The morning light poured in low through the windows and made itself a shroud around Philip, who awoke with a groan at the the unkind embrace. He turned away, into the bed, and covered his eyes against the light. His consciousness wavered until it was brought a little further to life by the soft pressure of fingers running through his hair.
"Why in god's name are you awake?" he mumbled. At this, the ministrations stopped and he received a sharp tap against his temple, which elicited a shock of pain. He grabbed Thomas's hand with his own and pressed the both of them against his head as though to stop the reverberations.
"I'm up before this, usually. We can't all laze about as we like."
"Take advantage, then," he said, keeping Thomas's hand with him as he shifted onto his back. "What time is it?"
"It's just a habit. Half eight."
"Good lord, Thomas. You can't feel much better than I do. Come here and break that awful habit."
Thomas gave a a soft huff of laughter and extricated his hand from its hold, placing the other on Philip's waist as he moved down the bed. After a moment, he informed Philip of one of the more beautiful facts Philip had heard in a time - "There's a Beecham's on the table behind you."
Philip opened his eyes and noticed Thomas looking pleasantly dishevelled, though somewhat wan. "Not efficient enough for a shave, though?" He teased, sitting up a bit woozily and grabbing the glass from beside him. "Thank you," he added, as Thomas began to speak.
"I didn't feel up to using a razor just then."
Philip hummed his amusement in between gulps, catching sight of a discarded book which lay open behind Thomas. "Anything strike your fancy?"
"Hmm?" Thomas asked, then followed Philip's gaze behind him. "Oh. Yes, in fact. I'm not so impressed by all your grand talk now."
"I don't know what you mean," Philip replied, replacing the empty glass. "And I doubt you were ever that impressed." He paused as he situated himself once more along the bed. "I'd lend it to you, but you might be so disappointed in me by the end that you'd not come around."
"You've other draws than your speeches," Thomas said, smiling.
"I'm flattered. Dorian."
"Not hardly."
"Have you ever read it?" Philip asked, to which Thomas shook his head. "Good. That's only complimentary for about 5 pages."
"I'm farther along than that."
"My apologies," he said. He pulled Thomas into an unhurried kiss, which existed only for itself. Thomas pressed him backward until he lay flat, stroking his thumb along Philip's bristled jawline, kissing at the invisible trails left thereupon. "When's your train meant to come in?"
"Three, I think. I doubt they'll check."
Thomas draped an arm over Philip's torso, resting his head against his arm. Philip felt a strange desire course through him, and without thinking, reached his free hand over to grab roughly at the skin above Thomas's hip, pulling it away from the bone until Thomas made a sound and stopped him.
"What are you doing?"
"Did you never - did you never want to squeeze a puppy?" Philip asked, feeling absurd as he did. Thomas raised his eyebrows and they both broke into laughter. "God, I need more sleep." He passed a hand over his face. "Shall we try to break your habit, anyway?"
Thomas nodded silently and they both fell back into one another - then the pure silence of morning and black of sleep.
Philip stood before the mirror, ostensibly with the intention of watching himself - though his gaze was ribonned by its constant flickering to Thomas. Thomas stood against the wall, pale fingers ran along the ivory handle of the razor, which he bothered absently.
"Let me do it. I like to," Thomas said, reigning his distant attention in to life. Philip looked at him inquisitively, to which Thomas only shrugged and extended the handle. It was just as well for him to not; he was still feeling a little hazy about the edges. When he made no to move to take it, Thomas moved closer and turned Philip side-ways, hip pressing into the basin.
"You're not secretly a cutthroat, are you?" Philip asked, smirking. Thomas made no response, now apparently focused, and the cold line of the razor was brought down Philip's cheek in a few swipes. "Why do you like to?" He asked, once there was a safe distance.
"It's relaxing, is all," Thomas responded, shaking the blade through the water. "I used to watch m'dad do it. Only time he were quiet." Another series of slow passes were made over Philip's skin. "I like the sound of it."
It hadn't been a thing that Philip had ever taken especial note of - it had become so routine a thing as to fade almost entirely into the background. For the first time, he listened to the sharp little sounds, the regularity in their repetition, watching as he did Thomas's somehow distant look of concentration. Before he found his fill of the sight, Thomas tilted his head back.
