Philip lay between Thomas's legs, sucking little red marks into the pristine skin of his hips - drops of blood in cream, he thought - before he chased the flavour with his teeth and tongue. One of Thomas's hands was running absently through his hair, stroking him or pulling him away.
"I love the way you taste," he murmured against a blooming mark, lightly running his thumb up the length of Thomas's prick. He took the head in his grip and angled it towards him, passing the flat of his tongue over the beading fluid. A shaky sigh fell to his ears as he took Thomas into his mouth, sucking him until his cheeks hollowed.
He trailed his free hand over Thomas's chest, so lightly as to only make the smallest amount of contact with skin, running his nails over the nipple he met in time with a moan which vibrated from his throat. Philip released him from his mouth and kissed a trail upward, mimicking the motions of hish and with his lips, biting at the nipple when he came to it.
Grabbing the vial of oil from the table, Philip unscrewed it and put the top on Thomas's forehead with a smile. Thomas smirked down at him while he pooled the oil into his hand, giving the bottle to Thomas so that he could close it.
Slicking his erection, he trailed his other hand over the curve of Thomas's arse and pressed against his entrance, teasingly. His eyes flickered up to his face, watching Thomas biting softly into his lip while he steadied his breath. He slid two fingers inside, slowly, opening him up until he felt that spot within him that made Thomas make the most exquisite sound from low in his throat.
Philip wanted to taste him again, to feel his prick hot against his tongue, but there was something endlessly enrapturing in watching the way Thomas's face changed and coloured when he was being fucked. He let Thomas fuck himself on his hand for a moment, until his own cock ached with the sight of it. Thomas grabbed onto his arm as he removed himself, and Philip laughed.
"Don't claw me this time," he implored, aligning their bodies. He pressed the tip of his cock against Thomas's entrance, liking the way Thomas rocked himself slightly. They both gave a groan when Philip pushed inside.
"Keep still," Thomas told him, though he pulled him down for a kiss. There was such a glorious array of heat around him - his tongue and his cock and the line that Thomas's burned up his belly, the squeezing of hands on his back.
Slowly, he rolled Thomas's hips backward into the bed. "Ah, you - " Thomas mumbled, tilting his head back and losing his words to a sigh. Their motions joined in small movements, and Thomas's hands gripped him desperately. Philip kissed at the base of his throat, feeling the vibrations of the moans and sighs against his lips.
That, Philip would think later, ought to have been all there was in the world - the pleasure of the mingling of skin and sweat, of hearts and heat. There could be nothing purer, more honest. He wished the churches would fall to the ground and their high-hatted clerics with them, so that decent men like them could sing their happy praises to Dionysos.
Even the knowledge that they were reviled didn't seem to cause such offense when they were wrapped together as they were - because all the rest had fallen away.
Philip pulled Thomas into a violent kiss and broke away from it as suddenly, lifting himself up slightly so that he could see him. He was destroyed with lust and so shockingly exquisite, both for and despite it; he panted through his kiss-swollen lips and looked at Philip with inky, glazed eyes.
Philip pushed the hair away from Thomas's face and received an odd sort of smile in return, which he kissed away with a hunger for its happiness. His kiss trailed down Thomas's jaw and throat, until he stopped and came with a moan against the soft skin of his shoulder.
Thomas's fingers stroked lightly at his hair, kissing into it while Philip remained as he was, recovering his breath
After he'd steadied, Philip drew himself down Thomas's body, once more tracing his path with lips and teeth. "Jesus, you're divine," he muttered, through a laugh, licking away the drops of fluid that had dripped from his prick. The laughter was soft, heady - there really was nothing so enjoyable as this, he thought, as he wrapped his mouth around the shaft.
It was hardly a minute before Thomas came against his throat, moaning in sobs above him. Philip rested his head on Thomas's stomach for a moment, before he moved back up the bed, laying next to him. Thomas turned onto his side, pulling Philip closer to him so that he could rest his chin on his head. They both lay quiet, still.
"I hate for this to end," Thomas said, finally. "I always - " He cut himself off abruptly with a sharp sigh and buried his face into Philip's hair.
"I know," Philip responded, wrapping his arms tightly about his lover.
He wondered why on earth everything seemed to be such a waste? It seemed like all the world while it went on, yet it was a secret with a date of expiration; what could be of less use than that? He wished he could extend it, to damn them all and keep Thomas, tie him to his own ages as Thomas's beauty had already tied to him to the world's.
Yet there was no means by which Philip could stave off his reality now that it pressed against even what he thought of as his happiest story.
They remained so entwined for as long as time would allow, pushing at the precipice of time in a way they wouldn't have allowed themselves on a more sensible day. Yet Philip longed to be insensible, longed to damn the world that so damned him; that he couldn't do. He could, however, happily let Thomas be a little late.
The dam of time had burst and so, of a sudden, they were awash in the shared points of their history. That seemed the thing to share now that their present had so faded. Philip had felt a certain reticence; their lives had been so different that he worried that he would offense, yet he realised that the trappings of childhood fell away and left them the tale of two boys much the same. The convergences were the only thing of import, the sorts of things that they could share with so few. The country was so speckled with men of their sort as it surely was with footmen and lords and dukes.
