he Season was fading into its end, as seasons do, and the thought of it bit into Philip as each ball or dinner turned his days upon one another and stacked them neatly into history. At least, he supposed, they were diverting; he seemed almost constantly occupied by fiddling with arrangements even if he was home. He could sense a growing strain of annoy in Godfrey over the fact, but he bore the man's pointed looks to his back in order to avoid falling prey to the constant reading of the books which took such joy in impressing sobering lessons upon him.

He'd written to his mother for the first time in months, asking her to send along his childhood copies of Edward Lear. When they arrived, there was no letter with them, just the note: Having not heard from you in months, I can only assume that your wanting these indicates that you have quietly acquired both an heiress and your heir. Do bring them along next time you see fit to come to Crowborough.

He crumpled the damned thing up and threw it into the waste-paper bin, unduly chafed at the note and, immediately, everything else.

Relinquishing hold of the plans to Godfrey, he devoted himself to the lull of nonsense. He read those that had been his favourite pieces over until he had unintentionally committed them to memory, allowing him to forsake the actual books entirely. Instead, he lay on the couch reciting them to himself and when that grew tedious, he translated them into Greek.

Still, running beneath the machinations of the absurd was that selfsame unease which he had begun the week with. Though he meandered along the paths forged by the σκώψ, in words, the ground therein threatened to give and crash him into murk.

The murk waited around his edges and touched at him when he was faced with what lay prospectively before him; when the Season did end, Thomas would leave and that would seem to light something which threatened to burst.

Philip thought, sometimes, that if his mother would have the good grace to die, he would breathe infinitely easier. While the riches had dwindled to an unnerving sum if one ran an estate and maintained several homes, he had an idea that they were enough to extend the length of his lifetime comfortably in a better place than in which he currently resided.

In these ungracious moods, he blasted the the survival of the title. He didn't actually know whether it would die with him if he didn't produce an heir or if there was some Dickensian urchin who would suddenly find himself a duke. Being dead, he'd hardly find out. And, at the least, he thought bitterly, he'd have a chance of buying a small segment of history for himself if he were the last.

Philip did find it fun, charming interesting women at parties, but it was all a game of cards - one may win a hand, but the deck eventually goes back and those winning hands summarily forgotten. He didn't want to go down any apparently primrose paths half so thorned as what marriage would prove, nor did he especially want to drag a woman into it unless she understood - and she wouldn't, could never.

Spending half a century in a borrowed mask was not a thing he looked forward to, yet the mask had been forged, the constriction of its ties growing and he felt himself increasingly at a loss for movement beneath it.

It was this stifling thing that left him so giddy at the purity of the air which Thomas kissed into his mouth. Neither seemed to bear the fraught of what lay outside of them when they were together and their days were made utterly unreal for it. Utterly unreal and more sincere than anything Philip had hitherto experienced.
They didn't dither, neither did they lament nor fret - they existed, it seemed, unto one another alone. Dreams cast up into life, born knowing swathes of the other's history. He hated the idea of waking up.

Yet the dawn approached and he wondered when it should cast its light over this sweetest sleep. He had been surprised that Thomas had put no mention of a nearing departure in his latest letter; perhaps he was just as wont to shut the shades and eschew the knowledge of dawn for a little longer. Which Philip certainly didn't mind.

While the sky outside seemed to be unsurely threatening rain, Philip's flat was thickly perfumed with the flowers he had bought on a whim and the place seemed brighter for it. From his couch, he stared at the strange clouds drifting along in the sky and continued his trajectory through Lear, focusing his attentions on newly-memorised poems.

As he began the tale of a fellow from Brigg, the knock came to draw him into himself. He arose and made his way down the hall, opening the door and feeling his smile waiver slightly at the storm already evident in Thomas's eyes. As Thomas entered, he handed Philip the book he'd been leant.

"That hardly deserved its scandal," was the greeting he received, from a voice wrought in displeasure. "Same as ever: Be the way we are and wind up with a bad ending."

