The Diary of Jimmy Kent
March
Mar 3
11:49 pm
Diary? It's me, Jimmy.
I know I haven't written in awhile. Not since…that day.
Oh, Diary.
I've made a mess of things. I truly have. I've taken a beautiful sculpture and bludgeoned it to the point of disrepair. Instead of a Greek God, it's now a nub, misshapen and potato-esque.
I've pulverized my relationship with Thomas into a potato.
I am ashamed, Diary. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to face you, to write down the truths that I so regret to confess. But it's all weighing on my mind so heavily, and the longer I ignore it and continue about my life—serving dinner to the Lord's family with an impassive face, chatting with Mrs. Patmore and Daisy as if nothing's amiss, watching Alfred and Stella laugh with each other in a way that makes me hate them for their ease of comfort—the more I die inside. Out of anger, regret…and confusion.
MY GOD, the confusion.
Well. I suppose I best start where it all began. Though this will not come easy to me.
It was that night that I decided to go to Thomas' room so I could have a change of scenery for our nightly chat. Everybody had already gone to bed, so I snuck into his room unseen with ease. Upon hearing the click of his door, Thomas looked up from his desk chair, glass of something in tow, an opened book, a few scraps of paper, and a forgotten pen scattered around his elbows, which were perched on the edge of the chipped wood. And my lord, even his elbows looked good that night.
"Well, hello, Thomas," I smiled, as he took a sip from his glass. "What's that there?" I nodded to his drink.
He swallowed neatly, then procured the bottle for me: wine. "Would you like a glass?"
"Did you steal wine?" I asked incredulously, eyes wide.
He smirked, setting down the bottle. "Not this decade."
Huh?
Didn't know what else to do, so I sat down on his bed. "I didn't know you drank."
"I don't much," he shrugged. His eyes flashed up to mine impishly. "Anymore."
Couldn't help but smile as I shook my head. "Of course. Is there anything you didn't do?" I teased as he handed me what was left in the bottle. Brought it to my lips and caught the briefest whiff of the rich liquid, sending a flashed memory of the last time I drank out of a bottle. Refusing to think about that mess of a day (fairs are shit), I took a deep drink, surprised at the pleasantness of the taste.
"Well," he said, setting down his glass and kicking up his feet, pondering my question. "I never got a girl pregnant."
Almost spit out the wine.
He watched me, bemused, as I spluttered and coughed, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. Dear god. What kind of person just tosses a sentence like that out in the air? My lord. And why on earth did he say that?
What was he trying to say? Was he trying to upset me?
"You don't like girls," I choked, suppressing my coughs and watering eyes.
He continued to stare lazily, his head tilted slightly back and smiling, just barely. "I don't dislike them."
"But you would never be with one."
He shrugged.
What?
Why the HELL did he just shrug?
"What's that supposed to mean?" I challenged, setting down the now empty bottle.
"It's not entirely out of the realm of possibility."
"YES IT IS." I thundered, then quickly checked myself as I was shot a warning look. "I mean," I said more quietly, "it's silly. Don't say things like that." I looked away.
Why had he said that? Did he like women? Was he faking this whole time? Had he purposely made me think he was this way just so that I would fall in love with him and then he could break my heart and laugh at me and run off with all the female staff?
Unable to suppress the panicked ideas swirling through my mind, I thoughtlessly demanded, "Have you been with a woman before?"
His eyebrows shot up, obviously surprised at my boldness.
No matter. I ignored the flush of my cheeks and returned his gaze unblinkingly.
"I'd rather not say," he finally said, carefully taking in my trembling fists and livid eyes.
So that was a yes.
Humiliated, horrified, heartbroken, and betrayed beyond explanation, I stood up from the bed and made my way to the door, ready to set fire to his damn room.
"Where are you going?" he demanded.
"I don't feel good. I need to go to bed," I muttered through gritted teeth, hand already on the doorknob.
In a flash I heard footsteps behind me, and then his hand was on mine, stilling my actions.
"Let's not run away this time, yes? What's wrong, Jimmy." It wasn't even a question. Just his solid voice, spoken to the back of my head, wine breath mingling with the air and settling in my nostrils. His intoxication transforming into mine.
Very aware of the warmth of his hand pressed into my own, I slowly turned around, my eyes sliding up to his. What do I say?
Urgh, don't think, Jimmy. Just don't think.
Well.
Maybe think a little bit. Don't go saying anything about being constipated again.
"I don't like hearing those things," I finally mumbled, feeling a strange sense of fear and relief at the sincere honesty of the words. (Is not a familiar sensation)
His brow furrowed, genuinely confused. "But why? You asked, I was merely—"
"I know. I just… I suppose, sometimes, I wish I didn't ask. Because I don't always want to hear your answer." My nerves sizzled in time with my palpitating heart.
Brow barely unfurrowing, he swallowed. "But why," he demanded.
Oh god.
His hand is still on mine. His hand is still there. And I'm basically pressed against a door. And he's so close he may as well be on top of me. And he smells like wine. And wine tastes good. So, based on reason, I can deduce that he tastes good. And his hand is on mind. My GOD is his hand warm and smooth. Could I lick his hand? Could I lick his face? Should I tell him I wrote that Valentine? Should I recite him love poetry?
As I stood there, panicked and ready to pounce, he slowly retreated, sliding his hand off of mine.
"A boy with no answers," he half-smiled with a shake of the head. Smoothly, he made his way to the bed and sat down, back against the head rest."But no matter. Come. Sit down." He patted the space beside him. "Tell me about your day. What did Alfred do this time?"
Despite the fact that I was sweating through my pajamas and felt an insane urge to stick my face in his neck, I smiled at the comfortable ease of the situation, and settled down next to him, marveling at the sweet closeness of our bodies and the way the mattress creaked when we laughed.
We spent the next two hours chatting away—I don't even remember about what, because our conversation drifted everywhere—and not once did I feel anything but perfectly natural and happy. (Oh, Diary. I love this man. I hate this man because I love this man.)
It was just as both of our eyes were beginning to weigh down, our voices getting deeper with sleep, and our sentences spaced farther and farther apart that he looked over to me, all sleepy eyes and dragging lips, and said, "I think you best get to bed. You'll be knackered tomorrow."
Turned my head to look at him. Knackered? So? I'll risk a limb if it means not having to leave this man's side.
"I don't want to go," I heard myself say quietly, the sleep obviously getting to me.
As soon as my words slipped out, a hardness began to form within his features, his slackened lips beginning to press into themselves.
Well, shit. There I go again.
Still, I couldn't bring myself to look away. (Jimmy, what are you doing?)
"I can't imagine it would go over well if they found you sleeping here, all tucked up in me bed." He was trying to keep his tone light, but the clench of his jaw suggested otherwise.
"I'll leave before then," I said quietly, unable to tear my eyes away, unsure of what I was asking of him.
Alright, Jimmy. That's enough.
"It's foolish."
"I want to."
JIMMY.
"You're endangering us both."
"I'm not. Just trust me."
There was a silence, only filled with my internal screams of: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING JIMMY? ABORT. ABORT.
Brief pause.
"Jimmy. Go to bed." Voice hard, Thomas didn't move away as I leaned in a centimeter closer.
"I'm already in bed."
"Your own bed."
"I want to sleep here."
GODDAMMIT, JIMMY. STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP. STOP.
"But why?"
Stared at his empty eyes, his hardened mouth, and his taught, milk-and-shadows skin. "I'm a boy of no answers, remember?" I heard myself mutter as I found my hand reaching up to his face.
His speechlessness, which I should have taken as encouragement to merely—MAYBE—just stop and fall asleep next to him—cuz that's all that I wanted, right?—somehow invigorated me, and I found myself pulling his face to mine, demanding wine soaked lips to massage every panicked thought out of my head (as well as any thought) and succumbed to every single urge and infuriating desire that had haunted me for months on end.
And so…I…had…relations…with Thomas.
My Thomas.
I'm ashamed, Diary.
Was ashamed then, too, and afterwards, when I finally came to my senses and refused to look in his eyes, I could only stumble into my clothes and run away, shutting the door as quietly as I could on the way out.
Was so distraught, but I couldn't say what I'd done, couldn't allow myself to admit to the terrible acts I'd just committed because I become a primal beast whenever I'm around that beautifully enticing dark angel of mine, and because the way he kisses is the most perfect thing in the world.
And, oh, Diary. I couldn't sleep that night, I could barely stay alive, the scent of Thomas still on my skin and daring me to hope—for the smallest of seconds—that, maybe, he loved me too and what had happened wasn't just a moment of bored weakness for him. That, maybe, this was how it was supposed to be, and we'd finally fallen in love and could face the world together.
But when I went downstairs the next morning…all was as it was before.
The world kept existing in its hurried pace, and Mrs. Patmore yelled at me for telling Alfred his breath smelled, and Mr. Carson bumbled by and demanded I put my gloves on immediately, and Thomas smiled easily at me from across the room before walking away.
I had thought that, perhaps, later he would mention the incident.
It was apparent, as soon as I stepped out into the cool and moist night air that he would not.
"Thomas," I greeted quietly, head bent and hands in pockets.
"Jimmy," said the pillar of smoke.
"H-how are you?" Talk to me. Talk to me, Thomas. Talk to me about last night. Please talk to me. Because I can't. You know I can't. So talk to me.
"Very well. Mr. Carson's getting more fidgety every day, what with Lady Mary's baby, but he's been alright. Says that the family is going to London again soon."
"I see." Talk to me. Talk to me now.
"And, of course, I had a bit of a time with O'Brien since she's been a bit of handful lately, but I think she's starting to behave herself. At least, I hope anyway. She's still on about Mr. Bates—though I can't imagine why, given the history there. I thought she'd gone and forgiven him. Course, I'm not sure she can ever truly forgive. Bates isn't as bad as she makes him out to be, though. Is a bit of a bore and too good for his own boots, but isn't a bad man. Lord knows I'm not in a place to say one word out of line in regards to him anymore."
I stared at him. What was this nonsense? What the hell was he talking about? O'Brien? Bates?
What?
"So you're good, then?" I asked, daring to look at him.
He nodded, exhaling his smoke. "I am. And yourself?"
"So you're not…tired, then?" I pressed, feeling a glare form at his complete ease and feigned ignorance.
"Tired? Why on earth should I be tired?" he asked, equal parts poise and confusion, empty eyes turning to me.
Ah.
I see.
So that's how it's going to be.
Where's a noose?
"I'm not sure," I said lamely, keeping the suffering out of my voice. "Just wondering, I suppose." Please kill me. You've already basically done it—now, finish the job.
So we stood there while he told me about Mr. fucking Carson's plans for the month, those perfect and skilled lips perched on the end of a cigarette, his eyes squinted into the darkness before him.
He didn't say anything about it, Diary.
Nothing.
Not a word.
He acted like it didn't even occur.
And for the past several days, all has been as it was between us. We talk, we laugh, we joke, and I die inside, more brutally than I ever have before.
I've ruined it for us, Diary. I have. I've ruined any romantic relationship Thomas and I could have embarked on. I've ruined it by lunging at him like he were a piece of juicy meat (top of the line, delicious, delicate, enticing juicy meat), and now he's traumatized and pretending it never happened because he's so repulsed by me, the thought alone turns him mute.
My heart is irrevocably destroyed.
And the worst part is…
I can't stop thinking about that night. And how, really, I don't see the harm in doing it again. Because if I've already destroyed any chance of a normal, functioning relationship between us (but really, how could our love ever be normal or functioning?) then what harm would be done if we, well….you know….had another chat in his room till the wee hours of morning?
Urgh, Diary.
I'm a mess.
I don't know what to think.
Mar 4
6:38 am
Am no longer running from my problems. I am going to face them. I'm not going to hide from the truth, hide from my emotions, and pretend that I'm perfectly okay with everything and that the other night didn't happen. Because it did.
And a real man faces problems.
So face them, I will.
11:39 am
Just passed Thomas in the hall. He face was thunderous.
"You alright?" I whispered, biting back an 'I've seen you naked.' (Is terrible, Diary. Every time I encounter Thomas, that is the first thought in my head. What have I become?)
