you could have my heart (and i would break it for you)
-or-
be gay do crime
By: Aviantei
His Fourth Bow, Act Three:
"i wish i could open up your head (rip out the things that i see make you nervous)"
William, Jameson, and Albert returning home in the dead of the night had been expected.
The latter two of them having such blood upon their clothes had not.
"Brother, are you alright?" Louis asked, jumping into action. He thought, from a first glance, that William didn't seem injured, but it was difficult to tell with such a mess in the way. So focused he was upon checking for injuries that it took Albert stepping forward to put a hand upon Louis's shoulder to stop him.
Jameson had flinched back at the sudden motion, and that didn't invite any good conclusions.
"We're not injured, Louis," William said. He was attempting to keep his tone calm, but Louis knew better, a rare, unbridled fury smouldering beneath it all. "There were some…complications, but the mission was a success." He offered a smile, performative and brittle. "Could we bother one of you to run a warm bath, please? I think some tea would be appreciated as well. Yes, Jameson?" Jameson nodded, but he made no move to stop clinging to William's sleeve in the slightest.
There was a split second whereupon Louis and Albert exchanged a glance, hundreds of questions contained in that simple locking of the eyes—and then they were moving without needing to say a word. It was lucky that Moriarty Manor had running water for the bathroom, meaning that it wouldn't take all that long to have a warm tub waiting, and Louis set the taps and also made sure they had the appropriate number of towels in wait. Under most circumstances aside from regular cleaning, he wouldn't dare invade his brother's room without explicit permission, but the situation was severe enough that he took the liberty to retrieve pyjamas and robes for William and Jameson both. The laundry was another matter, the suits he could save with the right washing, the dress shirts less so, but—
What on Earth happened tonight?
By the time Louis returned to the bathroom, William and Jameson were already there, the former helping the latter shed his clothes. It had been more difficult to notice before, since they'd been called to action so quick, but now that Louis could look closer at Jameson's expression, it was clear how distant his mind must have been. He didn't even respond as Louis moved closer to put the stack of clothes upon the side table, and that was never a good sign.
"Brother, do you need anything else?"
"Just the tea I asked for before should be plenty. I'm not sure he can stomach anything else right now." Given the circumstances, Louis wasn't even sure Jameson could handle the tea, but it was better to try than to do nothing. "I'll also have to ask you and Albert to handle the cleanup, please. Due to the circumstances, I thought it best not to linger longer than necessary." Yes, Louis had to agree, though since none of the blood William and Jameson had come home with had been theirs, he was sure it would be an extensive cleanup indeed. "Thank you as always for your quick work, Louis."
With Jameson at last stripped of his layers, William and Louis helped guide him into the water. Jameson had no reaction aside from curling in on himself in the tub, and Louis couldn't help but curse his inability to assist more. Wasn't their precise situation what he'd worried about long ago, that Jameson wouldn't be able to sustain himself by being in immediate danger and exposure to those who hurt him before?
Should I have spoken up to stop him sooner?
No, Louis decided after a moment, it wouldn't have done any good—or at the very least, restraining Jameson's quest for vengeance ran the risk of damaging his mental state in a different way, so there was no winning. In any event, it was far too late for regrets, so the best Louis could do was help manage the situation, which in turn meant following his brother's requests.
Jameson's mental state wouldn't mean a damn thing if he were to be arrested for the murder he'd committed.
"How are things?" Albert asked, having arrived in the hallway with a loaded teacart. It was such a mundane set of items, an activity that was part of their everyday, but nothing about the situation felt comfortable. Louis stepped to the side so that Albert had plenty of room to pass, and his eldest brother didn't slow his clip towards the bathroom. "Well, now. If you're making that face, it can't be good."
What face? Louis wondered but didn't bother to ask. It was unimportant in the grand scheme of things. No, he needed to focus upon the facts. "Jameson doesn't look good. I've…never seen him in such a state before."
Louis had never seen him so empty.
He was surprised that the idea upset him—and to such a degree at that.
Albert's lips pursed together into dissatisfaction, his own concern even greater than Louis's, no doubt. What must William have been feeling, to have watched whatever happened and not be able to do anything about it? "I'm afraid I don't know much more than you do. Will just told me we'd be returning home, and I handled driving so he could stay with Jameson. For now, we'll have to do what we can. First and foremost, we'll need to go clean things up. Let me drop off this tea, then I'll meet you downstairs."
"I want to come, too," said Fred's soft voice from the darkness.
Louis didn't like the fact that he was becoming rather used to not knowing when to expect Fred's presence, but it was neither the time nor the place to worry about that. So instead he said, "Good. We'll need whatever help we can get." At least it had happened somewhere that they didn't have to worry about anyone stumbling upon the mess before they could get to it, but a quicker cleaning would reduce the risk of anyone noticing them leaving the townhouse. "Be ready in fifteen minutes. We'll leave as soon as we can."
When it came to Jameson's wellbeing, William would be the best to help.
The rest—that was what the rest of them were for.
1869
An awful feeling had been starting to brew in Jameson upon nights when Stratford invited over company.
