It wasn't until several days after Thomas's visit that Philip had realised the scope of mis-step regarding the confession to the stranger. He was sat at a nearly-smart café across from a more eccentric acquaintance of his, whose endless barrage of cigarettes provoked disapproving glances from passers-by.
Gaby was somewhere in her twenties and had never been brought out, due to a depressive father not having bothered to find anyone to present her. As such, she was left to drift without anchor in London's undertow. She and Philip had washed upon a shared shore when her brother decided that the time had come to put away childish things, which the both of them had been rather surprised to find themselves included among. They had each found a sympathetic ear in the other and had remained firm friends since the Crisis.
That said, there wasn't a single friend Philip could count who he didn't occasionally regret having met and while the instances were fewer with Gaby than with most, when they arose they tended to loom large.
"Can I paint your chap?"
The words were spoken so suddenly and with such precision that Philip's first inclination was to duck from their path. He paused mid-drink, cup to his mouth, and stared at her. For her part, she appeared to have no interest in his reaction, having asked it and then fled the scene of his expressions, refocusing her attention towards her coffee.
"Come again?"
"Roddie said your chap was very striking. I was wondering if you'd introduce me."
"He would hardly know. And no, I won't introduce you."
"Well, I'm hardly likely to steal him away, am I?" She looked up in time to catch the fading end of the scowl he was reigning back in. "Oh, there's hardly need to get self-important. And it's rather late for secrets. Though If you didn't want anyone to know, you oughtn't have told bloody Oliver, of all people. The man's like god: he never forgets a confession."
"I'd never met him before," Philip defended lamely. Oliver - he recalled now having heard tell of the man's penchant for being an ungodly gossip, but hadn't connected the history to the face. "He kept needling me and I couldn't help it. It was that or throwing my drink on him and he didn't seem worth the wasted champagne."
"He certainly isn't," she said, then looked at him through her eyelashes in an almost flirtatious manner. "Still, you needn't be upset. Everyone thinks it's rather sweet that you've got a secret sweetheart."
Though her bluntness could wear on him at times, Gaby's tendency to speak of everything with a simplicity that implied it were as appropriate for a late-night tête-à-tête as over tea with the vicar was like bringing a bouquet to your nose during a jaunt through the city.
"I'm glad everyone approves," he said, bordering dangerously on meaning it.
"What sort of fellow is he?"
"I don't actually know all that much about him. We met not too long ago at one of those ghastly coming-out affairs."
"Apparently it wasn't too ghastly. Servant or someone grand as yourself?"
"One doesn't necessarily preclude the other."
"A servant in need of a savior, then. How romantic," she ragged. Her hands flitted over the the rolled sides of her hair which was rapidly frizzing away from its style in the heat. "What's he look like?"
Philip paused for a moment, trying to find an explanation which didn't sound like he'd pinned down the words at a Bacchanal. "He looks like something someone might have dreamt up," was what he settled on. He finished the last of his coffee and said, "You'd love to paint him."
Gaby's eyes widened a little as they trailed the smoke of her cigarette into the distance. She gave a small laugh and said, "Oh, lord, I don't want to paint him; I'm still trying to find a tart of Roddie's to fashion into Boadicea. I just wanted to hear you talk about him."
Thomas seemed to drift into the flat along with the air, resting upon Philip as pleasurable. He'd wasted no time in joining the lines of their bodies together, slinking his hand up Philip's spine and lightly snapping the line of his braces. They let the silence weigh over them and left glancing touches near to bared skin, never letting themselves quite meet. Thomas rolled his hips into Philip, whose head knocked softly into the wall at the feeling. He watched the ink slowly seep into the blue of Thomas's eyes and finally pressed his lips to rise of Thomas's throat above his collar.
"Wait," Thomas said quietly. A smile threatened the corners of his mouth as he buried a hand in Philip's hair and turned his head to the side. With his other hand, he reached out and tapped a forefinger against a milky portrait. "Who's that?"
"That's - ah-" his voice caught as Thomas moved against him once more. "You're rather eager, aren't you?"
"It's been a trying week."
"Well, I'm more than happy to take your mind off it," he said, running his fingers along the edge of Thomas's hairline. "I actually do know who that's meant to be: it's some French tart done up as Madame de Pompadour. A friend of mine painted it and sneaked it on my wall. She'll be thrilled to hear you have such fine tastes."
"You tell people about this?" Thomas's brows came together lightly, expression not quite working its way through the desire weighing heavily about his eyes.
"No," Philip replied, not sure if that was the response which Thomas would want. "She asked and I said I was secreting about with a dream."
Thomas pulled back a little and ducked his head down, leaning forward as he did so to rest his forehead against Philip's shoulder. He dropped his hands to Philip's hips and rocked them against his own.
"Stop. Stop," Philip said breathily, mustering the majority of his will to move Thomas to arm's length. "I have an awful feeling you're going to break away and rush out the door."
"That were worse for me than you."
"I don't doubt. That only shows me that your sadism has a farther reach than your dislike of masochism, which is - it's certainly interesting, but I don't especially want to experience it that way."
Thomas raised his eyebrows, but stayed immobile in Philip's grip, which tightened over his ribs. "Anyway," Philip restarted, ignoring the interest on the other's face, "I have a perfectly serviceable bed which we seem to have missed last time."
Philip moved his hands from Thomas's torso and made his way down the hallway. Having turned a corner, he looked behind him to make ensure that Thomas was, in fact, following him. Thomas laughed and reached out, touching Philip's back as they continued.
Upon reaching the bedroom, Thomas's touch spread into the firmness of his palm and he pushed Philip along until he was at the bed. Philip knelt on its foot before Thomas pressed him down, kneeling between his knees and grabbing him firmly about the waist, manhandling him further up the bed.