He turned to me, eyes narrowed. "Mr. Branson's just been down here. Again."
"What? Why? Shouldn't he be upstairs?"
"It's not a question of where he should be, it's a question of where he's supposed to be. And no, he's not supposed to be here. I expect he's trying to make nice with Carson and Mrs. Hughes."
"Why's that?"
He shrugged and sniffed, looking away. "I'm not sure. Perhaps clinging on to the last semblances of conscience he has?"
I eyed his icy exterior. "You really don't like him, do you?"
He fixed his gaze on me. "I could run him over with his own car."
Stifled a laugh as we both turned and walked away.
Am not sure why he hates Mr. Branson so much.
I suppose it's just because he's very sour by nature.
9:59 pm
Am about to go meet up with Thomas for our nightly chat, which has become akin torture.
Wish we could just go to his room again and—no.
No, that is the last thing that should be done. Didn't get us anywhere before, it certainly won't get us anywhere tonight.
No, Jimmy. No.
Mar 5
12:01 am
"Are you still in a foul mood?" I asked him, noting the tighter-than-usual creases in his face as we walked along the edge of the gardens.
"Of course," he said, shooting me a sideways smile. "Aren't I always?"
Felt my innards smile in response. "Cheer up. You're of no use to me if you're all mopey and sullen."
"Hey, now. I've taken the time to put up with you when you're mopey and sullen."
"I've never been either of those things!"
He shot me a look. "Let's not walk down that path."
Raised my chin indignantly and looked away. Rude man.
After a few crunches of the grass beneath our feet, I slowly looked back over to him. His eyes were still averted, a grumpy glower still present.
"Why do you dislike Mr. Branson so much?"
He glanced at me. "He claimed to be one thing, then turned out to be another."
"Perhaps you're being a bit hard on him. Given the circumstances, that is."
"Perhaps. But I don't have to like him," he clipped, lighting another cigarette.
"Are you jealous of him?" I asked, watching his movements.
He stopped, mid-light. "What?"
"Are you jealous of him? Because he's moved up in the world and—"
"I guess it depends on how you classify 'moving up in the world,' doesn't it?" he interjected testily, fire in his eyes.
"I only meant that—"
"It doesn't matter what you meant. I don't want to speak on this."
"Would you just calm down?" I demanded, fighting the urge to pluck the cigarette out of his lips and jab it in his eye. "I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm just wondering where all this anger stems from—"
"He wasn't good enough for Lady Sybil, he was a rude bastard if there ever was one, and now he waltzes around upstairs, with a position in life, forgetting his passions and his goals and everything he claimed was so important to him. He's betrayed himself, and he's no better than me, and yet he's accepted by everybody, isn't he? He's just some rubbish chauffer that fell in love with the right person."
I stared at him, taken aback. Was Thomas bitter?
"Thomas," I began, noting his trembling hands as he successfully lit his cigarette. "You're worth just as much as he is, you know." I saw the emotions flicker across his face as he exhaled and began to walk again, hiding his face in smoke.
I sighed and followed.
We walked in silence, and I made sure to keep my hands in my pockets and my arms firmly away from his body so as not to brush against him and potentially agitate him to the point of explosion. It was like avoiding a land mine.
"I'm not sure why I dislike him," he suddenly said, eyes fixed ahead. "I just do."
I nodded, not quite daring to look at him yet. "Then I suppose, it's as simple as that."
He glanced at me, lips on the verge of a small smile. "I suppose it is. I'm sorry for my outburst."
"Don't be. Lord knows you've suffered enough of mine." I looked over to him fondly, and heard a thousand singing birds of paradise upon seeing that it his smile had grown.
The rest of the night went smoothly, and his temper happily vanished.
And now I'm in me room. While he's in his room. When, really, we could be in a room together. Again.
No.
Must not. Must go to bed.
5:50 am
Is impossible to sleep when one's mind is fixed on…other things.
I'm not sure if I'll ever sleep again.
7:31 am
I need to start moisturizing my skin more. Or something.
"Are you quite alright, James? You've been looking quite the worse for wear as of late. Are you ill again? Would you like Dr. Clarkson to come around? I can have someone fetch him at once."
Oh, Mrs. Hughes. Love you, but you really must stop insinuating that I look like a shriveled banshee every single week.
2:33 pm
Keep bumping into Thomas.
Has he always smelt that good?
5:03 pm
I want to choke Alfred with his own bowtie.
"I'm going to tell Stella I love her tonight."
We were standing in the corner of the kitchen—out of a very flustered Mrs. Patmore's way—and waiting for our trays. He was grinning like a loon and leaning in to me as if his bloody voice hadn't been loud enough for all and sundry to hear.
"Well that's quite tidy for you," I said sharply, hoping to end this duller-than-dogs conversation.
"I know," he beamed, rocking on his heels. "I've got the best looking girl in the house on me arm. Me auntie's quite proud."
Your auntie's probably making eyes at her.
"Well, I guess you're quite lucky then, aren't you."
"Yeah. But I knew someone would have to come along sooner or later. I'm happy for it to be sooner," he said simply, that dumb smile still painting his face.
I could seriously shove his head into a toilet.
"Stop taking it for granted," I suddenly hissed, feeling my anger begin to surface.
He stared at me.
"Stop taking the fact that you're lucky enough to love who you want, when you want, for granted. You're lucky to have found a girl—you really, really are—stop acting like it's nothing. It's something, alright, you knob? It's something."
Luckily, our trays were ready at that point and nothing more was said on the subject.
Genuinely despise that boy. Is shallow and dumb and will never understand real love and the trials of not being able to obtain it.
8:49 pm
Was just on me way to hang up my jacket, when Thomas appeared out of nowhere and caught my arm.
"Good news," he greeted, hand still on my elbow. (Was very aware of the fact. My god, that man holds a nice grip.)
"Oh? And what would this good news be?" I smiled, praying he wouldn't release his hand.
"Weather's quite nice tonight," he said, releasing his hand. Blast. "No chill to cut through your pretty bones."
Pretty bones? He just said I had pretty bones. Thomas thinks I have pretty bones. He can have as many bones of mine as he desires.
"Oh, well," I blushed, forcing control over my grin. "That'll be a nice change for us."
"Indeed. See you in a bit," he winked, slinking away.
I'm sorry, Diary. But how on earth am I supposed to keep existing around Thomas, knowing what we did, not speaking about it, and instead chatting about trivial things like our jobs and the people around us while he keeps winking at me like a delicious and devilish animal of prey?
My suffering increases each day. I have well and truly sabotaged my life.
11:31 pm
Just got back.
Eeeuuurrrgh.
We were outside, just sitting on a bench and looking up at the sky. Thomas did most of the talking, as he has been doing of late. (I can't find many things to say these days that don't involve shouting "I love you, please love me back!" in his face.)
So instead, I settled for listening to Thomas talk about his career.
"Don't much see the point in being an under-butler. I mean, I'm appreciative, I am, but I don't know how much longer I want to be Carson's puppet. I want to be the butler," he breathed, eyes gliding upward in contemplative nonchalance.
Glanced over at him, feeling the bud of unease plant itself in my stomach.
"What are you saying?"
He took a moment to answer, inhaling and exhaling his precious poison. "There's nothing that says I need to be at Downton forever."
The bud of unease blossomed into a rainforest.
Where did THAT come from? LEAVE Downton?
What?
Was this because of me and my travelling hands?
"You can't leave," I said immediately, sitting up. "Carson's getting on in age. They'll need a butler eventually. They'll go to you, I know it. You don't have—"
"But when's that going to be, eh?"
I couldn't respond, so I was forced to close my mouth.
"That's all I'm saying," he said, looking me in the eye for one second before returning his smoky gaze upward.
"I suppose I should go to bed," I said after a heavy pause. "Am feeling quite tired." And may or may not be about to be sick.
Ice eyes shot once more at me before he nodded. "Goodnight," he said, not moving a muscle.
Weighed down by a thousand dark thoughts and broken emotions, I didn't bother responding and instead just took my leave without a second glance.
Am now in my room. Crying. Crying over this stupid man that has ruined my stupid life and now I can't even fall asleep in my stupid bed because my stupid emotions are destroying my stupid life.
Is Thomas going to leave? Is the one person I've discovered in this dungeon of a life, the one beautiful ray of light that I've come to love more than anything, going to leave and never return?
Is he going to forget me? Is he leaving BECAUSE of me?
I hate the world. I hate it. Is unjust and cruel and tragic and mocking and I am beyond the point of repair.
And now I'm not even sure if I hear a knock on me door or if my head and heart are just breaking that loudly.
11:40 pm
Thomas. It was Thomas who was knocking.
"Are you...crying?" he asked, almost fearfully, as he stared at me with bewildered eyes.
"No!" I spat, turning my head away. "I'm sweating!"
Both eyebrows shot up. "I see. Why?"
"Because that's what men do, Thomas. They sweat," I wailed, almost hysterically, fighting back the pouring tears. I can only imagine what I must have looked like.
Even through my watering eyes I could see his obvious amusement as he bit his lips back, suppressing a smile and/or laughter. Bastard.
"Well, then. I, er, actually just came up here to say that I think you misinterpreted what I said."
Momentarily, my tears stopped. I peered at him through a tendril of my golden hair.
"Huh?"
"I won't be leaving Downton anytime soon. I think I may have…made it sound differently."
"You-you're staying?"
A nod. "Of course. I were just talking about the future—the distant future. And not even very seriously, at that."
"R-really?"
"Really. I'm not about to leave a good job. And good people." He paused. "And then there's you, of course. Can't go leaving you behind with nobody to look after you. You'd end up blowing the place up. Or killing Alfred in his sleep." He smiled mockingly, but his eyes were mindful of my reaction, keeping a close watch on my face.
I had to hold back a sob of pure relief.
"Oh. Well. I don't care much either way," I managed, voice breaking in several places. "You do what you have to do, it's no bother to me." Was hoping I was doing a convincing job, but the amusement Thomas displayed proved otherwise.
"Well, even so. I won't be going anywhere. So, goodnight, Jimmy. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Alright. Goodnight, Thomas."
I could've leapt onto his back for love of him as he walked away.
I love that man. He is made of pure gold beneath that exterior of coal.
Now if only he would let me love him.
11:50 pm
Why won't he let me love him? He used to care for me so much—back when I was still a fool that didn't realize the luck I'd been bestowed.
Do not understand. It's been five days since we…well…since that night, and I cannot go one more day as we are, not when he's always apologizing for hurting me feelings, not when he smiles sweetly at me, not when he promises to never leave me behind.
This is torture.
Must talk to Thomas.
Now.
Mar 6
3:19 am
GODDAMMIT.
I NEED TRANQUILIZERS. This is getting out of hand. OUT OF HAND, I SAY. I have NO control over my functions and capabilities!
Went into Thomas' room with every intention to speak with him. (Honestly. I really did want to talk.)
He immediately looked up from where he was stoking the fire. His face expressed complete surprise.
"You alright?"
"No."
Oh god. Why did I say no?! Now what?
After a few confused beats of silence, I felt the pressure of the situation as Thomas continued to stare at me with analyzing eyes. So naturally, I panicked and reacted accordingly. (can I get a lobotomy?)
"What's wrong?" he pressed as I took a step toward him.
Alright. Time to talk.
"I can't get me pants undone," I found myself saying instead.
Oh. Dear. God.
Great. Splendid. This is going to go so well. Lots of discussion tonight, oh yes. (I'm serious about the lobotomy)
The concern in his eyes was quickly replaced with a glare. Thomas was not impressed. "Don't know why you came to me about it."
"I need help. With the button."
This is not smooth, Jimmy. This is awkward and strange.
This is also not talking.
He stared, poker still in hand. "You want me to unbutton your pants."
"Yes." Pause. "Please," I corrected to be kind.
With a near glower, Thomas stood up, set the hot poker down, then walked up to me, eyes completely avoiding my face. In one swift movement, he unbuttoned my pants. And it was the least sexy thing I'd ever encountered.
What do I do now? He's obviously repulsed by me. Wants nothing to do with my body.