"We're too scandalous even to damn," he replied, watching Thomas remove his hat. "I imagine god himself blushes to think at what we've gotten up to. Not so bad an ending, then."

"Do you believe in god?" Thomas asked, sounding surprised.

"Only when it's inconvenient," he said wryly.

Thomas gave a tight smile at that, which faded as quickly at it had arisen. In the successive silence, an unpleasant sort of tension wounds its way through the air, as though twisted up in the sweet fragrance. The lines of Thomas's body were tense and he was staring at Philip in an oddly beseeching manner, a port in his silent storm. Philip sighed; he was already tired of speaking above what they both knew.

"Say what it is that you're not. Tell me you're going."

"In a week and a bit, but this is my last half day. Oh," Thomas spat, but I'll have an extra day once we're back to Downton. How bloody thoughtful of them. "

Philip felt a decided drop in his stomach, felt as though his insides were all retreating from the immobile form which housed them. This was different than he had expected; he'd expected some time - another day, at least. A shaft of light rather than this brutal flash.

"Let's - " he swallowed, drew his brows together over distant eyes. He looked at Thomas and managed, "Let's not spoil today, then. Hmm?" He smiled half-heartedly before he lit upon an idea, which eased the tension within him some. "Come into the sitting room. I've something I can show you."

Philip put the book that he'd carried with him on the table. going over to a short cabinet done in a rather ornate Oriental style. Thomas peered over his shoulder as he opened the top of it to reveal its purpose.

"Do you like music?" Philip asked, bending over to open the other doors.

"I suppose."

Philip bristled slightly at Thomas's apparent resolution to drift about in the gloom before it had even fully hit them. He flipped around in the book of discs until he found the song he was after.

"Do you remember the woman from The Criterion?"

"Yes."

"She showed me the absolute worst dance. I thought that she'd made it up, but it's rather a fad. You'll be so very modern," he teased, putting the disc around the little spike in the cabinet. He cranked its handle and directed, "Put your arms over my shoulders."

Thomas did so, amusement visibly warring with his displeasure. Philip was immensely pleased at this impending victory to keep pleasant.

"Not how you have them," he said, putting Thomas at arm's length and showing him the proper way to look a fool. Thomas snorted and copied him as Philip awkward reached to put the needle on the record. The warmth of the sound began to fade into the room.

Philip had only ever seen the dance (and everyone involved in the evening had been quite drunk), so the recreated movements were a bit of a mess - but he wasn't at all sure that they weren't meant to be. "I think," he said, changing their direction with increasing speed, "you're meant to shout something about bears, but I've forgotten."

"Are we meant to be bears?" Thomas asked, voice bumping over laughter.

"Well, I imagine so."

Before the song was quite over, the dance devolved into Philip roughing Thomas about while they struggled not to break apart with laughter. He manoeuvred them towards the couch and fell heavily atop it, pulling Thomas over him.

"You've caught me."

Thomas looked as though he were going to speak, but stopped. As he looked down at Philip, that slight fog threatened to reappear, before he was drawn down for a gentle kiss. He brought himself back up, straddling Philip's legs with one of his own left to an awkward angle against the floor.

Without removing the clothing, Thomas unfastened the joins running down the centre of Philip's chest, spreading them apart to reveal the next layer until he reached bare skin. He ran his fingertips down Philip's sides. "No undershirt?"

"It's not the weather for propriety."

"No," Thomas agreed. He shifted his weight upward so that he sat over Philip's hips.

Philip inhaled deeply at the pressure against his cock and made to pull Thomas over him, finding himself stopped. Thomas pressed his palms from the edge of Philip's waistband up to his collarbones. Thomas's fingers caught in the grooves of his ribs and kneaded between them, thumbs mimicking the motions over and around his nipples.

They held one another's gaze, Philip watching as Thomas's flush crept below his collar. He reached out to touch the dripping colour before Thomas turned his head to kiss his palm. Philip led his head back so their eyes met once more, sliding his hand along Thomas's jaw and running his thumb over his lips.

