For the first time he could remember, Thomas was … happy.
It felt strange and exciting and frightening all at once, but it was clearly something he could define as happiness. He found that a certain kind of lightness had come to bear on his very existence ever since Jimmy had come clean during the London Season of Lady Rose's coming out. It had started "accidently" with a slightly tipsy Jimmy finding his way into Thomas' room, included a declaration of both failure at heterosexuality and homosexuality, lots of sobbing (by both) and ended against the wall with Jimmy's cock in Thomas' mouth.
So since that night, Lord Grantham seemed less clueless, Bates less sanctimonious, Mr. Carson less blustery. Even food—something that Thomas had always seen as a necessary annoyance that interrupted more pleasurable activities like smoking—was different.
It tasted … better, so much so that Thomas found himself actually hungry, and eating became easier without the perpetual lump of unrequited love in his throat. He chuckled under his breath occasionally as he tucked into another slice of toast and strawberry jam, thinking that he needed the energy to keep up with his younger, extremely agile lover. Sneaking a glance across the servants' table and being given a sly smile in return made him want to eat faster, to get upstairs as soon as possible and lock the door—finally free to make Jimmy writhe and sweat and moan.
His new position as underbutler meant delegating the more menial, physical tasks onto the rest of the staff. He was surprised at his new inactivity, sitting behind Carson's desk on occasion when need be, barking out orders, fiddling with lists and orders and menus, arguing with suppliers on the telephone. He had even given Alfred the duty of walking Isis around the grounds twice per day—something that Thomas had actually enjoyed but felt was now a tad beneath him, especially with him now being called Barrow and all by the family upstairs.
So it came as no surprise when one day, his trousers seemed a bit tighter, and increasingly got a bit tighter as autumn slipped into winter …
One cold night, there was a gasp and then a single word, "Thomas."
Just like almost every night since the revelations in summer, Jimmy came deep inside Thomas, then collapsed on his chest trembling, a sheen of sweat rapidly chilling over his body.
Thomas lay still, and just like almost every night, marveling over the fact that Jimmy Kent was on top of him. Or under him. Or beside him. Or even speaking to him.
Jimmy rolled off of Thomas with a groan and sat up grumbling and scratching his chest, "Fuck, I'm freezing! Where's the damn coverlet?" The cursed object was found on the floor, and Jimmy pulled it up over himself and squeezed into the criminally small bed to lie down next to Thomas, practically pushing him off the mattress.
Jimmy wriggled around jostling for more space that simply didn't exist. "Thomas, move over. There isn't enough room for me," he whined.
Thomas moved a quarter inch and then looked at Jimmy, swaddled like a newborn in the coverlet, without saying a word. Thomas raised his eyebrows and tugged at the edge of the coverlet.
"What?" Jimmy asked, slightly annoyed. (Sometimes it took Jimmy a while to get a hint.)
"You're not the only one who's freezing," Thomas said, and tried to wrangle the coverlet from Jimmy.
"Oh alright. Here you go," Jimmy growled, and surrendered half of it. (Sometimes Jimmy was deliberately obtuse just to get a rise out of Thomas.) "But there's not enough fabric there to cover that arse of yours," he said with an exaggerated nod toward Thomas.
Thomas turned quickly onto his side so that Jimmy wouldn't see the shocked look on his face. Jimmy rolled over to spoon with him and patted his bottom affectionately. "This is why the bed's seems to be getting smaller."
Thomas blinked, unable to come up with a response. Jimmy moved in closer, his warmth like the sun against Thomas' back. Jimmy placed a gentle kiss on his neck and said softly, "I love you and your gigantic arse."
Thomas furrowed his brow and tried to sound unfazed but the reply came out flatly, "I love you, too, Jimmy," and waited a second to see if Jimmy could sense the tension in his voice but the footman was already asleep.
Jimmy still possessed the arrogance of youth, the sense of being completely untouchable, indestructible even. Thomas had led a life completely guarded; he didn't know what it was like to speak or act without considering the consequences first.
He reached over to the bedside table for his cigarettes, then cursed when his hand came up empty. He turned and sat up slightly to look at the dresser and saw the pack sitting amongst his pomade and cologne and let out a groan as he collapsed back onto the pillow. The sheer effort of getting out of bed and onto the cold floor seemed impossible but he was dying for a smoke, especially after Jimmy's stinging comment.
Thomas laid there for a few moments to make sure Jimmy was really asleep and then eased his way out of the six inches of coverlet the footman had generously released and stepped onto the floor. With the flick of his wrist, one cigarette popped up out of the pack and Thomas took it between his lips. He stood staring at his reflection, checking for any signs of aging, or a double chin.
A pair of hands slid around his waist.
"Jesus, Jimmy!" Thomas choked, spitting out the unlit cigarette. He quickly inhaled, sucking in his belly under Jimmy's fingers in a vain attempt to make it smaller. He stood awkwardly with both hands now on the dresser, afraid to exhale.
"What's wrong? Are you ill?" He started rubbing Thomas' belly, attempting to soothe whatever was ailing his lover.
"No," Thomas croaked as he began to feel lightheaded as the seconds (which felt like minutes) ticked by.
Jimmy said, "Well, you've got to breathe for Christ's sake. Why are you …" Thomas interrupted him with a huge sigh of relief as his belly expanded back to its normal size.
Jimmy let his hands fall away, took a step back and flatly said, "Oh." Thomas scowled at him in the mirror—a look that struck fear in the younger staff. Jimmy made an attempt at smoothing over the awkward silence between them. He ran his hands around Thomas' soft, slightly round belly again, Thomas flinching underneath his fingers.