Talk to him, Jimmy. Talk now, before all is lost.
"I need help taking them off, too."
DAMMIT, JIMMY.
Thomas stared. "What are you doing, Jimmy?"
"I'm just trying to get my pants off, Thomas."
"No, you're trying to get me to get your pants off."
"I need help," I said quietly, my eyes beginning to fixate on his unearthly lips.
Talk….Jimmy…talk…
My will was shrinking.
Could only see his lips.
"I can't help you," he said just as quietly, as I took another step forward.
"Yes you can. And right now I'm asking you to help me." Stared up at him, our chests now bumping, and wondered why on earth I ever wanted to talk.
Without another word I pulled him down to me, kissing away any doubt he—very briefly—possessed.
Next thing I knew…
I was scampering out of the room, his scent lingering on my lips, his fingerprints branded in my skin, feeling like a filthy reptile with no soul, botching the only romance I'd ever had—and ever will have.
All in all, Diary… I've made things worse.
And am officially addicted to Thomas Barrow.
6:19 am
Another terrible night's sleep.
Keep thinking about last night. Quite literally cannot think about anything else.
I wonder if Thomas will say anything today. I wonder if I'll get a scolding.
8:46 am
Of course.
Just saw Thomas.
"Morning, James. You best be getting more sleep. You look rubbish," he said in a silken voice, brushing past me without care.
Couldn't bring myself to even attempt to respond.
Our relationship is such a mess.
Is beyond the point of salvation.
1:49 pm
"You've been quiet lately, Jimmy," Ivy said as she handed me my tea. Was in the kitchen, having a bit of a break.
"You have. That's never a good sign," Mrs. Patmore mused, marching toward the stove with an enormous pot of water.
"Oh, well. I've just been…focusing."
"Focusing on what?" Daisy asked, clutching a filthy rag. (That poor girl really needs a day in the sun. Or a bath. Could be such a pretty girl if she wasn't coated in kitchen grease and smelled of roast beef.)
"Me job, of course. How's Benjamin, Ivy?" I asked politely, changing the subject.
Ivy's shining eyes told me I'd been spared the interrogation I had been in danger of facing, and the next twenty minutes was spent with her regaling us about the hallboy. (as if hallboys are worth anything.)
Have I been quiet lately, Diary? I haven't noticed. Must fix this—cannot have anybody suspect something is amiss.
New and natural attitude is now in place.
3:03 pm
Bullocks.
"Is everything alright, Jimmy?" Anna asked almost immediately as I sat down in the servants' hall.
I looked to her, smoothing my features. "Of course. I'm happy as a clam."
She wasn't having it. "What's wrong?"
Paused momentarily, considering asking her for advice. But what was I supposed to say? 'Oh, Anna, can you help me figure out what I'm supposed to do next now that I've been intimate with my best friend? Twice? Who, by the way, is Thomas?'
No. There's no way I can speak to Anna.
"Nothing I can't handle myself," I assured her, and gave her a curt nod before I walked right back out.
11:50 pm
Just got back from another let's-not-talk-about-the-obvious-fact-that-we-can't-keep-our-hands-off-of-each-other-and-instead-act-like-nothing-has-changed-even-though-everything-has-and-I-could-die-from-emotional-turmoil night with Thomas.
Stupid man was banging on about Branson again, all because he overheard him telling Carson he would like to join us for tea. Calm down, Thomas.
Didn't mention a word about last night. Didn't even get a reproving look.
Wish that I could speak up, Diary, but is impossible. Every time I open my mouth, my voice cowers out of view, beyond my reach. Cannot say anything because I do not know what to say.
We're doing it all wrong, and yet I can't seem to stay away from him.
I solemnly swear to NOT go to his room tonight.
I'm going to make it a goal.
11:53 pm
I'm serious. I'm not going.
11:55 pm
I mean it. I'm staying right here.
11:56 pm
…
Mar 7
4:06 am
Fuck.
6:21 am
No more goals.
Because goals, apparently, are pointless.
6:33 am
Have a bit of time before I need to go downstairs. Am writing with my pen and looking at my Valentine—which is now fading a bit due to overuse. (I really must stop looking at it so much or it won't last the month)
I wonder… I wonder if Thomas made it for me? He knew it was Oscar Wilde right away. Perhaps he was the one who left it? Perhaps Thomas loves me?
… No.
No, of course he doesn't.
If he loved me, he would stop me from running out of the room every time we…get together. He would grab me arm or call me name instead of handing me my nightclothes without so much as a glance my way.
Is awful, Diary.
What have we become? If I thought I knew pain before, I was wrong. This is far more agonizing—being so close to having what you want…yet never being farther from it. Every day that I become more attached, I become more aware that we will never be.
3:45 pm
I hate everybody.
Was in the servants' hall resisting the urge to drown myself in my tea, while Alfred and Stella giggled and flirted, their slobbish, tacky bumblings filling up the whole of downstairs, and only serving to plunge me into a deeper stupor.
"Oh, Alfred! You are such a goon! You can't juggle live snakes!" Stella giggled, swatting him on the arm.
Brilliant findings, Sherlock. I would never have second guessed Alfred's ability to handle snakes.
"Can too," he said indignantly, keeping one eye on her at all times. "And I'll prove it to you!"
"Alright! Prove it!"
"I will!"
"So do it!"
"I will!"
"So then do it!"
"Would you two just SHUT IT UP?!" I suddenly bellowed.
All movements paused, and all eyes turned to me.
Oops. (Will I forever be a victim to my temper?)
Unfortunately, my foul mood bested any sense of decency I may have possessed, so I went on with a spirited, "We GET it. You two fancy each other, it's great, it's swell, it's jolly good for the both of you, but do you honestly feel the need to make such a bloody show of yourselves for all of us to suffer through?! Because I don't know about the rest of these guys, but I for one would like to drink my tea in PEACE, without the added threat of retching everywhere because you two are so BLOODY SICKENING."
If a pin had dropped, we would have heard it.
Stella and Alfred just stared at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. As did everybody else.
Feeling the instant regret of a lashing-out gone wrong, I awkwardly stood from my chair, eyes averted downward. "Excuse me," I mumbled, taking my leave.
"They deserve an apology," Bates called from the table, eyes hard.
I turned to look at him, then over to Anna, who was sitting beside him, peering worryingly at me. Like a guilty conscience.
Feeling that anything said would most likely be severely derogatory, I settled for responding with a simple glare, and left the room as quickly as I could.
Feel that I am not in the wrong, because Alfred and Stella are a pair of idiots, and I bear the weight of the world on me shoulders.
Do not feel bad in the slightest.
8:02 pm
Anna came up to me just now, as I was sneaking a moment of silence in the corridor, head leaned back against the wall.
"Jimmy?"
I looked up, startled, to see her softly approaching figure.
Weary, I offered only a half-smile. "Anna," I greeted, readying myself for a lecture on my behavior toward her husband earlier.
She smiled, then stood in front of me appraisingly, head tilted to one side.
"Are you alright?"
I looked up, startled again. That wasn't what I was expecting.
"Uh—"
"You didn't seem yourself earlier," she said kindly. (Love Anna. Has the most comforting eyes)
"I bet if you asked most people, they'd say I seemed quite myself," I muttered darkly, folding my arms over my chest.
She shook her head. "I'll have none of that nonsense. Now. Are you alright?"
I met her gaze, somewhat reluctantly. "Not really."
The calming blink of her eyes suggested her lack of surprise. "Is this about that question you asked me a ways back?"
Feeling shame and fear, I merely nodded.
A touch of pity in her eyes. "Is it not going so good?"
"Not at all."
"Why ever not?"
"I ruined everything. I did everything all wrong. And now…I don't think it can be fixed."
"It can be fixed," she immediately insisted, her face alight with optimism. "It can. Even in the darkest hours, we have solutions all around us. It just takes a bit of time to discover them."
"But—"
"James."
Oh god. That voice.
Speak of the devil.
As one, Anna and I looked over to Thomas, who was standing in his professionally stiff way, eyes narrowed in slight suspicion—but more annoyance.
"What are you doing? Mr. Carson's been looking all over for you. Get upstairs now."
With one last look at Anna, I left, brushing past Thomas' sparkless body.
9:57 pm
'It can be fixed,' Anna said.
So, if Thomas and I talk tonight, we may be able to sort it out between the two of us. If we just talk about what's been going on behind closed doors, we may be able to reassemble the brittle remains of our once beautiful and meaningful friendship.
Will go to him now and lay down the law.
Oh. What's this?
10:01 pm
Blast.
Thomas just came to me door.
"I think I'll be staying in tonight. We've got done a bit early, and I'm just going to go to bed."
I stared at him, a thousand voices screaming a thousand different things.
Was this an invitation? Or a warning?
"Yes, that sounds…nice?"
He nodded, eyes on mine. "Indeed." Then he left.
He didn't say goodnight. So, if he didn't say goodnight, that must mean that he wants me to go to his room? Or is he mad at me? Or is he mad because I didn't seem like I wanted to go to his room? Should I just go to his room to drop something off, then assess the situation from there? Or maybe I should ask him a question?
But what should I ask?
Mar 8
3:21 am
Just got back from Thomas' room.
Ended up settling for:
"Thomas? I was just wondering if you have any idea who gave me my Valentine."
"You mean the only one you got?"
Cheeky bastard. "Yes," I said with a narrow of the eyes.
He smirked from his bed. "Yes."
"Who?"
"It wouldn't be very fair just to give it away, would it?"
I sat down on the bed. "But I want to know."
"And when have I ever given you anything you wanted?"
Um. Every night for the past week. "You should start being nicer, you know," I warned.
"And you should stop coming into my room asking questions," he shot back mindfully, his soft voice intoxicating every sense I possessed.
He had a point.
Nevertheless, the primal beast within me took over, and I once again found myself lunging at his perfect, poised body.
Will never get tired of those lips, even if they're fatally wounding me.
However, am very quickly getting tired of the coldness of our exchanges. (Is wrong to even call them exchanges. Should be more special than that, but isn't this all they are?) Still feel very wrong and discomforted, like petting a cat in the opposite direction of its fur, but am beginning to wish—in the deepest parts of my very swollen, agitated heart—that I could just stay for a little while after. Instead of running away like a thief in the night, I wish I could lie next to him as his breathing settles, brush my hand over his cheek as he closes his eyes….
I wish that I could lull myself to sleep with the reassurance of his heartbeat, instead of scribbling away in a diary alone, keeping miserable, trapped tears at bay.
I wish so many things.
1:05 pm
Just saw Mr. Branson chatting with Anna and Bates in the servants' hall. He was sitting down and everything!
Suppose I should tell Thomas. Even though I do not like talking to Thomas as of late. Is becoming impossibly painful and complicated, even just to say hello.
1:21 pm
"He's what?!"
"Just what I said. If you go now you'll still catch him. Last I saw he was having a chat with Anna and Bates. They all seemed very friendly."
Thomas glared in the direction of the library, where Mr. Carson currently presided. "Carson'll have no idea about this, of course. He would never allow such behavior. How can His Lordship let him dally about with the staff?"
Couldn't help but smile at him despite the daggers in his eyes. "You don't have to make it sound so bad."
Daggers now pointed at me. "Yes I do."
Without another word he headed downstairs.
Felt a little miserable as I watched him go.
Tell him about Mr. Branson talking to a lady's maid and a valet? He hits the wall.
Become physically involved with him and spend every possible moment together? He doesn't even look up from his tea.
Perhaps if he stopped focusing all of his energy on Mr. Branson and started focusing on me, he would be a little happier. We would ALL be a little happier.
8:12 pm
Alfred's mere existence bothers me.
"Have you been listening to a word I've been saying?" he asked as we were clearing the dining room.
Hm. I'm surprised he noticed.
"No," I said simply.
Felt a glare. "You've been in a right mood lately."
"Have I?"
Felt a bigger glare. "You're mean."
"You're ugly."
Then I walked out.
Mar 9
2:47 am
Just returned from Thomas' room.
Need to stop all of this. All of it.
