The following morning dawned bitterly cold and unforgivingly grey, with frost that clung in icy crystals to the windowpanes. Jimmy was already lying awake when his alarm went off at six o'clock; he'd slept badly again, head muddled with half-conscious questions and answers that felt as though they were on the tip of his tongue. The cut on the palm of his hand was still throbbing dully, and with each pang of pain, Jimmy was reminded of the feeling of Thomas' fingers curled carefully round his wrist, softer than they should have been.
Head aching from lack of sleep, Jimmy blearily turned his alarm off and got out of bed, feeling the icy morning air stinging his exposed skin.
He couldn't help feeling inexplicably and uncharacteristically nervous as he washed and dressed hurriedly in his livery, still tugging on his jacket as he hurried down the hall to breakfast. Perhaps it was down to lack of sleep, or maybe it was because he was worried he'd finally stepped too far across the fragile line of his and Thomas' friendship and damaged it irreparably. He couldn't never really tell what Thomas was feeling or thinking; he was utterly inscrutable at the worst of times, and while it was what made Jimmy endlessly curious about the other man, it was also distinctly disconcerting at times such as this.
Jimmy just couldn't help feeling a line of some kind had been crossed last night as they sat in front of the fire and Thomas bandaged his hand and told him about fear— but he wasn't sure exactly what line it was, and that made him more nervous than anything. There just seemed to be more and more questions whose answers were either troublingly absent or simply raised further questions, and Jimmy was beginning to feel as though he was floundering in the helpless feeling of not understanding something.
"Good morning, Jimmy," Ivy smiled prettily at him as he entered the servants' hall, straightening his jacket and trying to compose himself slightly so it was not clear he'd spent half the night awake again.
"Morning," Jimmy replied distractedly as he sat down in his usual seat, eyes seeking out Thomas. His heart sank as he quickly realised that Thomas wasn't yet in the servants' hall, and it was with a heavy feeling in the bottom of his stomach that he helped himself to a slice of toast and gulped at his cup of tea.
"James—" Mr Carson raised his voice over the bustle of breakfast "— the gallery on the top floor needs cleaning, and seeing as that part of the house will be unoccupied today, I thought it would be an advisable time to begin. Considering that it's Alfred's day off, Mr. Barrow will be joining you."
Jimmy nodded wordlessly, trying to quell the nerves that suddenly writhed again in his stomach. He hastily took another gulp of tea in attempt to distract himself without much success.
Moments later, Ivy sat down in the seat beside him and started up a conversation about dancing, which Jimmy gratefully participated in without really paying much attention to what was being said.
He was just finishing his slice of toast when he caught sight of a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye, and looked up to see Thomas sliding into the seat across the table, the picture of immaculate impassivity. He looked a world apart from the Thomas who had sat beside Jimmy at the fire last night; his hair was slicked back seamlessly, making his features look sharper than ever, and his grey eyes looked inscrutably icy in the morning light.
Jimmy swallowed his mouthful of toast and looked up to smile hopefully at Thomas, suddenly feeling inexplicably nervous again.
"Good morning, Mr. Barrow," he greeted, more cheerfully than he felt.
"Good morning." Thomas nodded briefly at Jimmy over his cup of tea, but the coldness of his eyes had melted slightly.
Jimmy relaxed a little, settling back into his seat and taking a gulp of tea. Although he knew barely anything about Thomas, Jimmy had known him long enough to be able to detect the subtle signs that showed whether or not he was angry, and Jimmy knew from experience— not personal— that if Thomas was angry with someone, he'd make it painfully clear through sniping comments or cruel sarcasm. Jimmy had never experienced Thomas' anger first-hand, and hoped he never would.
Apart from anything else, he sincerely hoped that he would never do something which would hurt Thomas enough to cause him to be angry.