Jimmy looked in the mirror, glancing between his hands and Thomas' face, expecting a groan of lust or at least a smile. "I-I-I like this. It's … regal," he said in a voice that was just a touch too bright. "A well-fed king. Prosperous. You should be draped in jewels and furs. A gold-threaded waistcoat perhaps …"
Thomas shook his head and knocked Jimmy's hands away with a sigh. He turned to go back to bed, brushing Jimmy aside. The footman grabbed his arm and stopped him.
"Get back here," Jimmy ordered.
"Let me go, I'm freezing." Thomas snapped, shrugging his arm from Jimmy's grip. "What happened to you being so damn cold?"
"Never mind that. I need to show you something. Something special. Please."
Thomas reluctantly shuffled to the dresser and pointedly avoided looking at his reflection.
"Look at yourself," Jimmy said.
"Shut it," came the reply.
"I'm not shallow." Jimmy blurted out.
Thomas looked at him in surprise and said softly, "I never said you were."
Jimmy narrowed his eyes and growled, "You know what I mean." Thomas blinked a silent response.
"Your ARSE. I was just having a laugh. I do it to Alfred all the time. We can take the piss out of each other. It's what mates do."
Thomas stood up straight and sighed, "Is that what we are?" he said, afraid to meet Jimmy's gaze in the mirror. "That's it? Mates then?" The word stuck on his tongue as if it were in a foreign language,
"Well, yes … we were at first." Jimmy chastised Thomas and turned away, slightly embarrassed. "Now you know we're more than that. I don't need to spell it out for you." He blew the hair out of his own eyes and huffed, "I'm not all about appearances, I mean, I care about my hair, of course."
Thomas laughed soundlessly.
Jimmy pressed himself against Thomas' back, kissed his shoulder, and then took his cock in his right hand and wrapped the other around Thomas' waist. Whatever laughter remained died in Thomas' throat as he tried to squirm out of the footman's hold.
"Jimmy, what –"
"Now, you need to stay still and shut it."
Thomas looked back at Jimmy in the mirror, trying to piece together his motives. Jimmy began stroking him softly, and mumbled into Thomas' neck, "You know something? You never see what I see."
The heat of Jimmy's breath, his lips vibrating against his skin, and his hand slowly sliding up and down his shaft made Thomas begin to sweat despite the cold.
"Every night I watch your face. Do you know what that's like?
Thomas turned his head to reply, Jimmy cut him off, before he could speak, "Don't answer. Keep looking at me in the mirror."
Thomas let his mouth hang open as his eyes flickered between Jimmy's reflection and his own. Jimmy, in an almost dreamlike state yet with eyes wide open, watched Thomas' reaction and marveled, "Across the table … in bed. Anywhere, really. You staring at me. It drives me mad, it does."
Thomas began to harden under Jimmy's increasingly expert fingers. Jimmy pulled back Thomas' foreskin and then bumped his cock softly around his fist, making Thomas groan. Squeezing. Slipping. Pulling. Sliding.
"It's our secret. No one else's. No one can take it away."
Thomas could barely breathe out one word, "Yes."
"Your eyes change when you're looking at me. See? Your eyelids become heavier, yet there's a brighter light in your eyes. Like something's switched on inside your head."
"Ah Christ, Jimmy," Thomas choked out, then reached backwards to clutch fruitlessly at Jimmy's arse.
Jimmy tilted his hips to the side to shake off Thomas' hand, "No. This is about you."
You're going to look at yourself, and see what I see. All of the things that I do to you. How I change you."
Thomas dropped his head to watch Jimmy working on his cock. He shook his head in disbelief at the sight of Jimmy's hand—Jimmy's actual HAND—traveling up and down his erection, fingers slipping in the liquid beginning to weep slightly from the tip.
"Look at yourself, Thomas. Your lips … kind of … swell. And your cheeks, do you see it?"
Thomas lifted his gaze to meet Jimmy's. "You've got the faintest blush that gets deeper and deeper the more I touch you," Jimmy said almost in wonder.
Thomas leaned forward onto the dresser to steady himself and groaned, "Let me touch you." Jimmy simply shook his head no in reply.
Thomas began to thrust into Jimmy's hand, growing desperate for release but still tried to stay focused on their reflections. Jimmy tightened his grip on Thomas' waist and pulled him tighter to steady him, and said, "No. I'm taking my time with you."
Thomas moaned in response.
"You look at me like no one else has ever before, Thomas. Those are the only looks I care about."
"Jimmy … ah" Thomas stuttered, then arched backwards and pressed his face against Jimmy's cheek, who whispered, "Keep looking."
Thomas tilted his head and stared at their reflections through a haze—his dark hair and moonlit paleness next to Jimmy's golden curls and sun-kissed skin. For the next few moments, it was just the two of them in the world that they'd made together in the small bedroom, breathing in sync, watching each other's faces.
And Jimmy was right. This golden boy had the power to make him, Thomas Barrow, he of the withering stare and endless vanity and cruel comebacks and ridiculous schemes, seem as vulnerable as a snail without its shell.
"God, what you do to me," Thomas cried out, and Jimmy decided to increase the pressure and speed of his hand and Thomas came much more quickly than both of them expected, spilling his hot seed through Jimmy's fingers and over the front of the dresser.
Jimmy kept pumping him until his cock had finally returned to its normal state. He squeezed Thomas close to him and bit him on the shoulder, for no particularly good reason.
"Funny you should do that," Thomas said, trying to catch his breath. "I'm starving,"
And Jimmy slapped him firmly on his bottom and snickered.