Is not special when we…join. Is becoming a cheap favor, a nightcap, likened to a handshake or a passing nod. Is not right for us, Diary, not when we know each other and laugh together and talk about our dreams and hide each other's fears and make the world ours—just ours.
Is so cold.
Afterwards, when I am able to think again, and no longer have the pressures of absolute need digging into every cell of my body, I am ridden with guilt and shame over my lowly behavior—am nothing more than a beast, fulfilling primal urges that have nought to do with the heart. So I leave. I leave without a second glance, I leave without a word, I just get up, gather my clothes, and I leave. Is becoming such a regular habit, that, before I even move a muscle, Thomas hands me my things, or settles into bed, back facing me.
Tonight, I lingered, just for a second. He handed me my trousers without meeting my gaze, before he stood up and splashed his face with water. Was silent, save for the ticking of the clock and the drips of water falling from his chin. I almost spoke. I almost apologized, but the shame pushed me into silence and I merely re-clothed myself and left.
This is wrong. It's all wrong. We steal each other's bodies in the night, steal each other's smiles in the day, each other's souls in the evening.
This isn't how it's supposed to be. Not for us.
I'm more miserable now than I was before. Wish we never started this sick and unfeeling cycle.
12:06 pm
I have made a new nickname for myself:
Alone & Unloved.
3:34 pm
Was alone in the kitchen with Mrs. Patmore when I went to drop off me tray.
Feeling her eyes on me, I kept my head down, but was soon caught by a firm yet tender hand on my arm.
"You've not been right, Jimmy."
"No different than always, Mrs. Patmore."
"Oh, I disagree. You are quite different. You've barely spoken to Daisy, haven't said naught to our poor Ivy, and don't listen to a word of what Alfred says." (Is that a new development?) "And you haven't touched any of the food I've tried to give you. Now, I don't want to fuss in your business, but if this keeps up, I'm going to have to tell Mr. Carson. We're worried about you!"
Felt panicked, angered, and touched, all at the same time. "Who's 'we'?" I asked, unable to think of any other sentence.
"All of us down here. Mrs. Hughes has been speaking about it."
Mrs. Hughes? What? Everybody was talking about me behind my back?
"Well why hasn't she said anything to me?!" I said hotly, feeling the pricks of paranoia.
"Easy, now," she said sternly, shooting me a disapproving glare. "She doesn't know how to go about it, as your work's not been suffering. And your mood changes as frequently as the moon, we never know what state you're going to show up in!"
Felt myself unraveling. Everybody…was thinking…about me? They cared…about me?
Me?
"I thought everybody hated me," I said, my voice cracking. (Dammit)
Mrs. Patmore gave me a sympathetic smile as she rubbed a soothing hand over my shoulders. "Wouldn't be the first time you've been wrong."
Smiled through the waterfall of emotions pouring on me, and was just about to thank her, when the kitchen maids returned.
Not wanting them to see me cry, I left immediately.
Am very touched though, Diary. Perhaps this place isn't so terrible after all.
11:00 pm
Have just gotten back from Thomas' smoke. He wasn't in a very good mood.
"I love March," I said, hoping to spark conversation. Has been very tense between us as of late.
He shrugged. "It's alright. Just another month."
"Just another month? But Thomas, each month has its own, special feel!"
"Hardly," he scoffed. "The only thing 'special' about the month, is when it's over. And even then, you're just preparing for more of the same."
"You make it sound as though there's nothing to look forward to."
"There isn't."
"Thomas, really," I sighed in exasperation.
His slitted eyes cut me in response, cigarette poised near his cold lips. "The day you grow up will be a welcome day indeed."
Was taken aback. The day I grow up? What, does he find me childish? (I should hope not, considering that would make him a pedophile.)
"Why are you being so nasty?" I demanded, refusing to look upset.
There was a momentary silence in which he closed his eyes, and I noted the pinch in the corners. Then all at once his eyes were open and sightless once more, and his cigarette was flicked away.
"I'm going to bed. 'Night."
Felt no need to respond. We both knew we weren't going to bed.
Sat there for a couple more moments, an empty coldness overcoming my body, before finally heading inside.
Am about to go to his room now. Wish I could stop myself, but cannot.
Am weak, Diary. This magnetic pull between our bodies has overcame any reason or self-control I've ever possessed.
I just wish it wasn't all so cold. I just wish we could talk about it after. I just wish I could stay.
Mar 10
5:11 am
I made a bold decision last night, Diary. (Have just gotten back from Thomas' room)
I stayed the night.
I did. I actually stayed.
We were lying in bed, eyes anywhere but at each other, my mind unable to shake off screams of, 'STAY. ASK TO STAY. ASK TO STAY BECAUSE YOU ARE WORTH MORE THAN A CHEAP TRICK AND YOU LOVE HIM AND HE BETTER BLOODY LOVE YOU TOO.'
Feeling a fresh bout of nerves, I looked over to his chest (unable to look anywhere NEAR his face) and placed my hand delicately there, fingers splayed over the hard, luminescent skin. Somehow felt personal and safe, knowing I could do this, just rest my hand across his bare skin, and felt a strange sense of childish possession as my hand and his chest, together, rose and fell in time with his breathing. Was my Thomas and, in my ridiculous way, I was claiming him.
I kept my eyes on my hand as I built up the courage to say the next words.
"Maybe I could stay tonight."
Pause.
Saw his head turn toward me out of the corner of my eye.
"Stay?"
"Just for tonight. Maybe I could….stay. And leave early. Very early."
"Then what would be the point in staying?" came his indifferent voice.
Was momentarily deterred, but plowed on. "Because I want to, Thomas," I said with a shaky voice. (why must my voice refuse to cooperate with me at the most crucial of times?)
At this, I felt him stiffen.
Was about to take my hand away and just leave (and then sob for hours) when he suddenly brought his hand up to mine. Slowly, he brushed his fingers along my skin, running the pad of his thumb over my fingertips, swirling his forefinger over my knuckles.
My heart burst into flame.
(No matter how many times he touches me, Diary, it will NEVER get old, and it will NEVER get any less emotionally exhausting. Or physically, for that matter.)
"It will be cramped, both of us in this tiny bed," came his voice, cutting through the silence.
Ohmygod. Ohmygod.
Was he actually….considering it?
"I'm small, me. And I don't move much," I immediately said with a smile, my whole body on tenterhooks.
With a small sigh, he removed his hand from mine (sadness) and scooted the tiniest bit over.
"Well, then. Goodnight."
And he turned off the lamp.
Wait. Had that actually just happened?
Ohmylord. There was absolutely no way I was going to be able to sleep.
Instead, I concentrated on his breathing and every tiny movement he made, in hopes to get a sense of his current mental state. Was he happy or unhappy? Tense or relaxed? Regretting his decision or not?
The stiffness of his shoulders, his unmoving form, and his harsh breathing unsettled my stomach. He was clearly uncomfortable.
He didn't want me there.
Here I am, trying to forge a bond, trying to be romantic, and he's trying to hold back from shoving me out of the damn bed!
Briefly considered asking him once more if he truly wanted me there, when he suddenly let out a heavy sigh, and his hand crawled down to mine. Gingerly, he laced his fingers through my own, and with a smile that may have lit up the entire room—nay, the entire WORLD—I allowed myself to close my eyes and feel, for just this one moment, that things were perfect. And that life, maybe, still has the potential to be absolutely beautiful.
Slept for a very short while, then retreated around five, feeling an overpowering warmth over the fact that he'd still not let go of my hand. I didn't wake him as I left. I couldn't bring myself to, not when his face held such perfect serenity amongst the shadows of sleep.
Love him. So very dearly.
Perhaps today will be different. The start of a new era.
9:38 am
Was just in the kitchen with Daisy, chatting about cheese (my life has become so tragic), when Thomas came in.
"Have you seen Alfred?" he asked us.
"Why do you need Alfred?" I immediately asked without thinking. Calm yourself, Jimmy.
He shot me a subtle, yet powerful, glare. "It's a 'yes' or 'no' question, James."
Fell silent, feeling an angry blush forming.
"No, we haven't," Daisy said, glancing between the two of us.
"Thank you, Daisy." He gave a curt nod, then left.
"What were that about?" she asked me, staring intently at my face.
"Nothing at all," I muttered, taking a sip of tea.
So I guess there won't be a new era after all.
1:11 pm
Oh no.
Just passed by Carson's office.
"He'll be coming down today, and that's all there is to it, Mr. Carson," came Mrs. Hughes exasperated voice.
"But he has no reason to do so! Surely His Lordship would not—"
"His Lordship deems it perfectly acceptable for Mr. Branson to visit the staff as often as he sees fit. Now, will you calm down about the whole affair and be on your best behavior?"
"I will behave however I deem appropriate, Mrs. Hughes."
Could practically hear the roll of her eyes.
Left in jiffy (Mrs. Patmore was calling me) but now I'm fearing what this will to do Thomas' mood.
We're already in such a fragile place… The last thing I need from him is a bad temper.
5:05 pm
Mr. Branson came down, just as Mrs. Hughes said.
We were all in the servants' hall, sat round, Mr. Branson chatting amiably, when suddenly you-know-who showed up.
"What are you doing down here?" Thomas demanded, eyes hard on Mr. Branson.
"Mr. Branson has kindly asked to join us for tea. You, of course, will not object to that, Mr. Barrow?" Mrs. Hughes asked threateningly, kind eyes ready to slaughter.
Obviously repulsed by the idea, he bit his cheeks, eyes still fixed on the man before him. "Of…course not, Mrs. Hughes." His voice was strangled, and I found myself suppressing a smile at his severe discomfort. Oh, Thomas. "How are you today, Mr. Branson?" he asked unwillingly, fists clenched.
"Very well, thank you," Mr. Branson responded, the ever-present hint of sadness lurking behind his eyes. (He didn't seem so bad. I don't know why Thomas hates him so much)
"Splendid."
As soon as Thomas settled in his chair he calmed down considerably, though his eyes remained in their cold fixture, glued to his untouched teacup. Not once did he look up.
Found this very amusing (I remember when Thomas would refuse to look at me. Was such a terrible feeling) but was quite relieved when Mrs. Hughes announced that everybody get back to work.
"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Branson," Mrs. Hughes smiled warmly, before excusing herself.
As everybody filed out, I noticed Thomas' hesitance, and soon he, Mr. Branson, and I were the only ones left.
Unaware of my presence (somehow), Thomas, for the first time, looked to Mr. Branson as the latter stood up, straightening his jacket.
"I find it interesting that you still wish to consort with us, Mr. Branson," came the icy voice.
Made to look like I was leaving the room, but kept my ears wide open as I carefully walked out, then hid behind the doorway, peeking at the scene before me.
Mr. Branson looked over to him, face void of emotion. "We may never have been friends, Thomas—"
"Mr. Barrow," Thomas interjected dangerously.
"Mr. Barrow," Mr. Branson corrected, "but I did have other friends here. And nothing has changed that."
"That's where you're wrong, isn't it? You're not part of the staff anymore, Mister Branson, you belong upstairs now. You're lucky we display such good manners—"
"I find it very amusing that you would claim to have good manners, Mr. Barrow."
Thomas stiffened. Saw written on his face the internal struggle between lashing out and toeing the line to his ranked superior.
"Good day," Mr. Branson finally said, then left, leaving a very embittered Thomas behind.
How did I know this wasn't going to turn out well…
10:03 pm
And it's all getting worse.
Just stepped outside to meet Thomas, and no sooner had I closed the door, when he stubbed out his cigarette, and made his way to leave.
"Oi, where you going?" I asked, blocking his way and noting his firmly anywhere-but-at-me gaze.
"I've got a few things to do," he mumbled, refusing to look my way.
"Such as…?"
He sighed, then gave me a cold, hard look. "I'm not feeling well, Jimmy."
"Would you like—" Stopped short. Was going to ask, 'Would you like to go to your room for a chat, then?' but knew that that was beyond the realm of allowable conversation. Fumbled for a substitute sentence. "Would you like me to get you anything?"
He shook his head sharply, trying to walk around me. Upon failure, he sighed, then looked to me once more. "Let me pass."
"Are you angry with me?"
"I'm angry with everybody."
