New chapter, about Thomas and Jimmy's mutilated, semi-romantic relationship. Please, enjoy! Yes, there are a few references to Les Miserables' 'A Little Fall Of Rain' – not only in the title, but in some of the dialogue. Hope you don't mind!
Sparki: I own nothing!
He was crying.
Thomas could hear him, as he huddled beneath the well-worn sheets of his cot. The under butler lay quietly upon his own, gazing silently at James' hunched form. The footman's shoulders shook with poorly contained sobs, and although he made not a sound, his sadness was plain for all to hear.
An hour had almost passed now, since Thomas had stumbled back to the darkened room. The door was ajar, he'd discovered; James had not bothered to close it behind him.
Inside, all was quiet. Peering through the shadows, thrown about by the flickering of the candle, resting upon the vanity, Thomas found the footman, lying upon his bed. Not a sound did the man make, so the under butler was forced to assume he'd been claimed by sleep. Thomas smirked mirthlessly.
Lucky bastard.
Now, slow and unsure, and filled with uncertainty, Thomas sat up. The mattress was warm beneath his palms. His fingers remained cold from the darkness' brittle chill. There had been no warmth outside the pair's small dorm room; upstairs or down. As he pulled himself from beneath the sheets, Thomas closed his pale eyes. The darkness beneath them, thus far broken and interrupted, lulled his mind, pulling him back into sleep.
But Thomas didn't want to sleep - he couldn't. Not yet.
Even though the light was dim, he could see the chalk line. It was glaring and white against the dark floorboards. At the sight of it sitting so blatantly, slashing the room in two, Thomas' gut gave a little twist. He looked away, training his gaze on James' trembling form.
"James?" he whispered. The younger man's shuddering stilled, but he gave no reply. Thomas sighed.
"James," he tried once more. "What… what is it?"
It was a foolish question, of course - the man had just dragged the corpse of his father's murderer from below stairs to above. But Thomas didn't know what else he could say. James remained silent.
"Jimmy?"
A moment, and then:
"What?"
Thomas was surprised by the burning relief that filled his chest at the sound of James' words. He shifted
uncomfortably upon his cot.
"Are you alright?" he murmured, not really expecting an answer. But James gave a heaving sigh.
"Yes, Mr. Barrow," he lied, "I'm fine."
Thomas climbed wearily to his feet. The floor was cold, but he barely noticed. He took one, small step, and then another. Hesitantly, he approached the chalked line. Before his toe reached its snake like form, Thomas stopped. The line glared up at him, as though daring him to cross it. The under butler glanced at James. He was completely still beneath his sheets. Surely, he knew that Thomas stood before the line. The footman held his breath, and Thomas could almost see his uncertainty. The older man shook his head in frustration. It was nothing but a line, scratched in chalk; so foolish, so trivial, so childish. But as he stood, gaze fixed on the floor, Thomas realized that perhaps it was more.
If he stepped forward - if he crossed that line - he could never go back. Not to the way he had been, at least. He'd threatened James; threatened that should he cross the line, something horrid would befall him. James hadn't crossed the line. Much to Thomas' surprise, the footman had obeyed. But now, it was Thomas himself who stood, precariously toeing the edge, hanging from the border.
Listen to yourself, Barrow! It's only a line.
Thomas stepped forward. The line felt no different to any other inch of flooring beneath his foot. Perhaps he'd been expecting something else; something strange. But there was nothing.
Standing before James' cot, Thomas felt his heart beginning to race, thumping almost painfully within his chest. He gazed down at James, his eyes stinging from the need to blink. But he didn't look away. He sighed, trying to disguise his humbling discomfort. All the things he might have said were suddenly lost from within his mind. Thomas was speechless.
There was a space upon the mattress, he now noticed. It was only small, and remained unoccupied by James. The sheets looked suddenly warm, the cot soft and inviting.
Thomas stepped forward, his heart in his mouth. He couldn't help but remember the last time he'd stood before James' bed. The memory haunted him still. After so many years, the pain and despair he'd felt that night remained, branded into his subconscious. Thomas closed his eyes.
The mattress creaked as he lowered himself down. The sound was unspeakably loud in the stiffening silence. Thomas winced, but James remained still. He didn't shy away, as Thomas had anticipated. He didn't protest; he was simply quiet.
"James," Thomas began. His tongue felt like lead, knotted and coiled against his teeth. His words were heavy, and hard to force forwards. "James, why did you tell me your father died in the war?"
The silence that followed filled Thomas with guilt. Perhaps he'd pushed the man too far. Perhaps-
"Because that's what I always say."
The tears were not gone from James' voice; not nearly. His words were muffled by his pillow. But at least he was talking. Thomas breathed a sigh of relief.
"I always tell people that my father was killed in the war," James murmured. "That way, no one asks questions. No one thinks it anymore than what I tell them." Thomas, despite himself, nodded. "And before the war?" he asked. James sniffed.
