Jimmy had left the door to Thomas's room always mostly open, in those first few tenuous weeks of friendship- and when he had sat- which he always had deigned to do, even if he stood uneasily for a few moments first- he kept the chair pulled back, as if barring any sudden moves on Thomas's end. Later, when he was quite certain that Thomas was not going to molest him, Jimmy felt a little silly over the whole affair- as if Thomas, beaten and battered as he'd been, could have even found the strength to rise from the bed- let alone the physical wherewithal to force Jimmy into anything against his will.
Today- today was a long time past that, though. For months Jimmy had pushed the door further and further closed. It was a way, Jimmy thought, to show Thomas that he had faith in him, and in the now-solid foundation of their friendship. Just a simple gesture, really, but one that spoke volumes- and Jimmy could do it wordlessly, without the agony and embarrassment of some sort of emotional conversation.
Weeks ago Jimmy had begun to close the door entirely- he remembered vividly the first time he'd done it, and how Thomas had looked up, startled, at the click that indicated the door had shut. Now he did not look up at all, beyond the initial glance of acknowledgement, but went back to smoking.
"You look like shite this evening," Jimmy said, conversationally, and Thomas narrowed his eyes at him. It was true, though- Thomas seemed tired and rather put out, and he wore an unsightly cut on his neck that Jimmy hadn't had a moment to ask him about during the day.
"Thank you kindly," Thomas said, budging up on the bed, to make room for Jimmy.
That was another thing. I really am clever at this non-verbal communication stuff, Jimmy congratulated himself, silently. Sitting on the bed was an uncomplicated and excellent way to show Thomas that he didn't think Thomas would ever repeat his unfortunate nocturnal indiscretion. Jimmy hadn't missed how anxious Thomas had been the first time Jimmy had ever sat casually down next to him upon the cot- but Jimmy had steadfastly ignored the other man's anxiety, and the result was gratifying: Thomas had been basically conditioned into finding it all typical. The instant Jimmy stepped foot into his room Thomas would make a space for him on the bed. And while he may have struggled, at times, with Jimmy's proximity- Jimmy never forgot that Thomas was all the while awfully in love with him- other than the occasional blush or trembling of the hands, Thomas acted rather perfect about the whole thing.
"What do you look so pleased for?" Thomas asked, feeling around for his cigarettes.
"I'm cataloging my own triumphs," Jimmy said, grinning at the face Thomas pulled.
"Cigarette, yes?" Jimmy asked, holding out his hand. "Let me find them first," Thomas answered, still pawing around the bed without looking, and Jimmy began to deal out a hand of cards. They smoked and played quietly, for a bit, and Jimmy allowed himself to relax, in a calm place away from the cares of work and world. "Today was awful, by the way," Jimmy said. "I hate that Lord Clary, he's a real bugger."
Thomas's eyes flicked up to meet his for a second, and Jimmy instantly regretted his choice in words. Oh you idiot, he told himself, and then said, hastily, "I didn't mean like that-"
"Ah, I know," Thomas said, hastily, and put down a card.
"No, listen," Jimmy said firmly. "I didn't mean it like that. Lots of people do buggery sorts of things- I mean, buggering, not buggery- uh- and- they're nice people, right? He's not- but I shouldn't've said bugger, I know the connotation, I should've said unpleasant fellow-"
Thomas, looking as chagrined as it was possible to be, held up a hand to stop him. "Jimmy," he said, his eyes looking anywhere but at Jimmy, which made Jimmy feel even worse- "It's fine."
"I told you I was going to stop saying it," Jimmy said, ignoring Thomas's obvious desire to drop the subject. "And I am. It's a bloody awful thing to say. Some people do that. My best mate, he's out buggering fellows all the time, and still, he's much nicer than Lord Clary-"
"It's fine-" Thomas said, looking so unhappy that Jimmy did stop.
They sat in silence for a moment, and then Jimmy flipped over his own card. "Twenty-one. I win."
"One more game to break the tie," Thomas said, still looking at the cards. His cheeks had some faint color on them, and Jimmy felt stupid for being so, well, stupid.
"Give us a bit of your secret liquor," Jimmy said, getting up to fetch Thomas's whiskey from the desk- and then he stopped, because somehow he had not before noticed the impressive state of disarray that the room was in.
Thomas's desk and vanity and bureau were absolutely covered in objects. Thomas was normally fastidious to a point that, in Jimmy's opinion, verged on the bizarre- but now it seemed as though he lived some secret other life; the life of a slob.
"What's all this?" Jimmy asked, gesturing to the room at large- but mostly to the vanity, where Thomas's belongings were spread in the greatest profusion.
"Ah-" Thomas looked up, making an annoyed expression at the mess. "I had mice nesting in my furniture."
"In your furniture?" Jimmy asked, curiously. He moved over to the vanity, to look at all the bits of Thomas's life spread out over the top of it.
"Mmm," Thomas, said, grimly. "I found them this morning. Gave me a nasty surprise when I went into the bottom drawer for my spare tie."
"So why move all your things out? Are you just letting the mice live in there indefinitely?" Jimmy asked, studying his own reflection in the vanity mirror. He could see Thomas behind him in the glass- but when he met Thomas's eyes, Thomas looked away, as though he had been caught at something.
"Everything's dirty now," Thomas said. "I'll have to clean it all. Can't tell Carson, he'd have us all sleeping in the hall for a week while he personally set traps and kept vigils."