I swallowed, feeling a plunk in my stomach. "Does this…have to do with last night?" I dared to ask, recalling his stiffened body and uneasy breathing as I had lain next to him in the dark. (But he held my hand—surely that meant something?) I held my breath, fearing his response.
He froze, fifty different emotions flickering through his eyes. At last he spoke, his tone stern.
"We are not to discuss any such matters."
Oh, well don't you sound like the proper little business man.
"Thomas, please just—"
He shoved past me, face set in a stormy scowl. "Goodbye, Jimmy," his voice rang in the night air, coarse as gravel.
Goodbye?
Don't know what to do, Diary. My filthy body wants nothing more than to go to his room as is custom. But my heart…. My heart wants nothing to do with it.
I don't know if I can bring myself to go to him tonight.
I don't know what to do anymore.
10:31 pm
His door was locked.
Thomas hates me.
Mar 11
6:34 am
Have already decided that I hate today and that the world is deceitful and evil.
Maybe I'll allow myself to throw a spoon at Alfred's head today. Just a little treat since life seems to enjoy shitting on me so much.
Oh, and I am going to style my hair. Because I know that Thomas doesn't like it. That'll show that evil, heartless, uses-me-for-my-excellent-body MONSTER.
AND I'm not going to carry that blasted pen around with me anymore. OR that blasted Valentine.
Am done with feelings.
7:11 am
Have come back to fetch my pen and Valentine. My pockets feel too empty without them, and despite the very real pain of the dysfunction between Thomas and myself, I cannot seem to silence that small part of me that clings to the hope that he loves me as ardently as I love him.
But he certainly does NOT need to know that I am carrying around his treasures. Well, if the Valentine is even from him.
Which it probably is not.
4:12 pm
Diary. I. Am. Going. To. Set. The. House. On. Fire.
Had just gone downstairs to prepare for teatime, when I heard Mr. Branson's voice, drifting in from the back corridor.
Oh dear. Branson downstairs. Again. Best not tell Thomas, or he'll be—
Wait.
Did I just hear…Thomas' voice?
Thomas?
Speaking with Mr. Branson?
With nobody about, I slowly crept as near as I dared, perched carefully on the other side of the doorframe.
"Thank you for sparing the time. I feel I must apologize for my behavior yesterday. I was unkind. And I'm sorry," came Branson's steady voice.
There was a beat of silence (how on earth was Thomas going to respond to this?) when suddenly:
"Not at all, Mr. Branson. I think you will agree that I shoulder the blame, not you." His voice suggested anything but sincerity.
Smirked. Typical.
"No, it wasn't your fault. I haven't been myself since… Well. Since things have changed. I confess, I don't much fit in down here anymore. But nor do I upstairs." There was a brief pause, and I felt a pang of sympathy for poor Mr. Branson, hearing the lost emotion in his voice. "I don't have a place anymore—not in this house, at least—and I'm sorry for intruding on all of you down here. I only meant to be kind." His voice had turned brittle, as if he didn't have the strength for the weight of the words he relayed.
Another pause.
Oh, I could only IMAGINE what snarky little comment was going to come out of Thomas' mouth. I bet it was going to be absolute—
"Don't apologize. You may find it a surprise, Mr. Branson, but I am not altogether unsympathetic. I…understand your position."
Wait, what?
"Not in the exact way, but I do understand what it's like to fit neither here nor there. We…may not have seen eye to eye in the past, but I do not wish such a position on anyone." Thomas' voice sounded as if it were suffocating—as it always does whenever he tries to communicate his unwanted emotions.
"Indeed? Well." Heard a humorless laugh emit from Mr. Branson. "I suppose we're a pair of misfits."
"So it would seem."
"Well," concluded Branson, voice regaining its usual timbre, "I've taken up enough of your time. I will do my best to keep out of your way, Mr. Barrow. Good day."
Was just about to sneak off before Mr. Branson caught me, when I heard a suspiciously un-bitter voice call out:
"Mr. Branson."
Pause. (I presume the aforementioned turned around)
"I see no harm in having a bit of tea with some old friends. And lord knows I wouldn't mind being the only black sheep in this basement."
Heard another short laugh from Mr. Branson, this time genuine. "I'll take this as an invitation then, Mr. Barrow?"
Oh, he's going to say something smart now. And then Branson will get cross and—
"You could call it that, yes."
What the bloody fuck?
Despite the obvious bewildered amusement in his tone, Mr. Branson's "Thank you," was filled with heartfelt sincerity. "Until next time?"
"Until next time," Thomas' professional tone concluded.
Am speechless.
Thomas invited Mr. Branson to tea again? The Mr. Branson? When he almost lost it because he dared to show his face the first time?
And why on earth does Mr. Branson act as though he needs permission from someone like Thomas? He's just the under-butler. Is he so insecure that he needs everybody to like him before he can hang about properly?
Thought I liked Mr. Branson. But perhaps I was wrong.
11:47 pm
Things have gone from bad to worse.
Wasn't sure whether or not to meet with Thomas outside tonight, after the locked door of last night. Still, found my feet leading me to him, my heart already beating irregularly in agony.
He was sitting outside, head bent low, a stream of smoke spewing from his mouth.
"Hello, Thomas."
He didn't reply, just brought the cigarette back to his lips.
Now, Jimmy. Whatever you do, do NOT bring up the fact that you heard his conversation with Mr. Branson.
"I heard you speaking with Mr. Branson."
DAMMIT.
Immediately, his head shot up, eyes set in an annoyed glare, crimson lips forming a snarl. "Of course you did."
Was startled. Why was he so angry? What had I done? I only listen because I have a right to know.
"Are you friends with him now, then?"
"What?"
"Are you friends? You invited him to tea again. If that doesn't say friends, I don't know what does." Knew that I was out of order and reacting irrationally (only because he'd been toying with my emotions for the past two weeks) but couldn't stop myself. Felt good to express something other than silence.
He brought a tired hand to his face and began rubbing his temples. "I am not in the mood for this."
"I deserve to know."
"Oh?" He was now looking up, eyes clear and absolutely terrifying. "And why's that?"
For a thousand different reasons, you stupid, bloody, insensitive git.
Could not voice one of those reasons however, and settled instead for a pained stare as a response.
After a few beats of silence—where his eyes searched me in their cuttingly superior manner—he stood up, and for the first time, I saw through the casts of moonlight the sleep deprivation in his eyes, the stress in his forehead, and the misery hidden in the corners of his mouth.
"You need to stop acting like you bloody own me," he said, voice beginning to crack.
"And you need to stop acting like I'm nothing."
We stared at each other, daring the other to break.
"Did you write me that Valentine?" I heard my voice ask, seemingly out of nowhere. (Was it my voice? I don't even know. It was as if some power had taken ahold of me.)
I never dared to even dream of asking this. And here, I just had.
The air began to suffocate.
Clearly caught off guard, Thomas blinked. "What?"
"Did you write me that Valentine?" I repeated, voice strong. I marveled at my own newfound courage.
"That's neither here nor there."
"I need to know, Thomas."
"Did you write me a Valentine?" he countered.
Silence.
Why the hell did he have to say that?
Feeling a burning in my skin, I could only stare back at him.
Recognizing the hopelessness of the situation, Thomas closed his eyes, and let out a long, saddened sigh. He looked so tired and small, wrapped in his jacket, almost buried within the darkness, only his pale skin serving as proof of his existence.
"Jimmy," he began, voice quiet.
I waited with bated breath, fearing his next words.
Don't say it, Thomas. Don't say what I think you're going to say.
"I can't… I just can't do this any longer."
A thousand brick walls collapsed onto me.
No.
No.
"Thomas," I began, feeling a weakness in my knees and a sickness in both stomach and heart.
He shook his head. "I just need time to myself."
I stared at him, at a complete loss.
How could he say this? After everything, how could he say this? Just because I asked him about Branson?
"Please," he added in a fragile voice, at my silence.
All at once, upon hearing his quiet, miserable plea of freedom from our friendship, I broke. Inwardly, outwardly, I broke.
Would loved to have stormed off in a vicious strut or sniffed my indifference and calmly sauntered away.
Instead, I screeched out a, "I want nothing to do with you," and scrambled to the door, terrified by my own pain.
Was it supposed to hurt this much?
Is this normal? Or is something terribly, terribly wrong?
Either way, Diary.
I don't know what to do.
Mar 14
6:33 am
Haven't spoken to Thomas since he decided he was suddenly too good for me and decided that Branson would make a better best mate.
Is no matter to me.
Yes, my heart may ache every second of every day, my insides feel like a hollowed out shell of despair and anguish, and my mind may be filled with piercing memories of how his skin felt against mine, but is no matter to me.
I will not crumble just because I've fallen in love with a soulless demon who has taken my love, disfigured it, and then thrown it in a pit. Then shot it.
Have been keeping to myself and refusing to think or write about Thomas and I plan on sticking with this technique.
Even if Branson did come back yesterday for tea, and he and Thomas chattered till the cows came home, leaving Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes to shoot bewildered and alarmed glances at each other, while O'Brien watched them like a judgmental bitchy hawk, and everybody else pretended like nothing was out of the norm.
Even if, on my way out, I overheard Branson suggesting that Thomas and him have lunch at the Grantham Arms sometime.
No, I didn't cry for hours after that.
I didn't drop a green bean in Branson's hair at dinner.
I didn't spit on Thomas' doorknob.
And I did not write down when they planned to meet for lunch.
Coincidentally, they're going today. At 12:30. Which, coincidentally, is the same time I've asked Carson if I could go to town to fetch some shoe polish.
12:10 pm
Just overheard Thomas asking leave of Mr. Carson so he can meet up with Branson for lunch. (Not that he told Carson that. I suspect he would die on the spot if he knew what Thomas was up to.)
Time to get some shoe polish.
12:22 pm
"Where are you off to? The Dowager's in for tea at any minute!" Mrs. Patmore shouted as I was putting on my cap and jacket.
"Mr. Carson's let me run to the village. Alfred can manage, can't you, Alfred?"
He nodded. "Course I can."
Smiled at Mrs. Patmore. "I'll be back before you know it, so don't go missing me," I warned.
"On you go," she shooed, unimpressed.
And now I'm off.
12:37 pm
Have arrived at the Grantham Arms. Do not want to go inside, as it would be too risky. Thomas must not see me.
12:41 pm
Have found the perfect window to peer in.
They're both already here. Those smug bastards.
12:44 pm
Thomas is laughing.
I can't believe it.
It took months for me to see him laugh.
I am going to die.
12:49 pm
Branson is laughing now, too.
Isn't he supposed to be in mourning?
12:59 pm
They're eating now. They're eating and they're smiling, and they're enjoying their time together.
What is this world coming to? Wasn't it just the other week that Thomas was banging on about how deceitful Branson was, and how much he despised him?
Am never listening to another word out of that man's mouth again.
1:10 pm
They're done eating now. They're chatting a bit.
Do not like the smile on Thomas' face.
He's supposed to be miserable and alone. Like me.
1:29 pm
Fuck.
Was still perched at me window, watching the two twits chatting about, when suddenly a dirty child walked up to me.
"'Ello, sir," it said, far too loudly for comfort.
I looked at it, unsure if I should respond or just ignore it. I suppose ignoring it could make it worse.
"Hello," I whispered with a narrowing of the eyes.
"What you doin'?"
This child was WAY too bloody loud.
I pressed my finger to my lips. "Shh! Sh! Would you like to play a game?"
Its eyes brightened. "A game?"
I nodded. "Yes. Whoever is the quietest, gets a bag of sweets!"
"…That doesn't sound like a fun game."
"Not with that attitude, it doesn't."
"Why are you hiding? Get up!" it suddenly said, voice growing louder.
Ohgod. I looked through the window. Thomas and Branson still chatting, unawares.
"GET UP!" the child repeated, colliding a foot with my shin.
"Argh!" I screamed, stumbling backwards and knocking into a rubbish bin.
The child began to laugh hysterically—and very loudly—and the panic began to rise within me.
Ohgod. We were making a ruckus. They were going to see us. Thomas was going to find me spying and then he was going to hate me even more.
