Note: Why am I writing a note? I have no notes. Here, read this.
1921
Jimmy did not realize he was falling in love with Thomas until it was too late. Having never been in love before and given to avoiding soppy films and books, he didn't know what it looked like. Then one day in July of 1922 the smallest moment lit the wick that blew up the dynamite. He was in the kitchen chatting with Alfred and Ivy about Lady Mary's suitor, Lord Gillingham, and whether he got along with the family. Idle gossip. It had reminded Jimmy of something Mr. Barrow had said.
"He's one for respectability," Ivy said and then whispered, "But the Crawleys have had so much scandal."
"Mr. Barrow says we likely don't know the half of it," Jimmy said, gesturing with his teacup as he leaned against the counter. "He says they've got more black sheep than all the farms in Scotland."
"Anyway," Ivy said, pointedly ignoring him, "the old lady's strategizing all day long. She wants the match-"
"Oh, Mr. Barrow says the Dowager-"
"Yes, Jimmy," Alfred said, "tell us what Mr. Barrow said. Again."
Alfred and Ivy rolled their eyes at each other. Jimmy glanced back and forth between them, feeling as if he'd missed out on a joke. "What're you talkin' about?"
"Mr. Barrow said this, Mr. Barrow said that," Alfred said, his tea sloshing over the side of his cuppa. "I haven't heard you say a word that didn't come from him first in months."
That was the moment -the light of the wick- and not just because of what they said but because of his own physical reaction. All the blood rushed to his brain and he knew his cheeks were burning red. "That's ridiculous," he spat. "We're mates is all. We talk a lot."
"We're mates," Alfred said. "You don't repeat everything I've said all day long."
"That's 'cause you never say anything worth repeating," Jimmy cracked, and he stalked out of the kitchen.
The conversation vexed him and he thought about it that whole day. A hundred conversations flitted through his head as he loitered in the hallway, waiting to serve the family's dinner. He did mention Mr. Barrow when he was talking to other people. But he didn't know he'd done so that often. It was only that they chatted so much, that nearly everything reminded him of something interesting Mr. Barrow had said; some comment, or joke, or idea that he thought was profound. He couldn't help but repeat things even in passing. Had Alfred meant anything by it? He wasn't sure. And if Alfred had meant anything by it?
No, no. Of course, not.
But what did anything mean exactly? Well, love, obviously. Feelings. Infatuation. Fancy.
No, no. Of course, not.
He knew this because if he fancied Mr. Barrow he would want to be doing things with Mr. Barrow. And Jimmy had never put it in his mind to do things with Mr. Barrow other than talk at length, play cards, take the occasional stroll, get an afternoon off together to go down to Thirsk or Ripon, make almost nasty jokes about the others... Normal friend things. There were lots of them really. He did spend a great deal of time with Mr. Barrow, but that was only because he preferred his company over everyone else's.
He thought about this for an endless minute while standing in the hall. Of course, he preferred Mr. Barrow to everyone else. They had become best friends. And at the end of the night, Jimmy thought, when they were inevitably the last two up in the servants' hall, he was always sorry that the evening was ending, even when he was nearly falling asleep at the table. They never seemed to run out of things to talk about. Which was odd really, because Jimmy had never thought himself as much of a talker. Certainly not about himself. But Mr. Barrow seemed to be able to bring things out of him, and Jimmy was always emphatically curious about him.
Emphatically curious about Mr. Barrow, Jimmy thought with a start. When had that happened?
A long time ago most likely. He was only just seeing it. But it didn't mean anything. Because he honestly didn't think of Mr. Barrow like that. He didn't think of anyone like that. Domestic servitude was a generally sexless existence and Jimmy had made peace with it. No one had ever struck his fancy much. When he pleasured himself, the physical sensation had always been enough to please him. There had been moments when he was young; maybe, yes, perhaps stirrings of something, if he were changing clothes alongside another boy somewhere. But that was just youth. Youth was strange for everyone. But he had never, and he was utterly certain of this, never had untoward thoughts about Mr. Barrow.
"Jimmy?" Mr. Barrow's voice rang out behind him and Jimmy nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Um?" Jimmy said, and his face burned again, as if Mr. Barrow might be able to see what he'd been thinking. "Hello."
"Eh, helloooo," Mr. Barrow, giving him a funny look. "I've been looking for you."