The gallery on the top floor was draughty and dusty, and the bitter daylight that filtered through the windows illuminated the dust motes in the air like minute particles of snow. Even although Thomas didn't seem to be annoyed with him, the silence between them as they started working felt awkward and uneasy to Jimmy; Thomas never tended to initiate conversation, but Jimmy always talked, even if he didn't really have anything to say. But today, for some reason, Jimmy couldn't think of a single thing to say. In fact, it wasn't until after at least half an hour at work polishing the silver in the largest cabinet that the silence was broken at all, save for the clink of metal.
"You're very silent today."
Jimmy almost dropped the silver badge he was in the middle of polishing as he looked up. Thomas wasn't looking at him, rather at the piece of silver he was working on.
"I— yes. I didn't sleep well," Jimmy blurted.
"Why was that?" Thomas glanced up, and Jimmy caught a flicker of concern in his eyes.
Jimmy hesitated, unsure of the answer.
"It's alright," Thomas said, his tone less even than it had been a moment before. "Unofficial question. You don't have to answer it."
"Thanks," Jimmy replied gratefully, setting the silver badge back into the cabinet and picking up a tarnished medal. "I would if I knew the answer," he added honestly.
They lapsed back into silence for a while, but it was less uncomfortable, and Jimmy relaxed a little as he worked. There was something strangely soothing about polishing the silver— Jimmy had used to find it a tedious job when he first joined the household, but now he found it oddly satisfying. There was something very pleasing about starting off the day with something that was tarnished with time, and being able to make it shine as though it was brand new by the end of the day.
"Can you pass me the polish?" Jimmy asked as he picked up a particularly tarnished medal.
Wordlessly, Thomas handed him the little tin of polish, and Jimmy jumped slightly at the feeling of Thomas' fingers brushing against his as he did so. He was instantly reminded of sitting by the fire with Thomas the night before, letting Thomas hold his hand, his wrist, touch his skin and the pulse underneath. It shouldn't have felt so intimate, and it unsettled Jimmy that it had done; it felt as though Thomas was somehow touching more than just the surface of Jimmy's skin.
Annoyed with himself, Jimmy shook off the thoughts which had already plagued him into the early hours of the morning, and instead focused all his attention on polishing the medals as effectively as possible, humming slightly as he worked to block out the turmoil of questions and answers that churned through his mind.
Neither of them spoke properly until the first weak rays of autumnal sunshine melted through the frost and into the cold gallery, and Jimmy set down the last of the set of medals with a sigh, brushing his hair off his forehead and looking up at Thomas.
"Cigarette break?" he suggested hopefully, stretching his arms.
Thomas paused in his cleaning of a silver vase and consulted his pocket watch. "We've been working most of the morning. I suppose Mr. Carson probably wouldn't have a fit if we took a ten minute break."
Jimmy grinned and threw down his duster, following Thomas down the stairs.
The air in the yard was sharp and tasted of the sad rust of decaying leaves, but both were soon eclipsed by the smoke from Thomas' freshly lit cigarette.
"I assume when you suggested a cigarette break, you were simply hoping to steal my cigarettes?" Thomas remarked, but he held the box out to Jimmy anyway, eyes greyer than ever in the frail rays of sun that reached tentatively into the yard.
"I'm glad you interpreted my meaning so well, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy grinned, taking one from the box and lighting it, coughing slightly as the smoke enveloped his lungs.
Thomas smiled slightly, but didn't say anything, merely continued to smoke. Jimmy watched it curling away from him into the pale gold of the weak October sunlight, and was suddenly reminded of the game he'd used to play as a child with his older brother— they'd lived in a seaside village, and so every so often a sea mist would descend, smothering the streets. Jimmy had always been determined to catch the mist; he'd run after it, but no matter how far he ran, no matter how close he thought he was to it, it always slipped through his fingers— utterly intangible. Jimmy had mistaken its identity altogether, and hadn't come to realise what it truly was until some years later; that it was something he would never be able to hold tangibly in his bare hands.