"Were you fond of him?"
"Don't talk," Thomas scolded. He drew the razor lightly down Philip's throat. "No."
He wrapped his arms loosely around Thomas's middle, slipping his hands beneath his undershirt and resting his fingers along either side of the grooves of his spine. Philip focused his attention to the moment; it was soothing, if he let it be. Then, he doubted that it was purely the sound, so much as Thomas's gaze and soft hands, now imbued with a necessary delicacy of movement.
Once done, and wincing from the sting of bay rum, he pulled Thomas into a tighter embrace and buried his face in his shoulder. Thomas kissed his neck and asked if anything was wrong.
"Everything's marvellous," he responded, pulling away just enough to unmuffle his words. "I just love touching you."
At this, he could feel Thomas relax further into him. Philip was never touched like this and it seemed as though, this, if nothing else - the literal, physical draw - could keep them entwined further than the extent of their bodies. It was nonsense and it seemed as though his intellect warred with the rest of him on the subject - yet his flesh and spirit both so felt the truth of it that he allowed them to disregard any sober learning. It seemed perfectly reasonable that facts remembered should be those learnt in a passion, as men loved should be loved.
Then, what was left him was Michelangelo or Byron or Shakespeare, any to justify the innate grandiosity the embrace seemed to swell in his chest. Were he a man in a novel, he'd rid himself of all other books. As it was, he was tied with a bitter force to reality; when Thomas left, he would inevitably feel the weight of his bookshelves upon him, chastising him for his rhapsody rather than his lover.
Philip broke their embrace with a sigh. "I suppose we should finish dressing. Or you should, at least. I may just stay in 'til tonight."
"In your undershirt?" Thomas asked, casting a smile over his shoulder as he made his way towards his clothing.
"Perhaps. No one else will be around."
"Lucky devil," Thomas replied, slipping into his shirt. His hands sped their way over the buttons and he pulled his braces up.
"I'll have you know I lead an extremely wicked life."
"I'm less impressed, remember?"
Philip did, and looked to where he'd last seen the book only to find it had fallen onto the floor during their sleep. He picked it up and tossed it lightly across the bed. "Here. Take it with you when you go." He sat himself on the bed, as well, and leaned against the headboard, watching Thomas continue dressing. "I've an idea you'll come back, regardless."
"I shouldn't wonder at your ideas, with your mad novels."
It was a sentiment which felt rather too appropriate just then; he knew Thomas was only making fun, but a slight frown played at the corners of Philip's mouth. "Well, novels are where we must take lessons in living, aren't they? Or thinking. You and I most of all." He spoke almost sharply and Thomas caught his eye with an odd expression. He shook his head, as though dislodging the fog therein. "Sorry. I'm suddenly in a bit of a foul mood. Let's put it down to your leaving, shall we?"
It was, in a way, true - Thomas seemed to be the stopper to what was real and it was sure to flood the place once he'd gone.
Thomas turned his attentions away and his eyes dropped to bottle of oil from the night before, still on the floor. He picked it up and swirled it around, looking amused, before he opened it to let a couple of sparse drops fall into his hand. Once closed, he tossed it to Philip. For this, Philip was put to ease over Thomas not holding the clumsiness of the previous night against him.
"Come to the House if you're lonely," Thomas said, slicking his hair back in the mirror.
"God, no. I don't want to give the younger one any ideas," he said with a laugh. While he could just-short-of blank someone at a ball, he was hardly able to do such a thing in her home.
"No one else does, either."
"There you are, then."
As he sat, Philip felt a craving work its way over him, which he first put down to cigarettes. More, to bad cigarettes - it was then that he realised what he wanted was the taste of bad cigarettes that played over Thomas's tongue. The desire pulsed to his fingertips and, in bringing them to sweep his hair back, seemed to sweep away his reticence. To Hell with later - he'd use later, when he was alone, to feel stupid over love. Not just then, as it was so sweetly incensing his rooms.
"I like having you here. It makes the place seem so much more alive, even when you're away. Your memory is fine company."
