Nearly there! I think there's about two more chapters in this, three, tops - so I swear, we are rounding Denial Corner and taking the first exit for Acceptance City :)
As it turned out, the Heritage Week was both a blessing and a curse as regards this new situation with Thomas.
Thomas had promised, of course, that it wouldn't interfere with work – but still, Jimmy suspected that he couldn't go straight from nothing to shagging his superior without at least a little strained small talk over morning coffee. However, the Heritage Week meant that they were both so busy trying to organize stalls and talks and traditional craft demonstrations that really, there wasn't time for any awkwardness in the office. Sometimes, there wasn't even time for morning coffee.
So…that was good.
Not to mention, everyone at Downton was working odd hours trying to get everything ready. The jingle of keys became a sort of omnipresent backing track to the day's business, as Mrs Hughes made every attempt to be in seven places at once. Mr Carson always seemed to be heralded by a flurry of tightly-typed paperwork regarding licenses and permits and budgets. And Miss O' Brien annexed several rooms of the house for dress-fittings, which meant a constant trickle of people making their way upstairs.
"I never knew that the atmosphere of Clapham Junction was something we aspired to," Mr Carson said. "Perhaps it was naïve of me, but I always assumed the stately aspect of a stately home formed some part of its charm."
"Oh come now, Mr Carson," Mrs Hughes said as she passed, keys clinking on her keyring, "They say that it's good to try new things, you know."
"And just who might 'they' be?" Mr Carson asked. Mrs Hughes gave a shake of her head, but didn't stop.
Edna and Alfred were dispatched hither and yon to help with various tasks, though every time Jimmy managed to stop by the cafe, Edna seemed to be there, saying things like, "It's not my job, you know," or "I never realized being a tour guide would involve so much heavy lifting."
"Oh yes, crippled from it you are, poor lamb," Mrs Patmore said, with a roll of her eyes.
Meanwhile, Anna all but abandoned the gift-shop, lending her calmly competent presence to Downton almost full time. "It looks like you could use an extra pair of hands," she said. "And I don't mind helping."
What all this meant, was that everyone's schedule was a complete mess, and so Jimmy didn't have to be as careful about this thing with Thomas as he supposed he would be under normal circumstances – he didn't have to come up with excuses for his chronic lateness coming home, or fabricate reasons for slipping away in the evenings. He didn't have to pace himself – he could spend every evening at Thomas' house without any awkward questions (without any questions at all in fact)…
So…he did.
It would be stupid not to take advantage of an opportunity like this. Sometimes, if it had been a very late evening, they even went straight to Thomas' house from work. It was a luxury, not having to consider how things might look…and yet, it gave Jimmy pause. He couldn't help but feel that it was giving Thomas the wrong impression – once, as he'd flicked the light switch off, Thomas had ushered him out of the office with the words, "Come on then, let's go home." He hadn't even seemed aware of what had just come out of his mouth – he'd frowned as Jimmy turned to stare at him and asked, "What is it? Don't tell me you've forgotten something."
And when Jimmy said, "What did you just say?" Thomas' face had shifted between confused and impatient as he replied, "I said, 'Get your skates on'. Because I, for one, have got plans for this evening that don't involve spreadsheets or organizing my diary." He took a step closer to Jimmy and murmured in his ear, "Not that I'm allowed discuss those plans here."
It could have been a meaningless slip of the tongue – but Jimmy knew better. Because sometimes…sometimes that was what those evenings felt like to him, too – like he and Thomas were leaving the office to go home.
Jimmy put it down to tiredness, in his case – preparing for the Heritage Week had left him in a strange state. A kind of physical exhaustion mixed with mental enervation that contrived to make everything feel vaguely unreal around the edges, slightly dreamlike.
"My back is killing me," Jimmy grumbled as he shifted atop Thomas on the couch, pausing to bury his face in Thomas' neck. Thomas smelled very faintly of cologne and cigarettes, and Jimmy breathed it in. Thomas' shirt collar rubbed against his nose.
"Well, lucky for you I just replaced the medieval torture device in my bedroom – with an actual bed," Thomas said. His hands slid down Jimmy's back, until they could no longer in conscience be said to be on his back at all, but rather touching his arse. Jimmy shifted carefully again, and with barely a hitch, Thomas' hands wandered to less controversial territory. Jimmy closed his eyes as he felt Thomas' fingers curl around his hips. "Mm," he said vaguely, no longer really keeping track of the conversation. "Did you?"
