Chris' huge smile devours him. He spins him round in his arms until Thomas is dizzy with it, drunk on it. Thomas laughs until the sound almost consumes him and he stops, for fear of soiling this previous, holy haven he has been introduced to. The men wear haloes cast by the light of gas lamps.
A rushing noise begins in his ears, underlaid with the roar of angry voices. The door breaks open and he falls under the heavy boots of the North Yorkshire constabulary. (He feels Chris; hand on his arm, trying to stop him from dobbing himself in it further and speaking uselessly, as if it matters to the Police how many times a man has danced with another man so long as he wants to dance with a man. Idiot. He grasps his arm and it's not his fault Thomas pulls away.)
He wakes up and his gasp is muffled in the pillow which smells like the washing powder Richard's mum uses for the sheets of the spare bedroom. Richard's rib cage hums steadily under his fingers. He's still asleep and Thomas curls closer to the long broad expanse of his existence, the calm white waiting room of his back.
Pulling his knees to his chest and lowering his forehead to the exposed slither of skin between Richard's collarbone and the neck of his shirt: this is his favourite way to pray. It's the first way he knows which doesn't require tearing chunks of himself out to offer in an unrequited sacrifice.
A heartbeat later, he stirs under his touch and sighs a smile, low and languid in the morning air, soft and slow. Thomas makes a little noise in return, presses his lips to the nape of his neck, "Morning luv. Now we're on holiday, why don't you take me out dancing?"