"I think I've got another question for you," Jimmy said slowly after several moments of smoking in silence. He exhaled impatiently and looked at Thomas who was leaning against the wall beside him.
"Official or unofficial?" Thomas asked with the smallest hint of amusement.
"Official," Jimmy decided, taking another drag on his cigarette and fighting the desire to cough. "I want to know who the first friend you ever had was."
Thomas froze in the middle of tapping ash to the ground, eyes fixed on Jimmy.
"I can't really say I want to answer that," he said impassively.
"I'll have a month's supply of cigarettes then, please," Jimmy countered. "And don't think I'll share them with you, because I won't. Not a single one."
"I'm not even sure you ever buy your own cigarettes. I always share mine with you," Thomas pointed out evenly, dropping the end of his cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath his heel.
"Well, you shouldn't," Jimmy teased.
He watched Thomas' jaw clench and unclench as he fumbled in his pocket and lit another cigarette, staring up at the frosty sunlight.
"My first friend," he began slowly, taking a drag of the fresh cigarette and blowing smoke up into the sky, "was a boy called Charlie McArthur. His father used to work for mine."
Jimmy stayed silent, sensing that Thomas hadn't finished speaking.
"Charlie and I always used to get sent off to play together while our fathers were working. We'd go down to the river at the back of the village and play at being knights from fairytales— we'd use the branches from the ancient birch tree as swords and pretended that the river was the moat guarding our castle. Silly, children's stuff." Thomas paused, taking a long drag of his cigarette, eyes faraway. "We grew up playing together, we were practically inseparable. But one day his father caught us playing together— we were pretending to be a king and a queen, and so we were holding hands."
Jimmy watched as Thomas broke off, jaw clenched. "We weren't even doing anything— we were both twelve for god's sake. But I never saw Charlie again after that, and my father sent me away to start working on my own."
Thomas lapsed into silence, smoke curling around him as he stared at the floor, the muscles of his jaw still clenched as though he regretted the words it had formed. The frail rays of October sunlight cast his shadow long and sad on the cobbled ground of the yard, and Jimmy swallowed tightly, suddenly feeling awful. He wished to god he'd never asked the question, because it hurt him more than he could ever have guessed to imagine young Thomas being so bewildered as to why he'd lost his only friend— and to see Thomas standing in front of him now, bitter and irreparably sad.
Jimmy didn't often notice it— Thomas concealed it well under a careful mask of impassivity and sarcasm, but it was shown up now by the tentative rays of feeble sunlight and the words that resonated around them with the smoke. The sunlight should have made things brighter, but they somehow just cast Thomas even more into shadow.
"Mr. Barrow— Thomas… I'm so sorry," Jimmy mumbled quietly, meaning every word of it. He dropped his cigarette guiltily to the ground, biting his lip as he stared at Thomas anxiously.
"Why are you sorry?" Thomas asked, looking up. His eyes were like broken glass, and it hurt Jimmy to look at them. "It's a lesson I had to learn. I only wish I'd learnt it sooner rather than later."
Jimmy didn't know what to say to that. "Mr. Barrow—"
"Come on, it's time we got back to work," Thomas cut across him, his voice carefully emotionless once more. Jimmy had never noticed how harsh it sounded in comparison to Thomas' voice when he was talking freely.
He felt deeply troubled as he watched Thomas stub his cigarette out and lead the way from the yard back upstairs to continue polishing the silver. Jimmy suddenly couldn't help thinking that Thomas himself was a little like the silver artefacts in the dusty gallery; tarnished and flawed by time.
Jimmy worked with Thomas in the gallery until after luncheon, when Thomas was required to attend to his Lordship, leaving Jimmy to work alone until dinner. Working alone was considerably less enjoyable, and Jimmy found that he missed Thomas' presence more than he would have expected.