Thomas's weight came down heavily atop him and Philip could barely think for the pleasure of their being so pressed together in this new way. He wanted to undress, to feel Thomas's bare skin against his own, but the idea of moving away from the embrace was nearly unimaginable. Thomas frantically undid Philip's collar and tie, tossing them onto the floor, and alternated between lips and teeth in his ministrations against what skin was at his disposal.
He reached beneath Philip and undid his trousers, taking his cock in one hand as his other interlaced their fingers. Philip could feel Thomas's still-clothed erection rocking against the cleft of his arse in time with the movement of the hand around him. He moved in time as best he could, overcome in so dizzying a way by Thomas's desire more than his own.
"Touch yourself," Thomas said, lowly, and Philip could feel the voice vibrating against his ear on strings which went directly to his prick. Thomas's hand moved to press its length against his perineum, skirting towards his entrance when they leaned forward. Philip's mouth opened against the bed and he let out a soft moan, taking himself in hand.
As the pitch and volume of Philip's exhalations increased, Thomas moved his own hand back to the man's cock, guiding his hand away from the shaft, and stroked the skin so roughly as to near painful. Philip's thumb stroked his head, following any movement, until he finally came, not bothering to stifle his cry.
He panted heavily against the bed, trying to find it in him to flip Thomas over. Hoping Thomas wasn't too far gone, he managed, "Get off". The response, "I am", was not what Philip had intended, but the provoked laughter made him a little more cognizant.
"Get off of me. Roll over."
Thomas first stilled his movements, and Philip could feel him trembling with each breath before he shifted to the side.
Philip drew into a kneeling position, moving himself between Thomas's legs. He unjoined the braces from the trousers, undoing the latter and pulling them and his underclothing down to just above his knees. "Oh," he said, at the faint yellowing over Thomas's hip. "I'm sorry."
"What?" Thomas looked at him, nothing indicating curiosity having found its way to his face.
"I gave you a bruise," he responded, ghosting his fingers over it.
"I gave you one this time."
As though having heard the accusation, a firework of pain set off from Philip's neck. "Yes, probably."
Philip watched Thomas's hand drift slowly downward, and when the appendage met the base his cock, Philip pressed his mouth tightly over as much as Thomas's length as he could. He felt Thomas suppress a jerk upward and ran his fingers along the crook of the man's legs to still him.
"You're wonderful," Thomas ground out. He didn't know if Thomas had anyone to compare him to, but he was pleased to hear it nonetheless. He liked doing this, liked feeling Thomas's prick twitch in his mouth. He liked sucking and kissing and licking the sensitive skin all along the shaft and head, but he liked best of all when that eternally blasphemous voice in his mind murmured about sacrament when everything seemed to halt but for the bursts of ejaculate against his throat.
While Thomas brought his breathing down to normal, Philip moved up the bed, leaning his back against the headboard. Thomas did his trousers back up and when he made to sit, Philip groped a hand into his hair and held him fast.
"I would like if you'd do more than go to bed with me." Thomas's eyes wandered up to meet his. "Don't run off. Please. Come here."
Hair loosed, Thomas sat up and moved backward to meet his arms. Philip's arms slung over Thomas's shoulders, one of which was pressed into his chest - it was slightly awkward, but Philip didn't want to move and Thomas seemed as disinclined. Philip placed a kiss atop the mess of black hair before resting his face into it, enjoying the sweet smell of the oil Thomas used.
"What do you normally get up to in your free time?"
"I come here."
"What did you get up to last Season?" He turned his head and gave a sly smile. "Unless you were similarly occupied?"
"I've never been here before," he replied. The words wore his voice tightly, uncomfortably. "I started with the Granthams after last Season. The house I worked at before didn't do it."
Philip shifted down the bed, propping himself upon pillows. Thomas sank down with him, turning so that he lay with his face against Philip's chest, arm slung over him. Philip found Thomas's hand with own of his own and skimmed the other along Thomas's back.
"This must be a bit of disappointment," he said, with an aim towards contradiction.
"Hardly. I get as much of this as culture at Downton," Thomas said. Then, smiling, "Somehow the farmhands of Ripon don't strike my fancy."
"You've shown yourself to have refined tastes in all subjects."
They lay silent for a while, Philip's consciousness guttering against the heat which prickled over his skin like stars. He heard Thomas warn him against sleep, which he made only the vaguest attempts at heeding until his slowed breathing was caught up with Thomas's in a kiss. Their tongues met only softly, torpor having slowed and made gentle their passions.
Philip leaned their foreheads together so that their lashes nearly met and placed a single kiss on Thomas's slightly-parted mouth."Could you fix it to the stay night?"
Despite Philip's general preference of keeping Thomas only within reality so far as his arms extended, he found himself rather stuck on the idea of showing Thomas the way London exhaled at night. The way the new space at its bosom nearly allowed for men like them.
The weight over him shifted slightly and Thomas propped his head on his own arm, staring down Philip searchingly. "I may be able to."
"You could have a relative take gravely ill. Unless you think that morbid," he added.
Instead of looking anything remotely nearing appalled, Thomas broke into a grin. "I don't mind. Send me a card saying someone's dying. I'm sure the postmark will get smudged with tears," he said simply.
Philip laughed at the immediacy with which his suggestion had been accepted. The charm of youthful deviousness was boundless to him and the fact that Thomas was so willing to lose himself in that chasm along with him left Philip exorbitantly happy. It was like a meeting of minds and histories running along the shared courses of their hearts. He slid his thumb over the pulse point of Thomas's throat, ensuring that the two of them ticked in time with one another.
"Have you killed off many relatives like this?"
"No," he said, voice humming against Philip's hand. "But I'm not against being orphaned."