"Oh." Jimmy looked up at him and felt the world starting to go sideways.
That was the first day. The day that ruined him. Because as he looked up at Thomas, who was talking about some new film he wanted to see, all he could think was: I don't think of him like that. I don't think of anyone like that. I don't talk about him that much.
The problem with suddenly recognizing something you'd never thought of before was that it made you think of that thing. And the more you tried to stop, the more you ended up thinking of it. So that, hours later, when he was in bed that night, he went and thought of Mr. Barrow like that. For a moment, it was only to imagine how absurd it would be. He imagined himself kissing Mr. Barrow. Of course, Mr. Barrow had kissed him the once, but that was so long ago now. Jimmy never thought of it and was only grateful that wiser heads had prevailed in the end.
That night, he thought of it: pressing his lips to Mr. Barrow's lips. Thomas's lips. How absurd. How silly. Except it wasn't.
That was as far his thoughts went that night. But his thoughts escalated in frequency, intensity, and variety. He rather lost his head for a time. He was giddy around Mr. Barrow. Thomas. He felt nervous and a gleeful and not in control of his own words. Thomas gave him strange looks sometimes. Jimmy couldn't manage to read them, his heart was in such a riot.
Jimmy said things like: "Th-that was clever of you. I mean, I was thinkin' of somethin' you said that was clever. About time seeming like it moves faster these days." He was tapping on the table late one night, because he couldn't seem to keep still around Thomas anymore and was very aware that their feet were almost touching.
Thomas had blinked at him. "When did I say that?"
"About three months ago."
Thomas had frowned and a spiral of smoke curled above their heads. "Lord, you're a funny one, Jimmy Kent."
Then Jimmy had grinned like a fool and felt like his heart would swell up and burst right over the table just because he liked the way Thomas had said his full name like that.
He didn't do anything about it. Because he wasn't thinking straight in the least and had no particular plan either way. How could one think up a plan in such a state? It wasn't as if he had to pursue Thomas. Thomas was always around and readily available. And anything else... Well, anything else both frightened and intrigued him. So much so that he sat on his bed some nights and debated going to Thomas's room and waking him up just to see... Just to see what would happen. None of it exactly had a name. It was all chaos.
Eventually, his mind and heart settled a little.
I'm in love with Thomas, he thought one morning. Truly in love. It happened to be Christmas morning. Which was a little romantic. Then it had a name. It was like waking up in a different room; his reality having rearranged itself around him, and it was entirely his own doing.
He felt a bit calmer than he had before. Able to think, perhaps, more clearly. If he had woken up in a different room, well, the place was decorated entirely with his own lovesick behavior over the past six months. Or the past year. He had not the foggiest idea of when it had really started. Only that now he could see it for what it was.
That particular Christmas morning, all that lovesick behavior came flooding into his mind and he sank his head in his hands, groaning. It was like a drunken blackout suddenly remembered.
That morning he found Thomas at the table and sat down with a sigh. Now that he knew what he felt, it seemed impossible that everyone else didn't know too.
Thomas only nodded at him and said, "And a Happy Christmas to you, Jimmy."
Jimmy smiled warmly at him and feeling overcome with this new clarity and it being Christmas and all, said. "Happy Christmas, Thomas."
Thomas did a little double take at that. Jimmy never called Mr. Barrow by his first name, unless he was very upset. He could think of only three other times when he had: the kiss debacle, the fair when Thomas had been beaten so terribly, and once not so long ago they had been in Sybbie's nursery and something or other the little girl had done so reminded Thomas of Lady Sybil that he welled up and turned away. Jimmy had grabbed for his hand to comfort him and said his name.
He wasn't adverse to calling Mr. Barrow by his given name either. It was only that Mr. Barrow, by all accounts, seemed to prefer being called Mr. Barrow, the same way that Jimmy preferred to be called Jimmy and not James. And he wanted to please Mr. Barrow after all.
He had a struggle with the matter of this love for a while. He was in love with a man! What did it mean? He fought it weakly. He wasn't a staunchly religious type and he had never heard an argument against it that didn't have to do with religion at it's root. It was against the law. But sometimes the law was wrong.
By the time he was over that nonsense it was March of 1923. He was a little older and wiser than he had been. He hoped. It was now surely time to decide if he would ever make his feelings known, now that he could see them for what they were and was no longer afraid of them.