Thomas gave a sweet smile at that. "Well, come here. While I'm actually company."
Philip began to walk over to him, but, on a whim, changed his path and went to his dresser. He looked over his cufflinks and quickly lit upon a pair which, while on the ornate end of simple, stayed clear of ostentation. Thomas was doing up his second cuff when Philip simply undid the first one and put the selected cufflink in.
Thomas paused in doing the second one and blankly watched Philip take over. "Are you giving me these?"
"I'm not making you my mannequin," he replied, putting Thomas's cufflinks on the table. He looked to Thomas uneasily; he wasn't one for begrudging gifts, but he didn't know whether Thomas would take it in the intended spirit or as a sign of some unpleasant trade
"I don't, er," Thomas stammered. A faint blush rose to his cheeks and Philip felt immensely bad at so simple a gift having provoked such a reaction, though comforted that Thomas was clever enough to read their intent. He brushed the guilt away as quickly as it had appeared and asked if Thomas liked them.
"I always liked them," he added.
"They're gorgeous," Thomas said, running his thumb along the gilt edge of one. "They're - yes."
"It's only fair," Philip said, breathing an inward sigh of relief as Thomas rested a hand against his face. He drew faint circles against his neck. "I get the memory of you whenever I'm in bed. You can have mine when you dress." He leaned into the touch and Thomas pulled him forward until their lips met almost roughly, though the succeeding movements were immaculately gentle.
Philip had come to notice that Thomas loved to lead anywhere he knew the paths and, god, he didn't mind following. He wanted to push Thomas onto the bed and undo all his precise dress, but kissing as they were - slowly, as though they had all the time in the world - was a different sort of pleasure, equally as perfect.
"I think it's three," Thomas said against his mouth. "I need to go."
"Ah, but the trains are always late," Philip said, tightening his grip on Thomas's waist; not down this path, not until the last possible moment. He could feel the hesitance run through Thomas's body and, then, the precise moment he acquiesced. They kissed again. "God, but I love you."
Philip had genuinely meant to keep it sealed to the previous day, honest but possibly a part in a phantasmagoria. Yet Thomas kept looking at him so softly and kept touching and kissing him; with each instance, he grew further contented in damning any previous decision. He'd have time to meet up with them later. As it was, just then, he would have been quite willing to let Thomas call him by a different name, if the man so fancied.
"I'm glad," Thomas responded, pressing his mouth to Philip's forehead. "I love you, as well. And thank you," he said, pulling away to touch at the cufflinks again, flicking his gaze between them and Philip.
"So long as you like them."
"I do," Thomas said, looking endearingly chuffed. He glanced behind Philip to the clock. "I really have to go, though."
Philip sighed, screwing up his mouth in displeasure. "Away with you, then," he said, brushing his hands outward.
Thomas grabbed the book from the bed, then walked to the doorway and hovered there for a moment. "Show me out. You really must never host," he added, as Philip came up behind him. He grabbed Philip's hand and led him down the hall to the front door.
"Next week," Philip said, once they'd come to a stop. They wrapped their arms tightly around one another and Thomas kissed a trail from the top of Philip's head to his lips. Again, they seemed to be caught there, trapped in one another, lips and tongues meeting as if for the first or the last time.
Thomas rested their foreheads together with a sigh. "Next week," he agreed. He drew away and out of the flat, smiling back at Philip as he did so.
Despite the reverence in which he held such a smile, Philip pushed his back hard against the wall and frowned to himself. He stayed there for a while, thinking nothing as much as everything, and meandered back to his bedroom, still in its dreamy disarray. He had insisted Thomas leave the things where they were, as it hardly mattered, but he wondered whether to pick them up himself. It was only down to his taste; quickly, he decided that he liked it as it was.
He went to his scotch and took a large swig directly from the decanter, not specifying to himself whether it was hair of the dog or a way to stop his belly squelching in pain. He grimaced at the taste but enjoyed the pleasant burn as it dripped downward. After a moment's hesitation, he made his way back to his bed and flopped atop of it. His thoughts carefully unwound as he stared at the ceiling and he imagined them spread across its surface, for later. Later.