As I picked myself up, I shot another glance into the window and, to my absolute horror, saw that their chairs were empty.
"Oh bullocks," I blurted, and without another thought, I bolted down the road at full speed.
Can only pray that I was not seen.
Mar 16
9:11 pm
No word from Thomas still.
I guess that means he didn't see me spying on him, after all.
I suppose that's good.
Would be happier about this if I wasn't dead inside.
Mar 17
11:07 am
Thomas hasn't looked at me in days.
I refuse to let myself think about it—for will just end up crying and sneaking food from the kitchens—but I am so horrified and shocked about the whole affair… I just cannot believe it.
How could he treat me this way?
I just don't understand it, Diary.
Want to hate him so badly. But love him. Love him very much, and don't want anybody else. Only want love if it's perfect, Diary, and to me, Thomas is perfect. And I will be neglected of love gladly if I can't have it the right way.
Will never settle for anything less than wonderful. Even if Thomas does act like a hag.
Mar 19
3:13 pm
Have a new mission in life: Whatever I feel, I must not allow it to influence my behavior toward others. Even if it is Alfred. Or Stella.
"Stella wants you to know that she forgives you," Alfred told me as we were killing time in the kitchen.
"What?"
"She forgives you. For being so rude to her all the time."
"I never apologized."
Do not know who is more dumb—Alfred or Stella.
"You didn't have to, you see. She just forgives you."
"But why? I'm not going to stop being rude to that hussy."
"You best stop if you don't want trouble!" he said, apparently trying to appear intimidating. (I'm sorry. But carrots aren't, and never will, be threatening.)
Held back a snort of amusement. "Oh, please, Alfred. There won't be any trouble."
"Look, I know you've been having a time of it lately, but you best stop taking it out on other people. Especially my girl."
"And since when have you been the voice of reason?"
He looked at me blankly. "The what?"
Rolled my eyes. "Never mind, then," I muttered under my breath. "Look, I can't promise anything—your girl's as smart as a broomstick—but…I'll….try to be a little more forgiving."
"That's all I ask," Alfred nodded.
Was almost beginning to feel a sort of sympathy for Alfred, when he suddenly nudged me. "Oi, you know, I think Ivy's jealous."
"Ivy? What?"
He nodded, a big dumb grin on his face. "I think she's jealous of Stella and I. I expect she fancies me."
I stared at him for almost a full minute before I just walked away. I sincerely believe that boy doesn't have a brain.
Still, though. Perhaps I should be a little kinder.
More to Stella than Alfred, at least.
5:38 pm
I wonder if Thomas is still friends with Branson?
I hate him.
6:17 pm
Ohgod. Just bumped into Thomas. Literally.
Was heading downstairs to get the dessert, head bent and lost in thought, when I bounced off of a chest.
"Watch it," I muttered angrily, expecting it to be Alfred. Then I looked up. "…Oh."
Thomas stared down at me, eyes tight. "James."
Silence.
"You…best watch yourself."
"Sorry."
His eyes burned into mine.
"You alright?" he asked, somewhat awkwardly, taking in my appearance (which I'm sure was haggardly).
Felt a jolt of annoyance. Did he honestly have to point out that I wasn't looking my best? "What's it to you?" I shot back, giving a glare.
He fell silent and looked down, very visibly uncomfortable. "Be a bit more careful, alright?" he finally said, eyes glancing at me for the briefest of seconds.
Ignored him and kept on my way.
Miss him, but hate him when he treats me as if I were a stranger.
I refuse to participate in this act he insists upon.
Mar 20
10:19 pm
Have been reading past entries in my diary. Of when Thomas and I took beautiful walks in the snow. Of when Thomas came to my room to apologize. Of when I wrote him a Valentine under his pillow.
Have been crying for an hour.
Cannot believe that Thomas and I no longer speak.
How could this have happened to us?
Mar 21
4:31 pm
I hate myself and I hate the world. I think I hate the world more.
No, I hate myself more.
Actually, I hate Branson more.
Was in the servants' hall by my lonesome, sipping tea and dreaming of a better world, when I heard two male voices drifting down the hall.
Two distinct male voices.
Mr. Branson.
And Thomas.
Couldn't face them. Absolutely could not face them. Would probably end up crying or pelting my teacup at one of their heads.
But how could I escape? And what were they talking about?
As their voices neared, and I began to hear bits and pieces of their conversation (they were discussing cricket, of all things) I panicked.
So I slid underneath the table.
"You really don't like cricket?" I heard Branson ask, amused, as his footsteps neared.
Fuck. O fuck. Maybe I shouldn't have done this. How on earth were they going to miss the fully grown man beneath the table?
As long as they don't sit down, I have a fighting chance.
"Not a bit," answered Thomas, slipping into the chair opposite me. Fuck.
Ohgod. There he was. Right in front of me.
One kick and I'd be discovered.
"But you're so good at it," Branson mused, taking the seat next to him. (He honestly couldn't have moved down a space? He had to sit directly NEXT to Thomas? This man is repulsive.)
"His Lordship would agree with you," Thomas said with a smirk in his voice that made my blood boil and sing.
Heard Branson snort. "Don't I know it. I got an earful on that subject."
Oh, you two are just so funny.
"When's your next half-day, then?" Branson asked.
My muscles tensed.
"A week from today. May as well be a year away," Thomas muttered, probably in reference to the extra demands Carson's been putting on him lately.
"Having a hard time of it down here?"
"No harder than usual."
There was an appreciative laugh from Branson, before he said, "Well, then. I expect a day away from this place would do you good. You can accompany me to one of the farms I'm going to look at, if you like. I could use the company."
Almost punched a hole through the table.
They're going to go to a farm together?
Just the two of them?
Alone?
Amongst fields and flowers?
That's MY dream!
I HATE BRANSON.
"I could use some fresh air," Thomas said—and I know the bastard was smiling—before he crossed his legs. As he did so, slowly bringing up his left foot, it, ever so slightly, brushed against my arm.
I froze.
As did he.
"Are you quite alright?" I heard Branson suddenly ask.
Pause.
Fuck.
Shit.
Damn.
Blast.
Bullocks.
No.
"Er—yes. Yes, I'm quite fine. I should return to my duties, however. Carson'll be back at any moment."
Oh fuck. Oh damn. Oh blast. Oh no.
Please don't look under the table. Please don't. Just don't.
"Alright. I should return upstairs anyway. Lord Grantham said he wanted a word." There was obvious amusement in his tone, which was reflected in Thomas' response of:
"Sounds promising."
Almost cried with joy when I saw both figures stand up.
Almost cried even more when I heard their footsteps retreat.
And then they were gone!
That was close, Diary. CLOSE.
Am never. Never EVER. Hiding under the table again to eavesdrop. Never.
Is too stressful.
And too maddening.
10:37 pm
Am seething mad with rage.
Was cornered by Thomas after Carson dismissed us to bed.
Had been sitting at the piano, and was just about to trudge upstairs, when the evil shadow himself appeared before me, arms stiff at his sides, a superior glower darkening his features.
Splendid. Could already feel my heart oozing.
"Yes?" I asked tiredly.
"Why were you eavesdropping today?"
Oh shit.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Jimmy," came the warning.
"You can't prove I was," I said, turning away.
"I can. My foot collided with you, didn't it."
"And why on earth would you just assume that was me? Of all the things your foot could have hit, why would you automatically assess that it must be me, sitting beneath the table?" I said hotly, turning to look at him with as fierce a glare as I could muster.
"Well it wasn't Isis, was it?"
"That doesn't mean it was me!"
"Your reaction alone tells me it was you. And I saw your cup."
"My cup?"
"Your teacup, half-drunk and sitting on the table."
"I could have just left it there."
"So it was yours."
"No!"
"Jimmy."
Dammit. Was cornered.
"Well, aren't you so bloody smart," I spat, getting up to leave.
He blocked my way.
"Stop following me and Tom."
Tom?
Tom?
TOM?!
Couldn't help it. I exploded.
"OHHHHhhhhh, so you call each other by your first names now, is that right? Oh, well, don't mind me, Thomas. Don't mind me, getting in the way of you and your new bloody best mate. Just forget about me, forget about the fact that I was your closest mate for months, talked to you every day, listened to your problems, wrote you bloody Valentines, helped you in every conceivable way I could, and loved you so bloody unconditionally!"
The fire bloomed within his own eyes. He took a step closer, and hissed, "I certainly wouldn't call it 'unconditionally.'"
Blinked. What? "What are you on about?"
"You only cared for me when we were tucked away in the dark, out of sight. Your love, was only ever there when you had nothing else. You did what you wanted, when you wanted—"
It took every fiber of my being not to scream. Instead, I whispered in the most vehement tone I could manage.
"Don't you dare, Thomas. Don't you bloody dare. You're the one who's run away. You're the one who couldn't do this anymore. I may not be perfect, but do NOT blame me."
Unable to look him in the eye any longer, I left.
How dare he accuse me. How dare he call him Tom. How dare he make me feel this way every single day. Without bloody fail.
I HATE THOMAS BARROW.
10:51 pm
Oh my god.
Oh. My. God.
I just realized.
I confessed to Thomas that I'd written him a Valentine.
….
Kill me. Please.
Just kill me.
Mar 22
12:03 am
Kill me again.
Was in my cocoon of despair, when I heard a knock at me door.
Feeling an intense bout of sickness, I opened the door, fearing that I knew who it was.
Yep.
Thomas.
His eye sockets seemed hollowed, and there was a noticeable tremor in his voice.
"Which one?" he asked, holding a small stack of folded up papers. "Which one is yours?"
They were the bloody Valentines.
Oh god.
He'd heard.
I'd been hoping, praying, that I'd said it too fast for him to catch.
Of course not.
I looked at them all as I attempted—and failed—to swallow away the lump in my throat, immediately recognizing my familiar scrawl. Without looking at him, I gently tapped the corner of it.
"This one."
The look on his face was unreadable.
Was completely humiliated.
Well, I guess now's a good a time as any if we're going to be honest and make a mess of everything.
I took my own crumpled Valentine out of my pocket and unfolded it, laying it face up in my palm. I extended it toward him.
"And this? Did you write this?"
His eyes slid from his own hand to mine. He didn't blink once.
"Yes."
Felt as though I had suddenly climbed Mount Olympus. Adrenaline began to pump through my system as a dizzy spell overcame me.
Could not tell if I was elated or even more miserable.
"I wanted to be kind," he whispered, still staring at the bit of paper in my hand.
"It was kind," I barely managed through shaky breath.
We stood in silence, neither of us daring to look up, our heavy breaths mingling in the stale air of the attic. Felt as though my ears were plugged with cotton, as could only hear my heartbeat, and felt terribly alone, despite Thomas' presence.
As the silence prolonged, I knew in my stomach that nothing more was going to be said. This was the most that we could do. We could confess, we could stare at paper in each other's hands, but we couldn't speak to each other.
This was it.
Tears that had already gathered in the corner of my eye began to slowly slide down the length of my cheek.
"Goodnight, Thomas," I whispered brokenly, eyes unmoving from his hand, concluding our little meeting.
"Goodnight Jimmy."
We stood there for just a moment longer before we both turned, and I closed the door.
Mar 23
6:01 am
Wish I didn't have to get dressed.
Wish I could just walk around in my unmentionables and eat cake.
Mar 24
5:21 pm
Eavesdropped on Thomas and Branson today. (I don't care what Thomas says, I'll do what I want.)
They were talking about that farm they're going to visit.
Had a terrible urge to jump out and scream, "HE SAID TERRIBLE THINGS ABOUT YOU AND HATED YOUR GUTS, YOU MISERABLE WORM!" in Branson's face, but knew that no good would come out of it. So instead I hid in the kitchen and asked Mrs. Patmore if I was ugly.
"I'm not answering a silly question like that. Stop moping about and bring me that sack of flour."
Did as I was told and she pinched my cheek and told me I was a very strapping young man as thanks.
Love Mrs. Patmore, but it doesn't mean much coming from her.
I just find it really obnoxious how Branson is ALWAYS coming downstairs lately. It was one thing before, but now? It's embarrassing. And tacky. And it needs to stop. Or I'm going to lock him in the icebox. Or pull out his hair. Or choke him. Or all of the above.