He went back and forth on this matter. When he was leaning over the servants' hall table, utterly enchanted by something fascinating Thomas had just said, he thought he would surely tell him. Or when, at unexpected and delightful times, Thomas had to be close to him for some reason, or in a moment of excitement grabbed his arm or touched his shoulder, Jimmy thought: I really must tell him. That feeling was quite strong in the night, when he imagined doing things with Thomas; wonderful, illicit things that made him bite his arm as he stroked himself.
Then he would change his mind again.
Finally he resolved with immoveable determination that he would not tell Thomas he was in love him. Not ever.
He had two reasons for this. But they were such strong reasons, that he couldn't see a way around them.
Point 1: He was not always sure Thomas was still in love with him.
That kept him up nights.
Point 2: It was too risky. They worked together and it was illegal and it had almost gotten Thomas sacked already and Jimmy loved Thomas so much it made him ache, so he certainly wasn't going to be the cause of Thomas's undoing. Because Mr. Barrow could be reckless about such things. That much was obvious. One of them had to be sensible. It fell to Jimmy.
By the time he definitively resolved this in his head, it was August of 1923.
So Jimmy was careful. He learned to control himself better. It helped if he only thought of Thomas as "Mr. Barrow" during the day. He imagined them almost as two people. He worked with Mr. Barrow. He followed Mr. Barrow's orders. More or less. He was best friends with Mr. Barrow and could put up a good pretense of not being in love with him. It was Thomas he was in love with. So he never called his love Thomas. Thomas was what he whispered in his room when he imagined them together. Thomas was who he dreamed about.
Sometimes he slipped in his mind. When they were walking around the village together, he would smile at Mr. Barrow and think: I love you, Thomas. I love you so madly it would make your heart spin like a pinwheel. Do you have any idea at all? Do you still love me?
Time passed. There were worse things than living across the hall from your best friend, who you happened to be mad about. Only occasionally did it make Jimmy melancholy. More often he was sexually frustrated, which was irritating. Only rarely did it make him completely miserable. Because there were two men who crossed Thomas's path. They were men who, however briefly, stood between Jimmy and Thomas.
The first man was a grocer who took over for Mr. Tufton after he brought a larger store in another town. His name was Mr. Meadows. Jimmy decided Meadows was a daft name when the man first showed up with a crate full of groceries, and his eye had lingered a beat too long on Thomas. He decided Meadows was a villain when the man showed up with a second crate of groceries and then asked to speak to Mr. Barrow, even though his business should only have been with Mrs. Patmore. When, immediately after that second visit, Mr. Barrow had requested an unexpected evening off and brushed off Jimmy's questions about it, Jimmy decided nothing. Because he couldn't think. Not when his heart was shattered. Thomas took a second evening off by himself after that. Then Meadows never came to the house again. Thomas didn't take anymore evenings off by himself. Jimmy didn't know what had happened between them. He couldn't bear to ask. He was so happy that Thomas didn't appear to have actually fallen for the man, that he didn't even care.
The second man was a friend of Lord Gillingham's; a Mr. Frederick. Mr. Frederick gave Jimmy an even worse scare than Meadows. Mr. Frederick was rich and better looking than Jimmy. He was a bohemian and famous for throwing grand parties with famous people. He wasn't even the sort Jimmy would've thought might be Lord Gillingham's friend, but apparently they'd gone to school together. He was thought to be charming. Jimmy didn't think so. Mr. Frederick paid Thomas so much attention that Jimmy couldn't believe no one else was noticing. But Thomas noticed. Jimmy knew, because Thomas acted differently. He was awkward around them both. Jimmy had a bad feeling late one night while Mr. Frederick was visiting. So he knocked on Thomas's door, with no credible excuse other than to see if Thomas was, in fact, in his room. He wasn't. Jimmy went back to his bed and wept and didn't sleep. The next day at luncheon, Mr. Frederick laid the innuendo on so thick, his eyes trained on Mr. Barrow, that Jimmy fought the urge to punch him. His hands trembled and he dropped a platter of beef that went all over the floor. He thought he covered it rather well. He was terrified the whole day that Mr. Frederick was going to take Thomas away to go be a bohemian in Paris or somewhere. At the servants' dinner that evening he excused himself. That night Thomas knocked on his door to borrow pomade, claiming he was out. Jimmy stood in the shadows so Thomas wouldn't see his red eyes. Then Thomas casually mentioned that Mr. Frederick was awfully obnoxious, wasn't he? Thomas would be happy when he was gone. Jimmy had stuttered, nodded, and agreed. Then he shut the door in Thomas's face, and crawled into bed, exhausted and relieved.