"I did," Thomas said. "I thought the medieval torture device was giving people the wrong idea." His thumbs suddenly stopped stroking over Jimmy's hipbones, and Jimmy opened his eyes to find Thomas staring expectantly at him. "So?" he said.
"So…" Jimmy repeated.
"Bed," Thomas reminded him, leaning in for a kiss.
The realization of his mistake rushed through him trailing a kite string of adrenaline. "That's all right," he said, "It'd probably hurt more to move now, anyway."
Seeing the beginning of a frown on Thomas' face, he added, quickly, "If you really want to help, you could let Alfred set up for the next lecture himself. I must have moved hundreds of chairs this week." The Heritage Week was being ushered in with a series of talks that had titles like – The Lost Boys: Britain's Missing Generation, and – A House Divided: the Social Strata of a Stately Home. Talks so dry that Jimmy felt all the moisture slowly seeping out of his eyeballs just reading the titles.
"What happened to not wanting preferential treatment? I thought we weren't supposed to bring this," he kissed Jimmy's neck, words coming out muffled, "into the office." Jimmy didn't mind the thread of amusement that flashed through Thomas' voice – it was proof of the success of his distraction.
"Not wanting you to act funny around me in the office doesn't mean you can't treat me better than Alfred." He arched into Thomas' touch. "It's nothing to do with being preferential – I always make out better than he does. It's just natural selection in action," he said loftily.
Thomas looked amused, and Jimmy kissed the upward twist of his mouth, feeling a little smug.
"Well," Thomas said, when he pulled back. His hands began to trail up Jimmy's thighs, "I can't do anything about the chairs now…but I'd be willing to try and take your mind off them…"
Jimmy pushed their foreheads together, and tried to keep his voice even as Thomas' fingers slipped up the inside seam of his trousers. "That's very generous of you," he said, the roll of his eyes somewhat contradicted by the catch in his breath.
"I have my moments," Thomas informed him.
The dress rehearsal for the fashion show was bedlam – Jimmy slipped in specially to enjoy O' Brien's grim-faced endurance as she laced and buckled and girded people into a succession of progressively more elaborate outfits, while being trailed by a vaguely familiar-looking young girl in a purple dress with an embroidered collar, saying things like, "So if you were really my ladies' maid, I'd get to boss you around?" As she passed behind O' Brien, a huge hat in her hands, Anna stifled a smile, while Jimmy made careful note of the look on O' Brien's face, the better to describe it to Thomas later.
O' Brien bestowed a flat look at the girl in purple, and mumbled through a mouthful of pins, "You could try."
"I don't think I'd mind that," the girl reflected. "I think I'd be quite good at it, actually."
"Oh, I daresay," O' Brien said, as she knelt on the floor, tacking up the floor-length skirt of another woman, who was rather incongruously holding a mobile phone and texting.
An older woman tapped O' Brien on the shoulder and without looking at her, O' Brien said, "Wait over there – I'll deal with you when I have a moment." She motioned to the far wall of the room, where a line of people had formed.
A suddenly hatless Anna suggested, "Actually, Miss O' Brien, I'm just finished with Sophie's dress, so I can take Mrs Langham, if you want."
"She can wait her turn, same as the rest," O' Brien said, and Anna subsided, retreating to a safe distance and beckoning a boy in his late teens who slouched moodily in a corner, suit horribly askew.
The girl in the purple dress frowned at O' Brien. "Is that how you would have acted back then?"
"Well, since I don't believe I would have had any more hands then than I do right now, it's quite likely." She flicked her eyes at Jimmy and murmured, "Unlike some, I don't have permission to stand around and make idle chit-chat. I wonder what I'd have to do to get that privilege."
Jimmy's fingers twitched at the insinuation, but he met her gaze as calmly and boldly as he could. She didn't know.
"I don't think you'd be that rude though," the girl decided. "It just doesn't seem authentic, is all. Our history teacher said if we did this, we'd get an authentic flavor of how things used to be."
"Well how am I to act like a proper ladies maid, if you won't act like a proper young lady?" Miss O' Brien asked, as she got to her feet, and directed the woman with the slightly shorter skirt to the other side of the room.
"And how's that?" the girl asked with interest.
"Be seen, and not heard. According to my notes, anyway." O' Brien aimed a look like a sledgehammer in her direction, before sweeping away.
The girl in the purple dress appeared unquelled, watching O' Brien go, then turning to Jimmy and confiding, "He fancies your girlfriend, you know."