He couldn't stop thinking about the story Thomas had told him, and spent the majority of the time in the gallery feeling inexplicably angry— he wasn't sure whom it was directed at; it wasn't towards Thomas or himself, but the story the other man had told him affected him more than he could have imagined. He couldn't bear thinking about the young, innocent Thomas standing alone and confused by the river before he was contorted by the ugly shadows of the church, but the image would not leave his mind. Jimmy sincerely hoped that Thomas was not as affected by telling the story as much as Jimmy had been by hearing it.
He felt grateful to see that Thomas looked no different from usual when he sat down in his seat at supper and gave Jimmy a slight smile, which Jimmy returned enthusiastically, feeling intensely grateful that the story didn't seem to be playing on Thomas' mind at all. They exchanged snippets of conversation after supper ended and people started heading up to bed, but Thomas was mostly reading the newspaper.
For a while, Jimmy read snatches of it over the other man's shoulder, but grew restless. He wanted to play the piano— but he was determined to try and get Thomas to join him. Jimmy wasn't sure quite how to broach the subject, however, and it was only when he decided he would need to say something before Thomas disappeared upstairs to bed that he decided to just come right out with it.
"Mr. Barrow, I'm going to play the piano before I go up— would you care to join me?" Jimmy asked hopefully, draining the last of his cocoa and standing up. The servants' hall was deserted by this point; the clock on the mantelpiece read just after eleven.
Thomas looked up from his newspaper, eyes conveying mild surprise. "Are you serious?"
"You know me, Mr. Barrow— I'm always serious," Jimmy said, deadpan.
"I somehow find that difficult to believe." Thomas' mouth twitched in amusement.
"Really, though, how about it?" Jimmy pressed, fixing Thomas with a grin. "I know you haven't played for ages, but we could try some duets to begin with, or maybe you—"
"Alright." Thomas was folding up his newspaper and standing up too. "If it'll get to you stop pestering me about it." It should have sounded irratated, but Thomas was smiling slightly as he said it.
"Brilliant," Jimmy grinned triumphantly, sliding down the piano stool a little to make room for Thomas, who hesitantly sat down beside him. There wasn't much space; Jimmy could feel the warmth of Thomas beside him, the way their legs were pressed together through the fabric of their black trousers and their shoulders brushed whenever Jimmy reached out to play. The scent of Thomas' cologne mingled with the slight sharpness of smoke was stronger than ever; Jimmy had rarely been this close to him for it to be so intoxicating.
"How about we start off with something pretty straightforward?" Jimmy suggested. "You only need to alternate between three chords for this one, I'll show you them."
Thomas nodded wordlessly, hands hesitating over the keys.
"Right, so it starts of with one in C major…" Jimmy tentatively positioned Thomas' fingers on the keys, trying to ignore that slight shiver that ran up his spine at the contact. He could feel Thomas' gaze heavy on him as Jimmy demonstrated the chords, and it made the heat creep up his cheeks. He broke off, looking up at Thomas.
"Your turn," Jimmy said, more quietly than he'd intended.
Wordlessly, Thomas looked away from Jimmy as though he didn't even realise he'd been staring, and stiffly played the chord, long fingers gripping the keys harder than necessary.
"Now the one in E…" Jimmy prompted, watching Thomas' pale fingers move to play the next chord. He could see the way that Thomas' jaw was clenched in concentration, the immaculate line of his inky hair sharpening his features, and felt a sudden pang of inexplicable affection for the other man.
"No, that finger should be here…" Jimmy corrected, hesitantly moving Thomas' index finger onto the right key, and feeling Thomas tense slightly from where they were pressed together on the piano stool.
"Like this?"
"Yeah. Want to try it together?" Jimmy suggested hopefully.
"If you like," Thomas agreed. Jimmy glanced sideways at him and flashed Thomas a quick grin, which the other man returned with an ease which surprised Jimmy. He couldn't help noticing that Thomas looked more as he'd done the night before in front of the fire again; less guarded, less careful. He looked more human. His pomaded hair was softening and coming out of place a little, and his eyes contradicted themselves in the dull light: warm and icy all at once. Jimmy fleetingly wondered whether it was just because it was the end of the day, or because it was just the two of them once more.