As time passed, Jimmy thought he got even better at containing his feelings. He put them in little boxes in his mind. He was a good friend to Thomas, he thought, and labored not to reveal anymore than that. If Thomas got sick, Jimmy looked after him. But he tried not to dote too much. It was a little embarrassing. If he got sick, Thomas looked after him, and it only seemed natural. If anyone spoke against Thomas, they had Jimmy to deal with. A couple of times it almost came to blows with this or that visiting servant.
It wasn't always perfect. He knew Thomas's foibles. Thomas could be sharp and nasty when he was in a mood or overwhelmed with work. Jimmy, being a bit of a hot head himself, understood it and walked softly when Thomas was a grouch. If the mood seemed particularly dark, Jimmy tried to coax out what was wrong. They bickered sometimes, and sometimes even fought. Thomas thought he didn't work hard enough. Jimmy thought Thomas worked too hard, or at least put on a show of pretending to work too hard. Once in while when they fought, right up in each other's faces, Jimmy had a desperate desire to kiss him and had to step away to catch his breath.
Time passed so quickly sometimes that it turned Jimmy's head around. Anna and Bates had a baby and talked about leaving when they had enough money. Daisy and Alfred got married and left for Mr. Mason's farm. The footman who replaced Alfred was mad about Ivy and finally she was in love with the right person. They would probably leave someday too. Lady Mary married Lord Gillingham and came to Downton. His valet moved on to a different house and Jimmy stepped up. Thomas was a life saver in teaching him the finer points of valeting. That led to a lot of evenings hunched over sewing or stain removals at the table, sitting close together. It drove Jimmy to distraction.
One day he woke up and he was thirty years old. It was July of 1925. Thomas took him out to a pub to celebrate and called him an old man. Jimmy had to be very careful not to drink too much. By the second beer, he knew he had already touched Thomas too many times in one day. So he watched himself and put his feelings in little boxes and called his love Mr. Barrow. And even though he was now Mr. Kent by all rights, Thomas still called him Jimmy.
In September of that year, Thomas went along with Lord Grantham to London because Bates was feeling poorly. Thomas made a show of his trip to London just to tease Jimmy. Though by that time, Jimmy had gone on several trips with Lord Gillingham.
"Stay out of trouble," Thomas said dryly, putting on his coat.
"What fun would that be?" Jimmy said. "You stay out of trouble. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
"I wouldn't do anything you would do," Thomas cracked, and tossed him an easy smile before he put on his hat and walked out the door.
Three days later, at tea with the others, Jimmy was off his head with worry. They all were. Lord Grantham and Thomas were supposed to have returned that morning, and no one had heard a word. But stranger still, as he was eating breakfast that morning, a terrible feeling of dread had settled over Jimmy and a chill had run up his spine. It was so sudden and startling that he had gasped and looked at Anna in his fright, as if she must've felt it too. But she hadn't. That was before Thomas was due to return home.
"I'm sure it's nothin'," Ivy said wisely at tea. "His Lordship's likely had to stay longer for business and he hasn't had a chance to ring up."
"He would have though," Jimmy argued. "He rang last night that he would be catching the early train. That's what Mr. Carson said-"
"Excuse me." Mr. Carson's voice interrupted from the doorway and they all stood. "I have news."
"The train," Jimmy whispered.
"First of all, there is no reason yet to expect the worst, but the train his Lordship and Mr. Barrow were due to arrive on collided with another train-"
He was interrupted by the room's collective gasps and cries of astonishment. Jimmy's knees started to give. He leaned on the table.
"Mr. Barrow-" Jimmy blurted.
"Yes, I know," Mr. Carson looked on him and nodded. "We don't have news yet, you see, Mr. Kent. The wreck was near Manchester. Yes, there...there have been casualties. But the names have not been released. It's still too early. The injured have been taken to hospital nearby, but it must be bedlam-"
"I'm going," Jimmy said quickly, clenching his fists so no one could see that his hands were shaking. "I'm goin' right now."