Jimmy stared at her. "What?"
"Our history teacher. My friend Sandra says she saw them at Maurice's having dinner, once." She eyed Jimmy with interest. "What d'you think about that?"
"I think it's none of your business," Jimmy said smartly.
"I don't think they're still going out though," she said. "He always gives us loads of homework – and he wouldn't have time to correct it if he had a proper girlfriend, would he? So you're probably still in with a chance there – if you want it." She eyed Jimmy speculatively. "Or have you already got someone else?"
Unbidden, an image from last night flashed across his mind – Thomas underneath him, panting, mouth soft and red – and Jimmy quickly cleared his throat and said, "If I had, I wouldn't tell you. Because it's still none of your business."
"Yes it is. It's part of being a girl guide," she said.
"What is? Poking your nose in where it doesn't belong?"
"We promise to help others," she said. "It's one of our five Zones and everything – Skills and Relationships. I'm working on my Communicator badge at the moment."
"I don't need your help," Jimmy told her.
"That means you do have a new girlfriend," she said, with satisfaction. "Well, just remember not to shout at this one in cafes – not if you want to hang on to her." She studied Jimmy critically. "You're probably all right at getting them – I bet it's keeping them that's your problem."
Another image of Thomas flickered through his head – the way he looked at Jimmy whenever he closed the front door behind them, how he touched Jimmy – not even the heated intensity of during, but afterwards, when they were both finished and complete, and Thomas' hands still wandered over Jimmy's body, like he wasn't even aware of doing it. It was a jackrabbit thought – passing through his brain and disappearing again in an instant, too quickly to make him feel uncomfortable. Actually, it was almost reassuring.
"Thanks," Jimmy said to the girl in the purple dress, with heavy sarcasm. "But I think I'm doing all right."
There was a small commotion in another part of the room, and Anna hurried over, making a beeline straight for them, followed, at an only slightly less rushed pace, by Miss O' Brien.
"Sorry to disturb you," Anna said, "but Helen – where's your little sister? We can't find her in here, or in the fitting room, and Miss O' Brien is starting to worry."
"She's wearing a vintage burgundy velvet dress with a lace collar," O' Brien said, lips going white as she said 'lace collar.' It was clear that her worry was for the continued sanctity of the garments, rather than their current inhabitor.
The girl – Helen, apparently – shrugged. "I don't know."
Anna frowned, "You don't know?"
"She was here an hour ago," Helen said.
Looks were exchanged.
"An hour ago? That's the last time you saw her?" Anna asked carefully.
"She's probably wandered off - she does that all the time," Helen said with a roll of her eyes. Then, as if in concession to the clear anxiety of both Anna and O' Brien, she added, "She's bound to turn up sooner or later though."
"Right – well, even so, I think we probably ought to try and make it sooner. Miss O' Brien – you'd best hold the fort here…Jimmy?" Anna said, and he nodded.
Helen brightened. "I'll come with you."
"That's all right – you stay here," Anna told Helen. "You don't even know the layout of the house, or anything, and the last thing we need is someone else getting lost."
"I've got my orienteering merit badge," Helen said hopefully, but Anna elected not to hear her. She raised her voice as they made their way toward the door, "She likes to draw on walls though! Just so you know!"
Outside the door, Anna decided, "You take one side of the corridor, and I'll take the other – and let's hope one of us finds her before she does any damage."
As it turned out, Jimmy located the most miniature member of the fashion show in one of the guest bedrooms. He almost didn't, because its dress was the exact same colour and texture of the velvet curtains it was sitting next to. However, any relief he felt (which was mild, and distant – he wasn't the one who'd misplaced a child, after all) vanished when he attempted to speak to it.
Its response to his greeting was to momentarily cease its caressing of the velvet curtains and inform him, "I'm hiding."
"All right," he said, "But we've got to go back now. People are looking for you."
It absorbed this quite sanguinely, then looked up at him with wide blue eyes and said, "No thank you."
Jimmy blinked. "What?"
"My mom is getting her hair brown today," it told him.
"All right," he said, digesting this poorly formatted sentence. "But we really have to go now" –
"No," it said again, and its small fists tightened on the curtain. "I don't want to."
Jimmy considered the child. It was small, even by child-standards (well, from what he could tell, anyway), and even if he wasn't particularly tall (though knowing Alfred tended to stretch one's understanding of the concept to ludicrous proportions), there was really only one way this could go.