"God forbid, rodents in a castle," Jimmy said, and picked up an odd blue aftershave bottle, unstopping it and taking a deep breath. It smelled like Thomas- well, like a third of his smell- one third this, one third soap or cigarettes- depending on how late in the day it was- and one third something indefinable.
Jimmy replaced the bottle, and ran his fingers along tied off bundles of letters- an old drawing in a frame, of a little house on a hill- about eleven combs, all slick with pomade- and stopped as his fingers brushed against a little glass jar. What's this? Jimmy thought, and then realized it was petroleum jelly. He almost pulled his hand dramatically away. For a second Jimmy was acutely aware that he was looking through Thomas's most personal things- and then, for some reason that he could not fully articulate to himself, Jimmy swung his hand forward, so that the jelly jar flew off of the vanity, hit the ground- thankfully without shattering- and rolled across the floor, coming to a stop next to the bed.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Jimmy said nonchalantly, walking over to the jar. "Teach me to go through other people's things."
Thomas had caught sight of what exactly it was that Jimmy had knocked over, and he rose to his feet- but Jimmy reached the jar first, and palmed it, sitting down on the bed again.
"So did the mice cut your neck as well?" Jimmy asked, rolling the jar back and forth between his fingertips.
"What?" Thomas asked, still staring at the jar in Jimmy's hand.
"Did'ya let the mice carve you up?" Jimmy reiterated, letting no expression show on his face. He brought his palms together, holding the jar between them.
"N-no," Thomas said, recovering himself after a pause, and sat down next to Jimmy normally. "I cut myself shaving. I was late after having to move all my things around, and I rushed the job."
"Mmm," Jimmy said. "Is that why you have this?" He held up the jar, and Thomas, usually master of the poker face, could not help himself- the corners of his mouth jerked down, as though he were quite discomfited, and his cheeks flushed a dark color. "Yes," Thomas said, tersely, and held out his hand for the jar.
"Well," Jimmy said, easily, "You should use it, then, shouldn't you?"
"What?" Thomas asked, blinking at him.
"On your cut," Jimmy said. Liar, I know what this is for, Jimmy thought, and wondered why the idea gave him such a strange feeling, as though it were wicked and scandalous and delightful all at once.
"I had done earlier," Thomas said, smoothly. "It must've wiped off."
"Right," Jimmy said, and unscrewed the lid of the jar, watching Thomas's face as he did so. Admit that you're a liar and I'll stop, Jimmy thought, goading him mentally- but Thomas was not possessed of any magical tendencies towards telepathy, and therefore did not say anything. Instead he merely watched Jimmy with a look of poorly disguised horror as Jimmy took off the lid.
"Here, I'll do it," Thomas said, making to grab the jar at the last moment- but Jimmy was too quick, and scooped some of the stuff onto his fingertips. "It's fine," Jimmy said, setting aside the jar.
"What's fi-" Thomas asked, and then Jimmy leaned forward, just enough to press his fingers against the cut on Thomas's throat, and Thomas took a sharp breath, as though he were quite surprised.
"It's actually quite a nasty cut," Jimmy said, quietly. Suddenly the atmosphere in the room seemed more suited to whispering, and so he whispered, running his fingertips very carefully over Thomas's wound. Thomas stared at him, unblinkingly. The blush had soaked out of his cheeks, and now he looked very pale, as though something frightening were being done to him. "Does it hurt a lot?" Jimmy asked, and rubbed the spot again. Still in love with me, I see, Jimmy thought, studying Thomas's reaction. Oh, Thomas, you are a mess.
"Ah. No." Thomas said, his tone clipped. "It doesn't hurt."
Thomas moved not a muscle- though his chest was rising and falling rather rapidly- and Jimmy moved his index finger in a wider circle, touching unblemished skin. "Hn," Thomas said- and Jimmy's heart twisted in his chest at the odd little noise Thomas made, and he drew his fingers back, quickly. "There," Jimmy said, lightly. "All set." Without preamble he handed the petrol jar back to Thomas- who accepted it with hands that trembled.
"You are my best mate, you know," Jimmy said, into the awkward silence that followed. "But I don't think you're out buggering people every night." Jimmy laughed at his own wit- and after a moment, Thomas laughed too, albeit shakily. "You might be surprised," Thomas said with mock haughtiness, and Jimmy smirked. "Doubtful. How could you be, when you're shut up in here with me every night, playing twenty-one and getting tipsy?"
Thomas still seemed a little uncomfortable, and Jimmy felt a burst of fresh resolve. He would condition Thomas to think it was rather normal of them to touch- it was normal, really- what was abnormal was the way the two of them studiously avoided touching- and that was Jimmy's fault, he could see that now. Just another way to show him how comfortable I feel in our friendship. How much I trust him, Jimmy thought. Poor man. He could use a bit of trust placed in him.
Conditioned reflex, as that Pavel or Pavlov or whatever fellow had said. That was what it was all about, really, Jimmy decided, and sat a bit closer to Thomas on the bed. A person could really grow accustomed to anything.
Jimmy resolved that he would touch Thomas more- whenever he could find the time. Soon Thomas would grow more accustomed to it, and feel quite fine about it all. Don't you worry about a thing, Jimmy thought, pleased with his genius, and he laid down another round of cards for himself and Thomas. I've got this all under control. Eventually Thomas would come round, and a little touch to his bare skin wouldn't even raise a bit of alarm. Jimmy just had to get him there. Patience, Jimmy thought, happily, Is a virtue.