"Mr. Kent-"
"I'm goin'. He hasn't got family, he's only got me."
He felt a hand on his arm and there was Mrs. Hughes. "Of course, you will," Mrs. Hughes said. "Lord Gillingham will be going down with Lady Mary, I imagine. They'll take the car. But you're right. One of us should be there to see to Mr. Barrow. Don't you agree, Mr. Carson?"
Mr. Carson said, "I was about to say the same thing." He looked a bit affronted.
A new maid named Emily said, "What if they're-"
"Don't you finish that sentence!" Mrs. Hughes said sharply. To Jimmy she said, "We'll all be praying. We'll be praying very hard."
It was an interminably long time before he was in the car with Lady Mary and Lord Gillingham. In the back seat, he twisted his hands til they hurt. The ride itself was arguably worse. He had somehow envisioned getting in the motor and magically appearing in Manchester. Instead it was a long ride during which his brain bounced back and forth between Thomas surely being alive and Thomas surely being dead and having no evidence towards either likelihood, the two thoughts raced around faster and faster to no end.
"Your father's strong," Lord Gillingham said to Lady Mary, as he gripped the wheel. "It's a terrible fright. But I'm sure he's well. I'm sure of it." He added apologetically, "And Mr. Barrow too, of course. I'm sure he'll be alright."
But they didn't know. They had nothing to go on. The words were empty. And though he wasn't a religious type, Jimmy whispered prayers under his breath as the motor stuttered over the road.
Please let him be alright. Please please please not him. Please not him. Don't take him from me. Please, God.
The hospital was bedlam, just as Mr. Carson had predicted. The front lobby was packed with people; some weeping and all wanting information on passengers. There were a few hospital staff shouting answers and names. Jimmy waited for exactly one minute along with Lady Mary and Lord Gillingham, who were demanding information on Lord Grantham and Thomas Barrow. Then he fled, to try his luck with a passing nurse. He grabbed her by the arm.
"Miss! Miss, I'm looking for a passenger"
"I don't know many," she said quickly. She looked haggard.
"Thomas Barrow, Thomas Barrow!" Jimmy babbled. "He would've been in the third car coming from London-"
The nurses face fell. "There were a lot of casualties in that third car, I'm afraid-"
Jimmy's heart lurched. "But do you have his name down? Where would I find him-"
"I don't know the name-"
"What if, what if he wasn't in the car when it crashed?" Jimmy said. "What if he got up? He could've gotten up to smoke or-or-"
"Then I don't know," she said. "I couldn't tell you. Not all the deceased are listed-"
"He isn't dead!" Jimmy shouted.
She gave him the sort of look that Mrs. Hughes would have given him and said, "I'm tellin' you this to help you. Prepare yourself, sir. There's a chance, of course. But there've been eleven casualties in that car alone. That's only what's confirmed so far. It's likely your friend is-"
"He's not dead!" Jimmy said again.
"I hope not," she said quietly. Then she was gone. She hadn't been helpful at all.
Behind him he heard a young man saying, "It tipped right over, they say! The one car tipped right over on its side!"
Jimmy wanted to be sick, but instead he eyed the door, through which doctors and nurses were coming and going.
"Mr. Kent," Lord Gillingham said, suddenly beside him. "We've got news Lord Grantham has made out alright. Lady Mary's waiting to see him. I'm sorry, we don't yet know about Mr. Barrow-"
Jimmy glared at he doors. "He's in there somewhere. He's not dead. I would know if he were dead."
Lord Gillingham glanced at the doors and back at him. "Then go find your friend, Mr. Kent. I won't tell anyone. Here..."
Then Lord Gillingham was shoving him towards the door and stood behind him as if to hide what he was doing. "I demand information!" Lord Gillingham shouted, and he clapped his hands. Jimmy had never seen him so upset. He suddenly liked Lord Gillingham much better, he thought. He plowed into the hallway, his Lordship barking at the staff the whole time.
Jimmy expected to be yelled at immediately, but everyone was far too busy to notice him. Doctors and nurses were running around, some covered in blood. Jimmy stumbled from room to room, and begged information from anyone who would stop for a half second. But no one had heard of a Thomas Barrow. Jimmy kept looking, brazenly pushing open doors. He nearly walked in on a surgery. But the man on the table didn't look like Thomas. Jimmy had peaked around a curtain to get a look. He was hollered at then. He hollered back. Then a nurse told him that everyone in the third car was dead. Jimmy almost fell down.