Mar 25
2:36 pm
…. Just had the strangest talk with Carson.
Was coming back from serving lunch upstairs, when he caught me on the stairs.
"Ah, James. I was hoping to have a word with you."
Oh no. That's never a good sign.
Nodded and followed him into his office, feeling only dread, and remembering a time when I used to be able to count on Thomas to get me out of any scrap of trouble.
He gestured toward the door, and I shut it miserably. Things were looking worse and worse by the minute.
Slowly, I turned to face him, steeling myself.
Alright. Let's do this.
"It has come to my attention that you've been acting rather oddly as of late."
I stared. Excuse me?
"Do you care to explain why?" he asked neatly, hands folded and eyebrows patient.
What?
"Er—I'm sorry, Mr. Carson, I didn't realize I was acting oddly."
"Oh. Are you…not?" he asked somewhat awkwardly, looking unsure of himself.
What was going on?
"Well, I don't believe so," I said, suspicious, confused, and scared.
"You haven't been…upset? Or overworked? Or in need of…someone to talk to?" The words were of obvious distaste to him, and seemed repeated, as if they'd been suggested by someone else entirely….
"Has Mr. Barrow said something in regards to my behavior?" I asked, taking a chance and following instinct.
Mr. Carson blinked, obviously taken aback. "Why, yes. He has. How did you know?"
There we go.
I sighed, and looked away, unable to stop my heart from swelling at the fact that the bastard at least cared enough to enquire about me. Even if he wasn't actually enquiring.
"Because he likes to stick his nose where it doesn't belong."
"I dare say he is merely looking out for your best interests."
"I'm sure."
"Even so," Carson continued, shooting me a warning look, "if something is bothering you, you can always come to one of your superiors."
"I'm fine, thank you, Mr. Carson," I said, feeling increasingly uncomfortable.
He took a moment to inspect me, doubt ridden in his brows, before he nodded slowly.
"You may go."
I left, mind clouded.
So. Thomas sent Mr. Carson to check up on me.
He's given me up, moved on, and still…he thinks of me in some small way. At least he cares enough to keep an eye out.
Maybe it really is over, Diary. Just as Thomas has concluded, so I should conclude: though we care for each other—in whatever way—we will never work. We just won't. We can think of each other, check on each other, hope for the wellbeing of the other, but we cannot go back to what we were before.
Before I ruined everything with my callous and bestial ways.
He's right. I need to stop obsessing over him and Branson. Branson may be an evil, plotting, man-stealer, but it is no longer my concern. No longer my business.
I need to let Thomas go.
Once and for all.
Mar 27
10:00 pm
It seems Thomas and Branson are becoming ever closer. Saw them chatting in the servants' hall again, but didn't stop to listen. Busied myself in the kitchen instead, and chatted with Daisy and Ivy.
"Whatever happened to your sweetheart?" Ivy asked, sorting vegetables.
Another crack in the heart.
"Oh. Well. It just didn't…work," I finished lamely. Noticing their pitying looks, I cleared my throat and smiled. "No matter. There are plenty more fish in the sea."
"And you're young yet," Daisy reminded with a smile.
"As are you. There's no need to speak as though you were an eighty year old," I teased, attempting a genuine smile.
"He's right. You're not the Dowager," Ivy giggled.
"It's true! Say what you will about me, but you've plenty of time to find another girl." Daisy paused, inspecting my face. "But are you sure you're alright?"
I nodded. "We all survive, don't we?"
She nodded in return, but didn't look altogether convinced. "You can always talk to me, if it's a problem."
No, I cannot.
Smiled still. "Thank you Daisy."
Wish I could, Diary. Wish I could talk to someone. Someone wise, who I could trust.
But who?
10:15 pm
Oh, hold it.
Anna!
Of course!
She's guided me once, she can guide me again! With her help, I will be able to move on from my love of Thomas.
Have to, or else I might day from the stress and pain of the whole situation. Do not want to die young. Not when I have so much to offer.
Mar 29
7:10 pm
Have not had a chance to speak with Anna yet.
Have been more preoccupied avoiding Alfred and Stella, who are becoming an unbearable, soppy mess. (Proof that the world is evil: Alfred has found love and I am forever alone.) Often find them in the servants' hall, sitting in the corner, arguing.
"I love you more."
"No, I love you more!"
"No, I love YOU more!"
"No, I love YOU more!"
If I had a hammer, Diary…
Mar 31
6:51 am
As if things couldn't get more confusing.
Opened my door to head downstairs, and discovered Thomas, mid-knock.
The sight of him, so close, winded me. Made me sick and mad and self-conscious. But mostly, it made me miss him and all the times he's made me laugh and feel that the world had more to offer. (And maybe missed his pretty lips and warm hands as well.)
"Thomas," I said, more out of surprise than greeting.
"Jimmy," he said, sounding just as awkward, eyes large and strangely alight.
I stared at him, waiting for some sort of explanation.
He can't expect to just show up at my door and pretend everything's fine when he'd just dropped me off of the face of the earth and destroyed my emotional vitality. And probably took a good year or two off of my life. And don't get me STARTED on what he's done to my figure. Thank the lord I've been slimming back down, or he'd have a sad, fat boy on his conscience.
"I was…merely wondering if Mr. Carson has spoken to you."
Oh. This.
"He has. And I know you put him up to it."
He swallowed and looked down, lightly tapping the toe of his boot against the doorframe. "What did you tell him?"
"What do you mean?"
"What did you say when he asked if you were alright?"
Oh, please. Was this his pathetic, wormy way of showing concern? He didn't even have the courage to ask me personally?
Is one thing to send Carson to look after me.
Is another to use Carson to get at me.
"I responded in the way I thought best. I should be getting downstairs now."
He didn't move.
"Are you alright?" he finally asked, looking back up to me.
Mentally shielded myself from those penetrating eyes. "I'm not going to answer that. Not from you."
He stood there, obviously upset, unable to maintain any of the poise or indifference that had become so characteristic of him.
Would have been moved by such emotion, but could only think of how he'd left me behind.
"I need to go downstairs," I insisted again.
Another nod, and he stepped out of the way, eyes sad.
Couldn't help it—felt my heart tear as I walked past him.
"I'm sorry, Jimmy."
I froze upon hearing the quiet words.
Had I imagined them?
Daring to turn around, I found his tortured face peering back at me.
All anger dissipated.
Is the hardest thing in the world to see the one you love suffer. Even if it is a little deserved.
"I'm sorry, too," I said, the words making me ill. It felt so much like goodbye. Didn't want goodbye. I couldn't have goodbye.
He nodded, as if finding closure, and allowed me to walk on.
Now I don't know what to do.
All I know is that this cannot be the end.
7:41 am
Must speak to Anna today.
1:21 pm
Why is Anna always with Bates? What the hell?
4:10 pm
Finally got Anna alone.
She was in the servants' hall, mending one of Lady Mary's coats that her stomach had burst through.
"Anna? Could I talk to you for a moment?" I asked quietly.
She looked up, that inviting smile of hers present. "Of course."
As soon as I settled in the chair next to her, she set down the coat, peering at me. "I don't suppose this has to do with that little conversation we were having before? About things not working out so smoothly?"
I nodded.
Her smile became more sympathetic (if that was possible). "Alright, then. What seems to be the problem?"
"Well, as I said, I…I ruined things. I did. And it became difficult. And…we never spoke about it. And now, we aren't even speaking at all. And…they don't want to be around me anymore. But I still want to be around…them."
She nodded, listening to each word carefully. "Alright. Well, have you tried speaking to them about how you feel?"
I looked at her fearfully. "Oh, no! No, I couldn't possibly do that!"
"And why's that?"
"Because they don't want to hear what I have to say. I know, Anna, trust me. It wouldn't work well."
"Well, maybe not. But wouldn't you rather know than just sit here, miserable, wondering what on earth you should do next?"
She had a point.
"The way I see it is, it's already a mess of a situation. If you're not speaking with each other, it can't get much worse than that. What's the harm in taking a chance? At least then you can move on." Her voice was gentle, but her words terrifying.
"I don't know if I can do that…"
"Of course you can. Just don't think so much," she smiled, giving me a reassuring squeeze of the hand.
I looked into her eyes, which seemed so clear and simple, and for that one moment, I saw it. I saw the words she spoke, and I saw her optimism.
I can do this.
I can tell Thomas how I feel.
I can.
"You're right, Anna. I can it," I said, nodding.
Her grin grew noticeably.
"Tonight. I'll tell him tonight!"
I didn't realize what I'd said until her eyes widened.
"Er—Him, as in, God. I will tell God tonight, then I will tell the one I love that I love them. Yes, that is the plan."
She continued to stare at me. "Jimmy…" she said disbelievingly, a smile creeping into her voice.
"I best go, but thank you, Anna," I smiled, kissing her on the cheek. "I'll let you know how it goes!"
I sincerely hope she believes that I was talking about God.
Do not need that unnecessary trauma on my hands.
5:05 pm
Am I going to tell Thomas that I love him tonight?
How am I going to do this?
Should I go down on bended knee?
Should I sit?
Stand?
Lay?
Walk?
Should I bring something?
What do I do?
How do I do it?
Ohgod.
This is terrifying.
9:09 pm
I'm so nervous I could die.
I caught Thomas in the hallway.
"I need to speak with you. Tonight."
He pursed his lips, eyes weary. "About what?"
"Just…meet me outside."
I hurried away before he could refuse.
I might be sick before then.
9:31 pm
Everybody's had their dinner. Any minute now, Carson will dismiss us. Then I'll meet with Thomas. And we will speak.
Ohmylord. How do people do this. Is Anna crazy? Is she a masochist? This is horrible. How am I going to survive this? This is torture.
9:45 pm
Carson's just dismissed us.
I'm going to collapse.
Wish me luck, Diary.
10:04 pm
Have been crying uncontrollably.
Am in the middle of packing my bags.
It was horrible, Diary.
It was absolutely horrible.
As soon as I got outside, my nerves skyrocketed, rendering me near useless as I could barely stand and had a desperate urge to dry heave.
Upon seeing Thomas, who was actually already waiting outside, I felt a combination of relief and ice-cold terror.
"Thomas," I practically squeaked, walking up to him.
He stood up almost immediately, staring full on at me. "Well then. What's this about?"
Ohgod. Ohgod.
Speak, Jimmy. Speak smooth.
"Thomas. I have to tell you…something."
He nodded. "So I've gathered."
"Okay."
He waited.
Ohgod. Ohgod.
What are words?
Could I run away? Could I get away with doing that? Would he catch me?
"Alright. Alright, Thomas. I…have to tell you something."
He was now looking at me almost worryingly. "Yes… You've already said that."
Indeed I had. Okay. Here we go.
"So. It's like… There's a block of cheese, alright?"
Silence.
Oh god.
Oh no.
What was I saying?
Cheese?!
"And," I continued, mind separate from my mouth, "I've been eating this block of cheese for a very long time. But, see, I'd always assumed I didn't like cheese, you know?"
He blinked, then nodded very slowly.
"Well, one day, while I'm gnawing on this block of cheese, I suddenly realize, it's cheese!"
Staring at me.
"And, I'm completely in shock. Because, all this time, I've secretly loved cheese! And I didn't realize it! But I've loved cheese this whole time! And it makes me a little sick, and sometimes I puke because of it, and it's made my life impossibly difficult, but I love cheese, Thomas. I really do. And I always will. And I cannot deny my love for that cheese any longer."
I was met with a blank stare.
"T-thomas," I began, voice barely there. My head swam. Ohgod. "You are the block of cheese."
The blank stare continued.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You are my giant block of cheese that I've been gnawing on," I clarified.
Silence.
Was this romantic enough? Did I do it right? Did he understand?
Should I not have used cheese as a metaphor?
"Jimmy…" he suddenly began, face completely void of emotion. "…What?"