It took Jimmy a couple of bars of the music to adjust to playing a duet; Thomas' leg was pressed against his, and he could feel the brush of their arms as their hands moved along the keys, fingers clashing every so often and making their playing stumble and Jimmy grin, hair falling across his forehead.
He couldn't remember having felt happier, as his hands fumbled across the keys alongside Thomas', colliding and getting tangled up until the music was no longer how it had begun and they were both laughing so much they could barely continue to play.
"I'd forgotten how much fun it is playing with someone else," Jimmy grinned as they finished the piece. He looked up at Thomas, who was already looking at him, his smile softening the sharpness of his features. "Thanks."
"What for?" Thomas raised his eyebrows.
"Playing duets with me," Jimmy replied, idly playing scales with his right hand as he talked. "We should do it more often. You're good."
Thomas snorted. "It was fun. But I'm definitely not good— either you're a terrible judge of music, Jimmy, or you're a liar. And I'm afraid I very much suspect it's the latter."
"I'm not lying," Jimmy protested, switching to the C minor scale.
Thomas raised his eyebrows again, fumbling in his pocket for a cigarette and his lighter. "I played three chords."
"Yeah, well, you also haven't played for… a long time," Jimmy finished weakly, frowning and looking up. "You never even told me when you stopped playing."
Thomas put the cigarette to his lips and took a deep drag of it, blowing smoke deliberately in Jimmy's direction. "I don't have to tell you everything, you know."
"Yes you do," Jimmy grinned, nudging Thomas slightly.
The other man shook his head, but he was smiling too. Before he'd got to know Thomas, Jimmy would have thought that a smile would have looked wrong on him— but it somehow looked much more fitting than the sneers or the blankness.
"You're very persistent, Jimmy Kent. And too curious for your own good." Thomas pointed his cigarette at Jimmy accusingly, the smallest of smiles playing across his lips.
"What's wrong with being curious?" Jimmy demanded, deftly taking the cigarette from between Thomas' elegant fingers and putting it to his mouth, feeling the warmth of where it had been in Thomas' mouth moments before.
"Nothing," Thomas shrugged. "But you have to accept that there aren't answers to everything, or worse— you wish you'd never found the answers in the first place."
Jimmy considered this for a moment, resisting the urge to choke slightly on the smoke in his lungs as he handed the cigarette back to Thomas, feeling the soft brush of skin as their fingers touched and getting a sudden flashback of Thomas' hands round his last night in front of the fire. He shook his head slightly as though he was punch-drunk, reaching up and looking over the music sheets.
"Are you going to play anything else with me?"
"Maybe another night," Thomas said though breaths of smoke. It was so quiet in the servants' hall that Jimmy could hear the soft exhale of his breath as well as see it in the air that hung over the piano. "I'll stay and listen to you though, if you don't object."
"Why would I object?" Jimmy asked incredulously.
Thomas merely shrugged, tilting his head back slightly and blowing smoke upwards. Jimmy watched the muscles in his throat contract, and wondered if their sharp line continued past Thomas' collar. He wondered if Thomas was all straight lines and sharp angles beneath the stiff material of his livery, or whether he was softer, the way he was when he smiled— then he abruptly wondered where on earth that thought had come from and hurriedly looked away from Thomas and back at the piano in front of them, feeling heat suddenly burn his cheeks.
"Are you going to play anything, then?" Thomas asked after several moments, and Jimmy could feel the smoke brushing the shell of his ear, hot and intangible.
"What would you like me to play?" Jimmy asked, looking up at the other man and brushing back the strand of golden blonde hair that had fallen over his forehead as he and Thomas were playing.
"I don't mind," Thomas said indifferently. "Play what pleases you."