"Before the war, I said he was killed in a farming accident." James gave a soft sob. "Which, I suppose it true," he added. "In… in a way."
Thomas looked away. The pain in James' voice was almost too much for the under butler to bear. So gazed down at that chalk line, imagining himself rising from the bed, and obliterating the monstrosity with his feet. All it would take was a few scuffing steps, and it would be gone.
"And your mother?" Upon the cot, James stiffened.
"She did die of the flu," he breathed. "That much was true." As Thomas gazed at the line, he heard James sniff. "Not before Higgs had had his way with her, mind."
Thomas felt his meagre supper threatening to resurface. He pressed a restraining hand to his belly.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
James began to sob. He didn't try to bury them; he just let them come. They wracked his body, forcing the younger man to curl tighter and tighter, until he was gasping for breath. And still he cried.
"Please…," Thomas whispered, gazing down at James' sorrow. "Please don't… don't cry."
Trembling, he stretched out his hand. He felt so strange, so nervous. With a shaking breath, Thomas closed his eyes. Through the peaceful blackness, he felt his fingers come to rest upon James' soft waves. Beneath his touch, the footman stilled. He stopped sobbing, though Thomas could still feel the tears, drumming against his fingers. But they had stilled for now, and all was quiet.
"Don't fret, Thomas," James whispered. "I'll be fine." He gave a broken laugh. "It's nothing but a little fall of rain. I'll get through." Although he knew that James could not see him, Thomas gave a small shake of his head.
"It's more, James," he sighed, his fingers steady upon the younger man's head. "It's much more."
James shrugged softly.
"You're here," he murmured. "That's all I need to know."
Gently, Thomas stroked the younger man's fair hair. He heard James gasp, and felt him shiver, ever so slightly. His cheeks reddening, Thomas drew back his hand.
"No!"
Thomas was startled by the sensation of James' fingers, encircling his wrist. He held the under butler tightly, his grip desperate. Slowly, Thomas opened his eyes.
James' face was no longer hidden. He stared up at the man with a wide, childlike gaze. His fair eyes, although tear stricken and raw, were so beautiful, that Thomas had to look away once more.
"No, Thomas," James whispered. "Touch me."
His grip became soft and careful. Slowly, he guided Thomas' hand back, so that it hovered once more above his head. But this time, Thomas felt his fingers brush not James' hair, but his cheek. James pressed the older man's hand against him, burying his face in the soft, white palm. Thomas could feel James' tears, warm and wet beneath his skin.
"Jimmy…," he whispered. He felt James smile.
"I like it when you call me Jimmy," the man sighed. Despite his raging confusion, Thomas felt his clenched jaw and furrowed brows beginning to ease.
But as James clutched his hand, the under butler felt his ease beginning to wane.
"I don't understand this, James," he confessed, lowering his gaze. He shook his head. "I don't understand any of this. I… I don't understand you." He tried to lower his hand, but Jimmy would not release him. Instead, the footman pulled himself up in bed. Thomas kept his pale eyes fixed upon the crumpled sheets. He felt James' fingers rest upon his cheeks. They were soft, inviting.
"Thomas," James begged. "Please, look at me." But Thomas refused. James sighed.
"Alright then."
James pulled Thomas' face to his, and kissed him.
Thomas froze. His heart scraped itself against his chest. His skin burned beneath the man's touch. But Thomas could think of nothing; nothing, but the feel of James' lips, working around his own. Slowly, gently, the younger man slipped his tongue beneath Thomas'. It was soft and sweet, and the under butler struggled to keep his eyes from fluttering closed. All he wanted - all that he truly wanted - was to sink down beside James. He wanted to wrap his arms around the man, and to pull him close. He wanted to hold James against his body, and never let him go.
But he didn't. He simply sat, motionless, waiting for James to pull away.
When he did, the man's eyes burned with an unquenchable desire. His hand remained pressed against Thomas' cheek, his fingers knotted in the ebony locks that hung about his ears. Thomas looked away.
"James…," he tried, but his words caught within his throat. James stroked his cheek. Thomas closed his eyes
"Thomas…," James replied, with a husky breath, pressing a hand to the under butler's waist. His fingers, warm and waiting, toyed with the hem of Thomas' shirt, before they slipped beneath the pale fabric. As they brushed against the taunt skin of his stomach, Thomas blanched.
"There's nothing between us!" Jimmy cried, his blue eyes livid with rage. "Except my fist, if you don't get out !" He spat the words through gritted teeth. Striking Thomas upon the chest, he pushed the man from his dorm.
"Get out of, Thomas!"
"No!"
He pressed a hand to James' heaving chest, holding him at bay.
And the spell was broken.
James turned away, his face hidden by the line of his shoulders. They were strong and chiselled beneath his thin shirt. The younger man grasped his face, burying himself in his palms. His breathing was laboured. He shook his head, slowly back and worth.