"Kiss me," Philip pleaded, as Thomas took his thumb into his mouth.

After a moment, Thomas lifted his weight. "Sit up."

Philip obeyed, their mouths meeting while their bodies pressed together. Thomas kissed him needily, threatening to knock him backward. He groped his hand over the back of the couch and held himself upright. Thomas's hands continued their ministrations, following the ribs back to his spine.

"Tell me how badly you want me," Thomas said against his mouth.

"You know how badly I want you," Philip responded, pulling Thomas's head forward so that his lips brushed his ear as he spoke. "You can feel how badly I want you."

"Mm, tell me again."

"More than anything. You're the dream I wish for every night."

At that, Thomas fell over him and regained his mouth. Philip's hands snaked into his hair and he held him tight, only reluctantly letting Thomas pull away when he fancied. He loved letting himself be had.

"What do dream of?"

"Nothing like you," he laughed, eager to recapture their kiss. Thomas pulled a little further back.

"No. What really?"

"Nothing. Childhood."

"Do you ever dream of me?"

"I have," he responded, Thomas's eyes burning brightly into his own.

"What?"

"It wasn't unlike this," Philip said and was rewarded when Thomas allowed for a glancing kiss, though only their lower lips seemed to meet. "But it could never compare. I can never forget," he started, running his hands though Thomas's hair and down to his neck, "the feel of you as I can a dream."

Thomas rested their foreheads together, breathing a little unsteadily. His eyes fluttered to a close. "I want you to fuck me, like before," he murmured.

"Yes," Philip agreed. "Of course. Yes. God, Thomas you really are so lovely."

"I'll bet you say that to everyone you bugger."

"I don't bugger anyone but you. You are lovely," he said, pulling Thomas's head away from his so that they could focus on one another. "You're even lovelier than you know."

An unmistakable warmth shone within their shared gaze and Thomas sat up once more, staring down at him. A strange calm fell about them and Philip laced their fingers together, watching with a growing concern as the edges of Thomas's mouth twist and tighten. Thomas's eyes drifted upward, blinking rapidly, but when he made to bring his hands up Philip held them fast. Finally, their hands parted so that Philip could pull himself up.

A wash of unease fell over him; he was never one for tears. The impulse had been frightened from him before it had ever become a habit. Dimly, he wondered whether it wasn't that Thomas had simply been left alone often enough to have never unlearned how to cry. He tried to find the appropriate response, but the awful thing that came to mind was, What did you expect?

Then, one could only steel oneself so much in expectation of a blow. One could, perhaps, outrun it; they weren't allowed the chance.
Philip brought Thomas's head level with his own and placed a kiss over his eyes in turn, kissing along their salt tracks to Thomas's lips, suddenly sweeter than they had even seemed. Thomas kissed him back softly, then pulled away, running the heels of his hands over his eyes roughly.

"I'm being an idiot."

"No," Philip quietly rejoined. He rested his head against Philip's chest and listened to his heartbeat, waiting for the breathing to steady. "'These violent delights have violent ends', I suppose."

"Is this an ending?"

"I don't know," Philip sighed. He felt Thomas press his cheek against his head.

"Well," Thomas said, clearing his throat and continuing strong, "if you swallow cleaning powders, I won't be following."

At that, of all things, a jolt of absolute adoration throbbed against Philip's chest in time with his heart. He did love Thomas and that what was going to hurt so - the shared arteries of their hearts were to rip apart with distance. There was nothing to be done but regret the love and that seemed ungodly cruel, to the both of them.
Despite himself, despite that sudden pained swelling against his ribs, he couldn't help but laugh at the comment. "That's dreadful."

"So am I."

"You're perfect."

"You're not so bad yourself," Thomas replied.

"You're so damned smug," Philip laughed.

"I thought I were perfect?"

"You're something. You're the - I don't know. You're the easiest part of my week."

Thomas brought Philip's head up and kissed him forcefully, slowly - as though there were no end in sight.