Ten minutes later, and Jimmy was on his hands and knees, trying in vain to coax it out from the chaise longue it had crawled under. He grimaced as it continued to sob passionately, and at a very high pitch. He wondered how, in a situation designed to inconvenience Miss O' Brien specifically, he was the one who ended up on the floor, waiting for a child with the lungs of an opera singer to see reason. He decided that Thomas would be hearing a highly edited version of this story later, possibly one that erased the child altogether.
This was the scene that Mr Carson walked in on. Jimmy immediately scrambled to his feet, anticipating a lecture on standards and stately homes, and the evils of Heritage Weeks (that Jimmy was beginning to agree with, to be honest). But Mr Carson only raised an eyebrow and said, in a slightly louder voice in order to be heard over the screams, "I take it you've located the missing child, then?"
"It's under there," Jimmy said, gesturing at the powder blue chaise longue. "It won't come out."
"Won't come out?" Mr Carson repeated, in tones of stiff disbelief.
"That's what I said, isn't it?" Jimmy said, quite shortly, as the child continued to wail. "You have a go if you don't believe me." At the look on Mr Carson's face at being spoken to in such a fashion, he added, "…sir."
"Thank you, James – I believe I will," Mr Carson said. He lowered himself to the floor with a little grunt of difficulty – and a sharp glance at Jimmy that dared him to pass any remark. "Well, well – who's this then?" he asked, peering under the chaise longue.
The crying continued, and Jimmy felt a twist of satisfaction. Told you, he thought. Mr Carson, however, did not appear disheartened. "Hmm," he said, putting a finger to his lips, "I know – you must be Rachel."
"No!" The sobbing, if anything, increased in volume.
"No? I do apologise. Let me think again. Alexandra? No – not Alexandra either…I know – Olivia."
It might have a sign of impending deafness, but it seemed to Jimmy that the noise had abated somewhat.
"Don't tell me I'm wrong again," Mr Carson said, with every appearance of chagrin. A red face popped out momentarily, to repeat, "Wrong again," before vanishing once more. The sobbing had abruptly halted.
"Oh dear," Mr Carson said, with a shake of his head. "I fear I'm not very good at this game after all. How about – I shall have one last guess, and then, if I get it wrong again – you tell me your name. How about that?"
"Okay," came the muffled reply.
"I think," Mr Carson said, with heavy consideration, "If you're not Rachel, or Alexandra, and you're not Olivia…you must be – Jack."
Jimmy cringed at the yelping sound that suddenly erupted from under the chaise longue – before realizing that it was laughter. A small, tangled-haired figure slid out from under the chaise longue and told him, "Jack is for boys. I'm Holly."
"Holly," Mr Carson repeated. "Of course you are. And I'm Mr Carson. It's a pleasure to meet you, Holly." He extended a hand, which was ignored, though seemingly not out of any baleful motive.
"Do you want to see my sparkles?" it asked.
"I would be delighted," Mr Carson said. He sounded as if he meant every word. In response, it got to its feet, and stamped. The tips of its runners, encrusted with tiny, multicoloured crystals, immediately lit up, like a gaudy runway.
"Well – would you look at that," Mr Carson said, sounding impressed.
Several minutes later, and Mr Carson was in bodily possession of a small figure whose only response to a suggestion to revisit Miss O' Brien had been to extend its arms and demand, "Up." Before leaving the room, Mr Carson turned to Jimmy and said, with a lofty dignity that was only slightly diminished by the small hands investigating his collar, "You see, James, there are times when all a task needs, is a little finesse."
"I would have paid good money to see that."
"Which part?" Jimmy asked.
"All of it," Thomas said immediately. "Sarah, having to be polite and get down on her knees for the lowly peons" –
"Didn't you hear me? She wasn't all that polite," Jimmy said.
"Believe me, she was holding back." Thomas looked amused. "And old Carson, doing his best Father Christmas impersonation" –
Jimmy made a face. "All a task needs, is a little finesse, James. I bet if he'd got there first, he wouldn't have done as well. It was tired of screaming by the time he came in, that's all."
" – and you," Thomas said – but he didn't elaborate on that, just leaned in and kissed him hard, pushing Jimmy back against the wall. When he pulled away, his eyes were dark and he didn't seem amused any more. He looked Jimmy up and down. "D'you want to try something new?"
Jimmy's heart gave a funny lurch in his chest as he stared at Thomas, standing a bare half-step away, waiting for his answer. Because – hand jobs, that was it, that was all. That was safest. That way, there wouldn't be any hard feelings afterwards. Jimmy thought it would be impossible for either of them to feel like they'd been fucked over, if neither of them actually got – well, literally fucked.