"What am I doing?" James gasped. He clawed at his skin. "What the hell am I doing?" Thomas gulped, his cheeks burning where he sat.
"James-," he began, but the footman cut his words.
"No," he murmured, his face still hidden from Thomas' gaze. "This was a… a mistake." As Thomas watched, the younger man ran a trembling hand through his tussled locks. "I meant… meant to talk to you. Not tonight, mind - but, but later." He shook his head. "But I was a fool. A stupid, stupid fool!" With a soft cry, he smashed a fist against the white washed wall, and Thomas jumped.
"I've ruined everything," the footman whispered. Thomas was silent.
James perched upon the edge of the cot, his arms wrapped tightly around his folded legs. His shoulders were hunched as his chin rested upon his raised knees. Thomas sat, studying his hunched back.
"James," he tried once more. This time, he wasn't stopped. He gave a small sigh.
"I can't," he murmured. "You know that I can't." He shook his head. "Not here. Not… not with you." He watched James, but if the man had an opinion of the under butler's words, he gave no indication. Thomas sighed once more. Slowly, he brought his injured hand to his lap. He locked his fingers together, gazing down at the gloved monstrosity. He ran his thumb slowly over the smooth leather that held his scars from view. His skin itches beneath its tawny restraint; Thomas suddenly wanted nothing more than to pull himself free.
"I can't," he murmured once more.
"I'm not asking you to."
James' soft words startled him. Thomas glanced up, and found the footman had turned. James' summery gaze met Thomas' frozen stare. Unblinking, Thomas nodded.
"I know, James," he uttered. "I know." James picked absently at a fraying thread that hung from his sheet.
"I'm… I'm sorry," he whispered. The footman looked so forlorn; his blue eyes were shadowed, heartbroken. Thomas felt something prick at his own eyes. He pressed a hand to his lowered lids, hiding his face.
"I'm so sorry," James choked. "About… about everything." He shook his head, almost in bewilderment. Thomas frowned. "I can't believe… believe what a… a bastard I am."
Thomas sighed. Before he could stop himself, he lay a consoling hand upon the younger man's shoulder. As soon as his fingers brushed James' body, Thomas realized his folly. But it was too late.
Beneath Thomas' hand, James' skin burned. It was as though someone had lit a fire within, and the flames were slowly devouring the man, inch by painful inch. Thomas winced at his own musings.
It was not a fire of love, though; not a fire of lust. It was a fire of shame and humiliation and guilt – a burn that Thomas himself had felt all too keenly. He dropped his hand. James' warmth left his palm almost immediately, and he felt himself shivering at the loss.
Speak, Barrow, you heartless git!
"I love you."
Thomas froze. His blood pounded within his ears, so forcefully, he struggled to catch wind of his own thoughts. The words had sounded strangely distant as they slipped from James; beautiful lips; empty, more like an echo than anything else. But he'd spoken them.
Oh Lord...
Thomas brought a hand to his face, fighting the urge to rip his own eyes from their sockets. He could feel James' gaze on him. It burned. Thomas refused to meet the younger man's gaze. Instead, he shut his eyes tightly.
"But... I can't," Thomas whispered. "I can't give myself... my heart... to you." He felt a hand rest upon his, and instinctively, he jerked away.
"No!" he hissed, lowering his arm. "No... I can't!" He leapt up from the bed. Its ageing frame groaned in protest. He heard James scrabble after him.
"Please, Thomas!" the man cried. His bare feet thudded against the cold floor. "Just listen!" His eyes stinging, Thomas spun around. He glared at James through the haze of unshed tears.
"No, Jimmy!" he snapped. "You listen! All my life, I've been hurt. They kicked me, they beat me, they spat in my bloody eyes!" Thomas pulled at his tousled hair. "But then they told me to stand up, to take it like a man, because it was fair." He shook his head. "Because I deserved it, they said." Turning from James, Thomas stalked back to his own side of the dorm. He trampled the line without so much as a second glance.
"But, I-,"
"Oh, yes!" Thomas scoffed. He glared at James. "You love me! Yes, you love me behind closed doors, when there's no one about. You'll kiss me in the shadows, but in the light of day, you treat me like a stranger!"
Thomas didn't know who this man was; this man who, for the first time in so painfully long, knew what he needed – what he wanted – to say, and could say it. He could speak those words, with passion, and without a moment's hesitation.
He spoke the truth.
"You're not a child anymore," he muttered, glaring down at his tangled sheets. "And neither am I." His hands clenched into paling fists, he gazed at James' pain-stricken face. "You can't just break a heart, and then expect it to beat for you." He turned away.
"When are you going to grow up?"
I know, I know – I'm a heartless git! But, in light of recent events, I believe that Jimmy deserves a good scolding. And Thomas has a lot of pent up emotion that he deserves to shove off his chest. But I promise, things will get better! Please, please review – I miss it when I don't hear from you guys!