No. No, I'll find him. Whether he's alive or dead, I have to see him to know.
He choked a sob down. He had entertained the notion that Thomas was dead. That wasn't good. But wouldn't he know? Wouldn't he feel it?
I had a bad feeling this morning, he thought. That was why. What if I did know?
He raced from room to room, further down hallways where bodies lay on cots covered with sheets. He looked at each one, lifting the sheets to see their still grey faces. It was hard. It was like the war again. He ran into rooms where less critical patients sat or lay or stood, groaning or weeping or comforting each other. In each room he shouted for Thomas Barrow, and he looked at each face carefully, even when it was silly to do so because the person obviously wasn't Thomas.
He's dead, he's dead, Jimmy thought. No, he must not be. He can't be.
At the third to last door, he allowed himself to feel that Thomas might really be dead and experienced for a moment how massive the void in him would be if it were true; so deep and endless and dark, he couldn't imagine he would ever get out of it. The third to last door was a room full of mostly children and a few nurses who wanted to know his business. He left without a word.
Jimmy threw open the second to last door with such force that it banged against the wall. There was a line of cots and people lying on them. He saw the sharp turn of a head in the corner of the room. He stalked inside, panting, to see that the figure that had turned its head was Thomas, who was sitting up on a cot. He was under a blanket, but his right leg stuck out, thick with bandages. There was another bandage around his head. When Jimmy saw Thomas he froze up and stood stupidly for a moment, before it felt as if all his breath had left him and he bent over to hold his knees, attempting to compose himself.
"You're here!" Thomas said.
"Mr. Barrow," Jimmy said automatically. "Yes." Jimmy stood straight again and gave Thomas a good stare to make certain he was alive, sitting there, talking. He had not been mistaken. He was not seeing things. He turned around to face the door and said, "Excuse me." He laid his hand against the cool white wall and shut his eyes.
He's alive. He's alive, he's alive. Get hold of yourself.
Thomas said, "How did you… How are you here?"
"I came with Lady Mary and..and whatsisname." When he thought he could manage, he turned back around.
"Lord Gillingham?"
"Yes. Him."
"Is Grantham-"
"He's fine," Jimmy said. He strode up to Thomas, gave him a once over and winced. "Your head...?"
"Just a scrape," Thomas said. "Leg's broke though."
Jimmy nodded. "Oh." He nodded again. "Does it hurt?"
"They gave me somethin'. Might wear off soon." Thomas's eyes were wide.
There was a chair near the bed, so Jimmy sat in it, glancing around. The room was quiet. You'd never know that there was chaos right outside. There were four other people on cots. But they appeared to be asleep. Jimmy squinted at them for a second to make sure they were breathing and that Thomas wasn't in a room full of bodies. Then he turned back to Thomas, who was blinking at him as if not convinced yet he was there.
"I thought you were dead," Jimmy said, accusatory.
"Oh..." Thomas said, and he grimaced. "Well, I might be if I don't get a cigarette soon."
"Uh," Jimmy sighed and patted his pockets. He often had cigarettes on him because he would occasionally smoke or sometimes Thomas ran out. "Ah."
He found a half-full pack and a book of matches.
"You utter angel," Thomas muttered. Jimmy put the cigarette in his own mouth and lit it and handed it to Thomas after taking a much needed puff himself. "How is it out there?" Thomas said, before inhaling. "It was the trenches all over again when they brought me in."
"It still is," Jimmy muttered, rubbing his knees. Things were catching up to him. He felt his little boxes popping open again. "I thought you were... They said everyone in the third car was dead. Or I heard someone say that."
"I wasn't in the third car," Thomas said, blowing smoke. "Or I was. I got up to stretch my legs. Went to the dining car. It's a horror though. Unthinkable. I've never seen anything like it."
"But..." Jimmy struggled to speak. "But I thought... For a minute there, I thought..."
"I'm fine, Jimmy," Thomas said softly. "Honest. See? Two arms, two legs. Such as they are."