But now Thomas was in front of him, suggesting something new, which meant not handjobs, and that meant that Jimmy had to lick his lips and take a breath and say – "…yes."
He blinked, taken aback. He was certain he hadn't meant to say that. But Thomas was already pushing Jimmy's coat off his shoulders, and onto the hallway floor – they'd only just made it inside Thomas' front door a few moments before. He took another breath, and tried to gather himself, ready to tell Thomas –
"Take this off," Thomas said, beginning to unbutton his shirt.
"Yes," Jimmy said again, hands coming up and bumping against Thomas' as he worked on the buttons. After a moment of help-hindering, Thomas' fingers slid down further, to unbuckle his belt.
It was the tiredness, Jimmy thought – that curious, exhilarating exhaustion that made him come home with Thomas every evening. It meant that running underneath the caution telling him not to let things go too far, was a simultaneous desire to drop his guard even more and let things happen – just to see…well, what would happen. What it would feel like – even if he already knew it was a bad idea. He grabbed Thomas' shoulders to pull him close, while Thomas unzipped his fly and slid his hand inside Jimmy's trousers to cup his hardening prick.
It was still disconcerting to him – not that he wanted Thomas…but how much he wanted Thomas. The solidity of Thomas' body, the strength of his hands…the uncompromising maleness of him – it was strange that Jimmy should be aroused – not in spite of those things, but because of them. His very lack of pause, oddly served to give him pause…though generally only afterwards. No matter how hard he tried not to let it happen, in the moment, the threads of caution snapped, and Jimmy found himself, as he did now, thrusting forward into the heat and pressure of Thomas' hands, heedless of everything else except the need for more.
He'd almost forgotten this new thing, until Thomas pushed his trousers and pants to mid thigh, and then abruptly slid down onto his knees. Jimmy jerked and made an odd choked sound (because the sight of Thomas kneeling in front of him did strange things to his insides), and said, "Don't – you don't have to."
"I know," Thomas said, sounding oddly amused. "Believe it or not, no-one's got a gun to my head." He kissed Jimmy's navel and said, "It's all right – you'll like it."
If Jimmy'd been capable, he might have snapped back that he wasn't thick – of course he was going to like it…that was the problem, in fact. The last thing he needed was to like Thomas, or the things he did with Thomas any more than he already did. But Thomas had leaned forward, and licked a long stripe up his cock, and all his words vanished, maybe never to return again.
Thomas looked up at him, and wrapped his right hand around the base of Jimmy's cock, before parting his lips and lowering his head. Jimmy jerked forward at the first touch of Thomas' mouth, but Thomas placed his free hand on Jimmy's hip, holding him back against the wall. Jimmy took shaking breaths in, filling his lungs with air that was clearly faulty, because his head spun and his heart jumped nonstop in his chest, and Thomas' mouth was warm and wet and Jimmy was going to – he was going to –
"Stop," Jimmy heard himself say, though he felt an undeniable pang when Thomas did. He rested his forehead against Jimmy's stomach and asked, "What's wrong?" His hands stroked against Jimmy's thighs, which felt shaky, as if they could barely hold him up.
Jimmy shook his head. "Nothing's wrong."
"Then why'd you make me stop?" Thomas asked. He leaned forward again, to kiss the very tip of Jimmy's cock. "You should let me" –
"No," Jimmy said, and Thomas frowned. "It's – what I want, you said…and it's – that's not what I want."
Thomas watched him closely. "Well then, what do you want?" he asked.
And that was the thing about the tiredness, Jimmy thought as he looked down into Thomas' face – it skinned away all his surface layers of reluctance and embarrassment until he was left with only the most pressing, undeniable wants uppermost in his mind, bare and unfettered – and he didn't, couldn't, care enough to keep them safely inside.
"Take off your clothes," Jimmy said – though he only waited until Thomas had his shirt unbuttoned, and parted to reveal his chest, before he started to stroke himself. Thomas paused, still on his knees in front of him, and began to reach upwards –
"No," Jimmy said again. He kept touching himself. "Don't – I just…I want" – he bit his lip, very close.
"All right," Thomas said, and, "All right," again. "Whatever you want." And he stayed still while Jimmy stroked himself to completion, holding Thomas' gaze until he couldn't any more, until he closed his eyes and stiffened, and came in streaks across Thomas' throat and chest.
