on. "I'm the first to admit that I don't know very much about all of this, but I was going through one of your albums, and you've – well, you've been everywhere. And it isn't hard to see why."

Thomas cleared his throat and laughed. "You're making me extremely self-conscious, and that's hard to do, James Flint. For the most part, I'm annoyingly aware of how good I am. Ask any of my friends, they'll tell you I'm insufferable." He tucked his chin and stole a piece of James's kung-pow chicken with his chopsticks.

James laughed too.

"I mean it, though. I - I might actually do it, if I knew it would end up looking like those pictures."

He held Thomas's eyes, trying to make sure he saw his own sincerity, saw how deeply he meant what he'd said. Thomas bit his lip, cheeks flushed, with pleasure or embarrassment, James didn't know. Either way, he took pity on him and changed to subject.

"So I'm a florist and as you saw across the street, I have an inordinate amount of flowers to match. But what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Well, you're a tattoo artist. I saw the pictures. I met Anne. You're clearly devoted to your work, and yet I don't see a single tattoo. Don't the two generally go hand in hand?"

Thomas's grin was slow and full of mischief. "Oh, I have a few. Just not where anyone can see," he said, winking.

His mouth went dry. Thomas was flirting with him. He had to be. And then James was struck with the enticing idea of exactly where he might find those tattoos. His eyes trailed down Thomas's body, lingering on his torso, on his thighs. When he snapped his eyes up once again, Thomas was smirking. Oh. He knew exactly what he'd done.

James cleared his throat and busied himself with collecting the empty takeaway boxes, hating how hot his cheeks were. Fucking gingers.

"Let me do that." Thomas got up immediately and began clearing the table.

He needed to cut and run before he said or did something stupid again. "I - I'd better get home." He stood and ambled slowly towards the front door.

"Are you sure?" Thomas was disappointed. "It's early yet."

"I have a shipment coming in tomorrow morning."

Thomas nodded, coming over to unlock the door, and opening it. He leaned against the doorframe. "Thank you for this. It's been a while since I had dinner with anyone."

"You would have still had dinner with someone tonight if I hadn't cocked everything up," James said with a shrug.

Thomas's blue eyes pierced straight through him. "I'm rather glad you did."

James glanced out the door and down the hall, shuffling his feet.

"Let me ask you something." A hand on his arm grounded him, stilling his nerves, or at least freezing them in place. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, but - are you attracted to me?"

Before he could stop himself, he'd glanced at Thomas's lips. He flicked his eyes back to Thomas's almost immediately, but Thomas-

Thomas smirked, and while James's heart did its damnedest to fucking beat directly out of his chest, he leaned in slowly, giving James plenty of time to back away if he wanted to.

Like fuck he wanted to.

He closed his eyes and the soft brush of Thomas's lips against his own sent a shiver down his arms, standing every hair on end. It was barely more than a light peck, but he held it for a second that felt like eternity. James thought he might melt from the sweetness of it.

When Thomas pulled back, James blinked at him, breathless, speechless, and aching for another kiss just like it.

Thomas swallowed, his throat moving, and he let out a shaky breath. "Like I said. Thank you for cocking everything up."

"Anytime," James whispered. "I - I'm gonna - " He backed through the door, bumping into the hallway plant, and fuck, that plant really needed more sunlight than it was ever going to get in here, and Thomas was laughing. James grinned stupidly - he was weightless and full of something ridiculously romantic, like starlight, or sea foam or whatever color Thomas's eyes were, and he backed away down the hall, raising his hand in a wave.

"Goodnight," he said.

"Goodnight."

Thomas shut the door and leaned back against it, an utterly stupid smile on his face.

The evening had gone so much better than he'd initially imagined. He really hadn't wanted to go out with Miranda's accountant friend, and now…

Thomas pushed off from the door, grabbed his phone, and flopped onto the sofa.

His cheeks hurt from grinning so much, and he took a moment to center himself, burying his face in a sofa pillow and kicking his feet. Then he took a breath and unlocked his phone.

It was much too late to call Miranda. It was… Thomas checked the time. Nearly four in the morning in London. He'd have to text her instead.

You were right. New neighbor is very good looking. Sorry I backed out of the date tonight, but also not sorry at all, because the beautiful, ginger florist across the street kissed me.

Well, technically Thomas had kissed him. And then Thomas had to bury his face in the pillow again, the soft echo of James's lips against his own whispering through his mind, the hitch of James's breath brushing against his ear, his grin as he'd stumbled down the hall imprinted on the backs of Thomas's eyelids. He'd fall asleep to the image tonight.

Thomas took a deep breath and continued typing.

Tell Teddy I say hi.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd go across the street and ask James on a proper date. Had James even been to New York before? Had he done any sightseeing? Thomas wanted to show him everything - Central Park, and the High Line, and the New York Public Library, and the MoMa…

God, he could use Miranda right now. He needed to share this bubble of happiness with her, he hadn't felt anything like it in so long. He closed his eyes, picturing James's surprise when Thomas had asked if he was attracted to him, the charming soft blush on his cheeks, those lovely freckles.

He sent Miranda one last text before dragging himself off of the sofa and getting ready for bed.

I wonder if his freckles go all the way down...