All the little boxes were spilling over and there was nothing Jimmy could to stop tears sliding down his cheeks, so he just pretended they weren't there. "I wonder if you'll need a chair," he said. "A wheelchair, I mean. No...maybe just a crutch. That could be tricky with the stairs. He held Thomas's left hand in both of his, clasping it tight. He hardly realized he was doing it. "But I can help you up the stairs always..."
"Yeah," Thomas said.
"If-if you'd..."
"I know."
"Thomas." Jimmy bowed his head and then slumped over onto the cot, grasping Thomas around his middle, still holding onto his hand. "Thomas, Thomas..."
Thomas was silent. Jimmy felt the rise and fall of his stomach under his cheek. It meant Thomas was alive.
"I thought I'd lost you," Jimmy said, his voice muffled by the thin blanket. "I thought I'd lost you and I never..."
He wept into Thomas's stomach. He was so tired from the madness of seeing all the bodies in the hallway and having to check if they were Thomas's, of the long car ride and the dread from that morning, of keeping all of the feelings locked away, and of wanting so badly for years to hold Thomas the way he was holding him now. He felt Thomas stretch for a moment. To put out his cigarette, he thought. Then a hand was stroking his hair.
"I know, love," Thomas said. "My darling. It's alright. It's alright now. Don't cry, my love..."
Jimmy dimly registered surprise, but there was too much going on inside to bother with it. He sniffed and swallowed. Then he kissed Thomas's hand and his fingers, as he rested there in his lap.
"I felt the car turn sideways when the trains crashed," Thomas said. "The car started to tip. I thought I was done for. But all I could think was that I'd never hear you laugh again."
Jimmy let the words settle over him and he tried to calm down. It was easier because Thomas was rubbing his back and telling him everything would be fine. And now he was sure.
He loves me. He does still love me. Of course, he does.
After a few minutes, Jimmy sniffed and said, "I didn't know you knew."
"I didn't at first," Thomas said. "I thought I was being stupid again. Or going mad. But you kept getting worse at pretending."
"Worse? I thought I got better. I tried so hard." He raised his head but moved to sit on the bed, and took a handkerchief from his pocket to blow his nose, blushing furiously. Thomas was smirking at him. "You never said anything about it," Jimmy said.
"I...I tried to get it out of you," Thomas said sheepishly. "I tried to make you jealous with Meadows and that stupid Frederick. But nothin' ever happened. It felt like being unfaithful. And I could see how upset it made you."
"Oh." An old nugget of jealousy disappeared. He was glad nothing had happened.
"Frankly, I didn't know if you knew," Thomas went on. "I didn't want to scare you off. And you were so rubbish at being careful, I thought if we were actually together everyone would know. One of us had to be sensible."
"I-I'm sorry," Jimmy mumbled. "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I never said it. I didn't want to get you into trouble."
"Love, why are you sorry?" Thomas reached out to caress his cheek. "Are you sorry you've never forgotten my birthday? Are you sorry you always take care of me when I'm ill and that you play that Schubert because it's my favorite even though you hate it-"
"It's so slow and melancholy," Jimmy muttered.
"Are you sorry you always make sure I'm first to have the paper in the morning? That you always look at me like I'm the only person in the room? That you just rushed over here and fought through a heap of corpses to find me? After a while, I never needed to hear it. I saw it everyday."
Jimmy smiled shyly and shrugged. "Then I'm just sorry I never kissed you." He glanced around the room. The other patients were still asleep. The room was quiet. He leaned over and kissed Thomas softly and his cheeks burned, his heart feeling swollen like it always did when he was so close to Thomas. He stopped himself from kissing Thomas too long, even though he desperately wanted to. Someone could walk in at any moment.
"I think," said Thomas, "it might be easier to keep this secret if we were keeping it together. If it's even a secret."
"I agree," Jimmy said. "But when did... Do you remember when you first noticed? When you first wondered?"
"It was Christmas," Thomas said happily. "A long time ago. You came down to breakfast and the way you smiled at me..."
"Yes," Jimmy said. "That's when I knew loved you. Christmas. Nineteen twenty-two."
"Twenty-one," Thomas said, smirking again.
Jimmy's mouth dropped open and then he nodded, laughing at himself. "Yes. Sure. Of course. Nineteen twenty-one. Right you are, Mr. Barrow."
"For God's sake, I think it's about time you called me Thomas."
"Yes, Thomas," Jimmy whispered, kissing his hand. "Thomas, Thomas..."