So Jimmy played the piece that Thomas had commented on several nights back, letting the chords and melodies fill the room and fill his mind so that by the time the piece was reaching it's crescendo, all Jimmy was remotely aware of was the serenity of the notes that flowed from his fingertips, the smoke from Thomas' cigarette stinging his lungs, and the warm pressure of Thomas's leg against his where he was sitting silently beside Jimmy on the piano stool.
As the piece slowed in cadence towards its end, Jimmy could feel the weight of Thomas' gaze on him. He looked up as he effortlessly played the last trio of notes, finding Thomas' eyes on him, heavy and inscrutable, their pupils blown with silent intensity. There was the subtlest pink tinge to his prominent cheekbones, and when Jimmy smiled at him, they darkened slightly and Thomas averted his eyes, taking a drag of his cigarette. Jimmy couldn't help noticing how his elegant fingers trembled slightly around it, and the way he could feel how tense Thomas was from where they were pressed together on the piano stool.
"You play beautifully," Thomas said quietly and unexpectedly after a moment, glancing up briefly to meet Jimmy's gaze. His cheeks were still faintly pink.
"Not really," Jimmy protested, surprised at the words that came out of his mouth; it was not like him to be modest. "I don't care about it— I don't put anything into the notes. They sound nice, but that's just the composer, not me."
"I quite disagree," Thomas raised his eyebrows. "And I would try to argue with you, but by this point I know it's perfectly pointless trying to argue with you about anything."
"Glad you've got that figured out," Jimmy flashed Thomas a grin, raking a hand through his blonde hair.
Thomas rolled his eyes slightly, but offered Jimmy the last of his cigarette.
"Thanks," Jimmy said, suddenly noticing that Thomas' glove was coming unbuttoned as he accepted the cigarette. "Your glove, Mr. Barrow…"
"Oh, is it coming undone again?" Thomas winced, holding it up and trying to button it, but his hands were still shaking slightly. "Blasted thing. I need a new one."
"Here, let me," Jimmy offered, stubbing out the cigarette and turning to face Thomas on the piano stool, taking the other man's hand slightly hesitantly. It felt odd, holding Thomas' hand the same way he'd held Jimmy's yesterday… Jimmy wondered what Thomas had thought about when he was holding Jimmy's hand still; whether he'd noticed the slight flutter of a pulse under the skin, the soft skin that contrasted with all the sharp angles of the bones, the subtle warmth of someone else. His hands skittered along the smooth skin of Thomas' wrist, feeling the warmth of it under his fingertips.
"You— Jimmy, you don't need to do that." It sounded as though Thomas' jaw was clenched, but Jimmy ignored him, not entirely sure why he wanted to fasten the glove; to feel how hard the leather was in comparison to Thomas' soft skin.
"I don't mind," Jimmy replied honestly, carefully turning Thomas' hand over and fastening the little buttons on the glove. He could feel Thomas' pulse hammering away under the pale skin of his wrist, and let his fingertips linger there for a moment, feeling Thomas. "Do… do you ever let anyone see it?"
"You've already had your official question for the day," Thomas said faintly.
Jimmy looked up, suddenly realising how close he and Thomas were sitting— Jimmy could see every fleck in Thomas' infinitely grey eyes and the way the pools of black were heavy in them; could almost taste the heady scent of Thomas' cologne on the air between them; could feel the soft exhale of breath on his cheek; could almost see the pulse fluttering under the pale skin of Thomas' neck. He could see the clench of Thomas' jaw and the sharpness of his cheekbones that didn't go with the heavy warmth of his eyes. The air between them was thick with smoke and music and the warmth of proximity, and Jimmy suddenly found it hard to breathe.
Swallowing, he slowly let go of Thomas' hand, but didn't look away.
"I should be going to bed," he said quietly, although he had not intended for his voice to be close to a whisper.
Thomas nodded, dropping his gaze instantly and getting up from the piano stool, the space beside Jimmy suddenly feeling cold. He hastily put the sheet music back in place and followed suit, taking the lamp from the table and leading the way into the hallway and up the stairs a silence that did not extend to Jimmy's thoughts.