There was a necessity for a certain amount of haste and Philip found himself wishing to skip their parting and venture immediately forth into a sort of dull gloom, though Thomas desired to linger touches beneath sad eyes. So Philip let himself be led once more, pressing a painful embrace into Thomas's ribs - this pain altogether more bearable for its tangibility. Thomas shoved Philip backward into the wall with his body, forcefully enough that Philip's head knocked a picture frame from the wall.
They kissed with an equal violence, in a fit of desperation which spoke of anger as much as sorrow. Philip felt with a little shock as his lip split against the barrage and only sighed further into the kiss. Thomas drew away and darted his tongue over the blood.
"I'm sorry. Here," he said, grabbing Philip's arm and turning him to face the mirror. Philip caught Thomas's eyes in the mirror as Thomas spooned behind him. "Tell me a story," he said, leaned forward and traced the outline of Philip's face, leaving a fingerprint trail behind.
"There's a man with a very aggressive lover," Philip replied, half-smiling. He reached into his jacket for his handkerchief, wiping away the remaining blood that painted his mouth.
"That's not one of your better ones."
"I'm quite fond of it," Philip countered, inclining his head toward the flesh-and-blood Thomas behind him.
"Tell me a proper story, anyway. One I don't know," he added, smirking.
"There's a fellow rather upset with the dawn. He's grown so used to night that he wonders whether or not the sun will burn up his existence. Yet it's hardly his place to stop the sun from rising," he said, as a tight dread banded across his chest. He gave a humourless laugh. "There are some places where it's constantly night, but I don't think he'll manage that. And there's no scientific romance in all the world that fancies bringing England into darkness."
Thomas has been watching him in the mirror raptly and when Philip had finished speaking, their gazes caught once more. They remained still for a pleasant moment, before Thomas brought his lips to the join of Philip's jaw, then to the shell of his ear against which he spoke. "You'll just have to write to Wells immediately, won't you? See if he needs any ideas."
"I suppose I must," he sighed, letting the honied press of Thomas's lips to his skin overwhelm and sweeten his quick-rusting blood. He brought Thomas's hands up, placing a single kiss on each palm.
Holding Thomas's hand to the curve of his jaw, Philip turned around to face him. He trailed his mouth along Thomas's cheeks, his nose - only lastly meeting his lips. The kiss was excruciatingly soft, conciliatory. Their tongues met with unspoken promises or the sweetest lies, things that Philip doubed either of them could bring themselves to say. Still, they could impress them just as honestly in this manner, though it ached. After a moment, Thomas pulled away and Philip buried his face in his shoulder.
"What should we do?" Thomas asked into Philip's hair, wrapping his arms tightly about his waist.
"Write me when you get to Downton. We'll have a ," he said, suddenly drawing away from the embrace. "Wait here a moment."
Philip made his way into the sitting room and stood at its centre, casting his eyes over the books lining the walls. Weeks ago, he'd stuck his first feverish missive to Thomas in a book with a yellow spine. He had thought it terribly funny at the time, but the book was not one that he visited often and he was left with little clue as to where it was.
The letter was not quite one of love and foretold little of their time spent together, how perfectly they had seemed to fit. How sweet and rough, cruel and adoring all at once and all the moreso for being in one another's arms. Rather, this was a letter of brutal worship which Philip knew, as a begrudging undercurrent, that he oughtn't give away. Yet he wanted to wrap those haphazard words Thomas as tightly as skin, to remind him that he was the wickedest, loveliest saint known to man. The only saint Philip worshipped.
Finally, his eyes lit upon the book he was after and, reaching up for it, he plucked it from the shelf. The letter lay neatly inside, yet Philip's eyes scanned the words of the book itself. He lamented his lack of foresight in choosing a book in French; he would have given it to Thomas as a sort of joke: Go forth and sin. His eyes scanned his shelves once more, but was almost certainly making Thomas terribly late as it was.
He tossed the book onto a table, coming into the hall. Thomas still waited before the mirror, manoeuvring his hair back into place with his hands. Despite himself, Philip lingered at the jamb for a moment to watch before Thomas turned to him.
"Well?"
Philip closed the space between them and pressed the envelope against Thomas's chest with his fingertips. "Here you are."
Thomas looked down at it quizzically before he took it and placed it in his jacket pocket. "What is it?"
"Something sweet. Or salty," he added, with the beginning of a genuine smile. "I don't quite remember. I assure you that you'll like it, but you mustn't mock me for it later or I shall be terribly hurt."
"Is it a poem?" Thomas asked,the devious glint of forbidden mockery already showing in his eyes. Philip brought a hand behind Thomas's neck.
"Good lord, no," he laughed. "It really is just a letter. Though it's rather flattering, so I'm sure you'll enjoy it. It can be your reminder that someone realises enough to love you as you deserve."
At that, the amusement dropped from Thomas's face, his expression slipping into something Philip couldn't entirely read though he recognised the an ache behind it. Philip could only kiss him again.
"I have to go," Thomas said, voice thick but lacking intonation. He searched Philip's face for a moment and swallowed, sliding Philip's hand from his neck to his mouth. The blue eyes flickered shut for a moment and Philip felt a great heartswell at the sight. Thomas took a deep breath against Philip's hand, glancing at him from beneath his lashes.
"Away with you, then," Philip said, forcing a smile. Thomas bit the side of his hand softly, dropping it, and turned to walk towards the door with Philip in tow.
It seemed an unbearable thing, to watch Thomas go with no promise of a return. Though he did fully intend to write, when the door closed behind Thomas it did feel to Philip like nothing so much as ending.