Then he rested his weight against the wall, and slid unsteadily down until he was sitting on the floor, lungs still heaving. Now, too late, caution crept up behind him and threw its bony arms around him. He had wanted – he had wanted, with a depth of feeling that seemed ceremonial, almost, to do exactly what he had just done – though now it just seemed overblown and ridiculous.
He felt a hand on his cheek, and looked up into Thomas' face, which was soft. "Aren't you full of surprises," was all he said.
Jimmy managed a smile that felt a little odd on his face, before realizing that once again, Thomas had taken care of him, while he hadn't returned the favour. He took a moment to stiffen his resolve, before shuffling closer to Thomas. Almost in a dream, Jimmy reached out and pressed his hand against Thomas' throat, where he'd come, absently rubbing his semen into Thomas' skin. He should have found it disgusting, Jimmy thought detachedly, as his thumb stroked against Thomas' neck. Except he didn't.
He took a breath, and moved his hand to Thomas' shoulder. "Lie down," he said. "It's your turn."
In spite of his urging, and the pressure of his hand, Thomas made no move to do as he said. He pushed his fingers through Jimmy's hair in a way that Jimmy wished wasn't calming. His fists clenched and he was forced to admit, "I don't think I can do it, if you're like this. You'll have to lie down. Or – stand up."
Thomas' fingers didn't even pause, just kept brushing through his hair. "You really want to do that right now?" he said.
"You did it to me," Jimmy pointed out.
"Yeah, but I'm not going to give you a black mark if you don't return the favour this very minute," Thomas said, trying to catch his eyes.
"You did it to me," Jimmy repeated, because that was the crux of it. He couldn't let Thomas do things to him, for him, that he wasn't willing to do for Thomas. The thing that made his palms sweat however, was the fact that…he wasn't unwilling. That inspired a fear that was almost crippling, except for the dull, insistent thought that he had to do what Thomas had done – to even the scales, to keep things fair.
But Thomas cupped his face in his hands and kissed him briefly. "I'm not working to a schedule here, you know," he said. "We've got time for all that. We've got enough time for everything."
Jimmy's heart clenched tight, because they didn't, not really – but Thomas smiled at him as if it had all been resolved and said, "Besides – if it's my turn, then shouldn't I get to decide?"
He didn't try and resist when Thomas pushed him down, and straddled him, knees on either side of Jimmy's thighs, and he didn't object when Thomas pulled out his cock and touched himself the way Jimmy had done, until he finally came, spilling his release onto Jimmy's skin. Even though he'd done the same thing – it felt curiously, nearly invasively intimate to Jimmy…as if Thomas were putting his mark on him, claiming ownership of him.
Jimmy was sure the act hadn't had any of those odd undertones when he'd done it.
Afterwards, Thomas lay down on his side, next to Jimmy, and kissed the side of his face. Lightly, he said, "Well – what's it going to be this time?"
"What?" Jimmy asked.
"Let me guess – you're afraid of monsters?" Thomas' hand stroked against his cheek. "No, wait – y'get violent if you have to share the covers. Insomniac? Sleeptalker?"
"What?" Jimmy said again, though he knew what was coming. Thomas' fingers were gentle against his skin.
"I'm just wondering what reason you're going to give me for not staying this time." His voice was matter of fact, almost amused, and Jimmy felt relieved for a second.
"Actually, I grind me teeth," he said flippantly. "It's awful – you'd be pressing a pillow over my face before you even knew what you were doing."
"Of course," Thomas said. Jimmy made the mistake of looking at him – properly looking at him, and the tight line of his mouth told a different story. Jimmy swallowed, and had to look away.
"Right." Thomas slowly got to his feet, and Jimmy followed, awkwardly shrugging back into his shirt and refastening his trousers.
"I'd better go," he said, when he was finished.
"Fine," Thomas said, and what made everything worse was the fact that he was still using that light, easy tone, like it didn't matter to him. Without conscious thought, Jimmy found himself grasping Thomas' shoulders, and leaning upwards to kiss him. "I'll stay next time," he said, powerless to stop himself. "I promise."
That was cruel, Jimmy thought, even as he said it, not kind. Getting his hopes up.
Thomas looked at him for a long moment, face peculiarly still. "I'll hold you to that, you know," he said evenly.
"Of course you will," Jimmy said – and now it was his turn to try out that hollow, untroubled voice – even as he thought, secretly, with a kind of pain on Thomas' behalf – No, you won't.