It was only when they were in the hall between his room and Thomas' that Jimmy spoke suddenly, realising something.
"You haven't asked me my question yet, Mr. Barrow."
Thomas smiled slightly, although it didn't quite soften the sharpness of his features this time. "That's because I'm not sure whether I want to know the answer."
"You'll never know the answer at all if you don't ask it," Jimmy pointed out, stomach suddenly knotted with nerves as he regarded Thomas in the soft light of the lamp.
Thomas sighed. "Well, sticking with your theme of friends from earlier…" Thomas broke off, shaking his head, expression strained. "Actually, never mind."
"You have to ask me something," Jimmy said indignantly.
"Fine," Thomas' jaw clenched and unclenched, but his tone wasn't unkind. "Have an easy one, then. It's Friday; what was your favourite thing about this week?"
Jimmy considered the question for a moment, frowning slightly. "I'm not sure."
"I hate to think what your answer would have been if I'd given you a difficult question in that case," Thomas retorted, raising his eyebrows slightly at Jimmy.
"Give me a moment to think," Jimmy said impatiently. He briefly scanned the week in his mind; walking back from Ripon in the dusk with Thomas, playing the piano, spending half the nights awake and listening to the darkness, sitting by the warmth of the fire and letting Thomas clean his cut…
"My favourite thing about this week was playing duets," Jimmy decided, unable to suppress a smile at the recent memory— he could still almost feel the coolness of the keys beneath his fingers and feel the warmth of Thomas next to him.
Thomas blinked in surprise. "I feel flattered. I assumed you'd have chosen winning those free tickets for the pictures or Mr. Carson giving you a pay rise."
Jimmy felt caught utterly off guard— he suddenly realised that he hadn't even considered two things which should have so obviously been a favourite part of his week. It was horribly like that, with Thomas; the answers provided more questions than answers. Thomas' questions were questions that kept on asking, wherever Jimmy was, whatever he was doing. They were inescapable, and answerless, and they made Jimmy feel as though he didn't know himself at all.
Jimmy had started out wanting to know more about Thomas, but now he was beginning to feel as though he actually knew more about Thomas than about himself. Everything he seemed to know about himself seemed to be so precarious; the tiniest tug at it and it would suddenly all unravel, tangling up Jimmy's thoughts until he tripped over them.
"Jimmy?" Thomas' voice startled Jimmy from his thoughts, making him look up in surprise to find Thomas staring at him. He looked so much more at ease in the dull glow of the lamp between them than in the daylight— softened somehow; his eyes were warm and dark, his mouth quirked slightly in an unconscious smile, and his pomaded hair was falling out of place, the jet black of it making his skin look paler than ever.
"Sorry," Jimmy mumbled. "My mind was elsewhere."
"So I could see," Thomas agreed, looking vaguely concerned. "Are you alright?"
"Yes, of course," Jimmy swallowed, trying to reassure himself as much as Thomas.
"Well, I'll say goodnight, then," Thomas said slowly, still not looking convinced. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yes— are you coming to the harvest fair in the village?" Jimmy asked, suddenly remembering that Mrs. Hughes had allowed the staff time off to go down to the October fair as the family were going away to London for the weekend.
"I might," Thomas replied indifferently.
"Please do," Jimmy said insistently. "We can walk down together."
"If you like," Thomas said evenly, but he was smiling slightly in the lamplight. "Well, goodnight, Jimmy." He bowed his head slightly and turned around, going into his room and closing the door behind him with a soft click.
"Goodnight, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy replied quietly, even though Thomas had already left. With a heavy sigh, Jimmy turned around and went wearily into his own room, setting the lamp down on his bedside table and closing the door. The soft glow of it made his room seem cosy and cramped as Jimmy slumped down on the bed, thoughts suddenly more tangled than ever— and the scent of Thomas' cologne and cigarettes still stinging his lungs.