"Thomas, you're my—"
"I know, I know," he interjected. "I'm your block of cheese. But what does that mean? I make you sick? You thought you hated me until you realized it was too late? Your life is miserable because of me? You're telling me that I'm nothing but a chunk of dairy that you seem to have found yourself stuck with, and desire to fill yourself with for as long as you please?"
What? No—
"You told me to come out here to tell me this?"
"I'm telling you how I feel!" I insisted, walking toward him.
"But why? Terrible love declaration aside, why on earth would you do that? You know we can't be together. We can't—let's not fool ourselves. It's dangerous, it's foolish, we get on each other's nerves all of the time! We don't understand each other—"
"Yes we do!" I cried, my heart quivering in fear, ready to burst into a bloody mess. I took another step toward him, only wishing to grab his hands in mine and convince him how perfect we could be.
"I can't risk it," he said, shaking his head, taking three steps back. "We've already pushed the limit, and have gotten very, very lucky."
"But there's a way!"
"I don't want you, Jimmy!" he suddenly burst, voice solid and very, very done with the conversation.
I stopped.
Oh god.
What?
He didn't…want me?
What?
But Anna said…
Anna said it couldn't get any worse. This was worse.
This was much worse.
He stared at me, his face morphing into a plethora of emotions. He then brought his hand to face, covering his eyes.
"Jimmy…" he began, but I didn't want to hear it. Not one word.
Without a second glance or thought, I was back inside, headed up to me room.
Cannot stay here, Diary. Cannot, will not.
Cannot work side by side with Thomas when am so in love that it feels there is something physically wrong with me. Cannot pass him in the halls knowing what I know, knowing what we've done, and knowing the emptiness he feels in return.
Cannot, Diary.
I'm leaving. I can't explain to Carson or Mrs. Hughes. I can't even bear to stay the night. It may ruin me, but as far as I've seen it, am already ruined.
I'll get by. I always do. I just need to get as far away from Thomas Barrow as I possibly can.
11:58 am
Diary.
Amidst my flowing tears and suffering, I managed to pack all my possessions. I stuffed shirts, belts, shoes, lotions, blankets, and everything else in every bag I could procure.
I turned out the lights, never looked back, and made my way through the darkness of Downton Abbey.
Heard each of my footsteps echo against the cold, silent walls, and realized, through the haze of immense woe, that this would be the last time I would walk these stairs, hear these echoes.
No more Carson, no more Alfred, no more Stella, no more Ivy, no more Daisy, no more Mrs. Patmore, not more Anna, no more Mrs. Hughes, no more Bates, no more O'Brien, no more Molesley.
No more Thomas.
Felt an added misery at this thought—must have grown attached to the place without my noticing—and quickened my pace further.
Finally, I opened the doors to freedom.
As I had taken the servants' exit, I was immediately met with Thomas' smoking spot, our nauseating conversation still fresh in the air.
Not a star was in the sky as I stalked onward, refusing to think further than the moment.
Was just beginning to regain a sense of calm in the cool night air when:
"Where are you going?"
Instantly froze.
What was he doing here?
The figure before me stood tall, one hand stuffed in the pocket of his jacket, the other holding a dimly lit cigarette at his side.
Well. Best get this conversation over as quickly as possible.
"I'm leaving," I said in a steady monotone, beginning to walk again.
He stepped in my path.
"Leaving for where?"
"Anywhere. Everywhere."
His eyes slid to my bags. A light panic began to fill his eyes, I noted with satisfaction.
"What the bloody hell has gotten into you?"
"I'm leaving this place. Nothing you say's going to stop me." I began to walk.
Once again, he blocked my path.
"You can't leave."
"I can."
"What will you do for a job? You'll have no reference."
"I'll find work. I always do."
"And what if you don't?"
"I will." I stared ahead, face hard, refusing to acknowledge him any more than I had to.
"Don't."
"I'll do as I please."
"You're being ridiculous."
"Don't you dare speak to me about being ridiculous!" I hissed, bringing my eyes up to his.
He stared back, at an obvious loss for words. "You're serious, then."
I nodded, hoisting my bag further onto my back for emphasis.
He swallowed, staring down at me, and through the darkness I could see that, for once, his face was completely unguarded. I saw every line of pain and fear written across his pallid skin, and if my heart hadn't just been pulverized by the bastard, I would have fallen more in love.
"Please don't go."
I swallowed. The remains of my heart quivered, just barely.
"I have to."
"No you don't. You can't go. I don't want you to go." Who was this person?
"Yes you do. You said so yourself—you can't do this anymore. And neither can I. I'm doing this for the both of us, Thomas. Not just for me, you see," I managed, and through the hard exterior of my tone, there burst a tiny ray of wavering emotion. I cleared it away immediately.
"If it's me that you're thinking of, then the best thing that you can do is to put those bloody bags down, and go back inside. With me."
My pulse quickened. "But that's not what you want."
He sighed, not bothering to hide his exasperation. "Of course that's what I bloody want, you fool. You mean more to me than anything in this bloody world—you know that!"
"No, I don't, Thomas! You may think I do, but I don't! How am I supposed to know that when you tell me you want nothing to do with me? When I tell you how I feel about you, and you tell me that you don't want me? I can't read your bloody mind!"
"And I can't read yours! You're just as bad—if not worse! You're always running away, what am I supposed to do? Have another mess on my hands if it all goes wrong? Be ousted of the only job that will have me? Thrown into prison? How can I be sure of you if you're always running away? If you never speak to me about ANYTHING?!" His voice was impassioned, in a way I'd never heard before, and his whole face and body was electric—sparking, crackling, and burning bright.
Was the most refreshing thing I had ever experienced.
A real life Thomas.
"But I tried to speak to you tonight!" I protested.
"You called me a block of CHEESE!"
"I was scared!"
"So was I!"
We stared at each other, absolutely terrified.
Had Thomas said those horrible things because he was scared? He rejected me because he didn't know what else to do?
Had I really been that unreliable to him?
Feeling overwhelmingly confused and bewildered, I took a step toward him, voice dwindling to almost a whisper.
"Thomas. Did you mean it when you said you didn't want me?"
He stepped closer as well, eyes softening into beautiful blue tides. "Of course I didn't." He took another step toward me, our jackets brushing together, his head bent toward mine. "As much as I may wish it sometimes…of course it isn't true."
"Thomas," I said again, feeling my heart begin to beat, the broken pieces within me slowly reassembling. "Are you saying that…I am your block of cheese?"
The earnestness within his lips was immediately cracked by a wide grin, a half-laugh escaping him. He looked back to me, his hand coming up to rest on my cheek. (ohmygod I love his hands) "Yes, Jimmy. You are my block of cheese."
My heart almost burst through my chest.
I smiled, greater than I'd ever smiled before, as I looked up into the most beautiful man in the world's face—the most beautiful man who had just told me that he felt the same way, too.
Had I died? Was this heaven? Did not know that a feeling could be so perfect, that emotions could be so wonderful, and did not know that another person's smile held the secret to the world.
The mere fact that his hand was still on my cheek had me dying.
"I'm sorry about everything. About trying to be rid of you. It was just…difficult. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought it was best for you," he said simply, rubbing his thumb along my jaw line. (ohmylord)
"You tosser. Never do what you think is best for me."
"I promise that I won't ever again."
I grinned in response, daring to believe that this wasn't all some great bloody joke Thomas was playing on me.
"So, it's that simple then?" I asked, my hands reaching out to grip into the fabric of his jacket. "I care about you, you care about me…and we're alright? It's that simple?"
"For us, it can be. Yes, it's that simple."
"I guess I'll be staying, then. I suppose," I smiled weakly, daring to wrap my arms around his beautifully solid and real waste. (This wasn't a dream, right?)
"I think that's best," he nodded, his smirk and silken voice blanketing the warmth of his words.
"But you better be nice to this block of cheese. No more trying to get rid of me, you hear? And no hiding, no lying! And next time you leave me the most beautiful Valentine in the world, leave your name, please, so I know who to send a 'Thank You' note to. Common decency, that is."
His smirk widened into a smile and he began to tuck bits of my hair behind my ear. Felt like heaven. I knew I loved my hair for a reason. "I could say the same to you, you know."
True.
"Alright, then. It's a mutual promise." I paused. "And one other thing."
"And what would that be?" he breathed sweetly.
"It can't be like before," I warned, wagging a disciplinary finger in his face. "No more funny business. I mean it—not a thing. We're going to do this proper like."
"I completely agree."
…
He completely agreed?
"What do you mean you completely agree?" I asked, removing my arms from his waste and crossing them over my chest. "Don't you like the funny business? Are you saying I'm undesirable?"
He was perched on the line between amused and utterly exasperated. "Do you know what I find fascinating? How you can manage to appear so very confident on the surface, when in actuality, you are a complete shambles on the inside."
"You watch who you're calling a shambles," I muttered, my resolve melting away at his touch as his other arm gripped me closer to him.
"I'm already watching you, James," he smiled through a smirk, and leaned his lips against mine.
Was perfect, Diary. Is perfect.
After the most beautiful kiss in the world—one that made the stars sneak out from their hiding spots and left my lips abuzz—he took my bags from me, and we walked back inside.
Together, we unpacked my belongings (during which, I received some very choice comments about my packing skills—or, should I say, lack thereof) and, despite the haze of sleep that was looming above us, was the most perfect moment of my life. Even better than when I was named the best looking boy of my class.
At long last, everything was back in its place.
"Well, that took long enough," he muttered, looking a little worse for wear.
Smiled as I brought a hand up to his silken onyx hair. Is so soft. "Someone's a bit knackered, aren't they?"
His eyes closed as I ran my fingers through his satin tresses (is true, Diary. Will never say this about anyone else, for only Thomas has actual satin tresses) and I could see the utter exhaustion threatening to overcome him.
"Perhaps you should stay here tonight—just to sleep," I added instantly, giving him a sharp eye as he blinked awake.
He sighed, looking around the room. "I'm not sure if it would be wise."
"I'll wake you up early," I offered, eyes darting between his hair and his face.
"I would be delighted to stay," he breathed, hanging his head low to rest on my shoulder. Couldn't help but sniff his smooth, pearly neck. I love necks. I love Thomas' neck. "But it's best not to risk anything on the first night we've promised to do things proper," his muffled voice reasoned through my shoulder.
Hated that he had a point, as I feel that my bed would be much more comfortable if it was shared with a tall, dark, and insanely attractive man.
Oh well. Life is cruel.
"You have a point. I regret to say."
He brought his head back up, and smiled through the sleep. "Goodnight Jimmy Kent."
I grinned. "Goodnight, Thomas Barrow."
Eyes lidded and uncharacteristically affectionate (am realizing that I love relationship Thomas), he leaned down, and placed the softest whisper of a kiss on my wanting-more-of-a-kiss-than-that lips. Still, I savored the mere fact that my darling Thomas was even kissing me in the first place (dreams come true!) and couldn't resist nudging my nose the littlest bit into his cheek and fluttering my eyelashes against his skin, procuring a hint of a laugh from him.
"Till tomorrow," he whispered as he extricated himself, opening the door quietly.
"Till tomorrow," I repeated, my happiness threatening to seep from of my pores.
With one last teasing smile, he shut the door.
Cannot wait until tomorrow, Diary. Feel certain that April will be the most amazing month of my life.
And even if it's not, will have Thomas.
Can you die of happiness?
*AN: So here is March, this necessary evil of a month. I hope I haven't killed anybody with the copious amounts of romance or drama.
I went ahead, against my instincts, to use the word 'sexy' which they say developed anywhere from 1920-1925 (yes, I looked it up cuz I'm a silly creature and it wasn't sitting right with me), but I still feel like it wasn't completely appropriate to use here. Then again, a lot of things I use in here aren't very accurate. But that one stuck out to me more, and I apologize if it ruined your reading! It's normally such a nice word, but I don't know about for 1921…
Anyway. Sorry for being a chatterbox. Thank you all again, really, ALL of you, every word spoken about this story has been generous and intelligent and I'm so pleased and bashful to have such lovely people liking this strange little story. You are all appreciated.
Also, we're over halfway done now. (In case you were fearing this would continue forever. I probably could because I write too, too much. I could honestly make each chapter about 130 pages—it's a serious problem.)