He didn't know when it had started, the creeping dread sinking into his gut and mind. Even worse, upon trying to remember, he could start to recall other nights whenever he'd felt the same, except he hadn't noticed at the time. It didn't seem as if such an emotion could have ever existed without being recognised prior, and yet it had crept up upon him, like the nip of winter seeping into the air one day at a time until autumn gave way and frost descended upon the world.
Why does this feel bad, though? Before it felt so…good.
The contradiction didn't make sense. Nothing had changed, save for the number of people that Jameson had shared a bed with, the frequency with which it had happened. It was Stratford, or Beauclerk, or Waterford, or the handful of other adults that passed by, often money exchanging hands at some point, and Jameson—
Jameson didn't know.
Jameson was having a hard time feeling anything.
Why can't it just feel good again?
As Jameson sunk further and deeper into that swamp, nothing and no one provided an answer.
September, 1875
Jameson was trying not to feel scared out of his skin at every passing sound or movement he couldn't see, but he was not being very successful. Sleep had been difficult, too, which just made everything worse. Even when he remembered falling asleep beside William, the slightest shifting of the mattress would be enough to wake him up with a start, and then the memories of hands upon him were enough to keep him from falling back asleep. It was bad enough that Louis often directed Jameson to take a nap most afternoons instead of helping with chores, but even that fleeting sleep wasn't enough to keep Jameson from seeing shadows in every corner.
Moriarty Manor was supposed to feel safe.
After feeling protected for so long, it was hard to cope with feeling the opposite, even whenever he wasn't in immediate danger. Even worse, Jameson's heightened nerves weren't just affecting him, but everyone around him as well, and no one else was dealing with the consequences more than William, who yawned in the middle of their afternoon tea together.
"I'm sorry," Jameson said, guilt joining the rest of the larger mess within his chest. The sensation was close friends with shame, which burned through his veins in an unpleasant cocktail. Whenever his entire body felt on the verge of disintegration, it was no wonder he couldn't relax enough to sleep through the night. "I know I keep waking you up. If you want, I could go back to staying in the guest room…"
"And leave to be in distress on your own whenever you wake up alone in the dark? Perish the thought." Jameson didn't feel convinced—how was it that William could be concerned about Jameson's wellbeing whenever his own was so impacted? William reached out to take Jameson's hand, his touch gentle but almost unbearable. "I know the previous mission was stressful for you. You were face to face with someone who subjected you to abuse, and then he insulted you in unforgivable ways. Anyone, not just you, would feel the aftershocks of that."
"But I didn't before." Yes, Jameson had felt an awful sensation crawling underneath his skin as he'd faced down Charleville, Westmeath, and Leinster, and he couldn't deny his initial panic upon hearing that Charleville was looking for him. However, none of it had been as bad as the other night. "I…wasn't scared those times. Just disgusted. And angry. And I felt that with Waterford, too. Not to mention I had you beside me, William. I shouldn't have felt scared." Except, now that he'd said those words, Jameson couldn't help but wonder if it was due to William's company that it had affected him so. The regulars could say whatever they liked about Jameson; their opinions were worth nothing, but if William believed them, if William knew the truth— Jameson forced a smile onto his face before he could let the thought fester any further, knowing full well William would be able to see it for the falsehood it was. "Killing them is supposed to make me feel happy. Instead, I just feel nauseous most of the time."
Jameson had been around William long enough that he could catch the subtle twitch of his lips at the statement, but not around long enough to know just what it meant. "You don't have to feel a certain way, Jameson. People are complex, and emotions are difficult if not impossible to manage. Right now…the best thing you can do is take care of yourself since you are feeling awful, and you also don't have to do it alone. All of us are here to help you anytime you need it."
"I do appreciate that. It just…still doesn't feel real." In fact, very little felt real in recent days, which Jameson had enough self-awareness left to recognise as a problem, but nowhere near enough brainpower to attempt to find a solution. "Due to this—" he did not wish to elaborate on this any further than necessary "—I worry that I won't ever be able to overcome everything. The Marquis is dead and yet…"
His ghost still lingered, just like the ghosts of Stratford, Charleville, Westmeath, and Leinster, and it very much felt like they would never go away, no matter what Jameson did.
William's brow furrowed in worry, and Jameson couldn't help but feel guilty for giving him something else to be concerned over. He was becoming nothing but a burden. "I know things are difficult, Jameson. But you will get through this. Both because you are strong and because we will help you see it through. No matter how long the journey may take, I have no intention of leaving you alone."
He meant it; Jameson knew that. And yet the idea couldn't bring him more than a small fraction of peace.
After all, if William was the one helping to keep him together, what would happen to Jameson once the Moriarty brothers completed their plans and were gone?
Fred hadn't known all the details regarding the man Jameson had been planning to kill, nor did he pry more than necessary. The strategy meetings had always focused on the upcoming crime itself, with the occasional detail slipped in that painted enough of a picture to understand Jameson had endured some great abuse and killing Waterford was his way of eliminating such atrocities from the world. That knowledge alone had been enough for Fred to support the operation without needing to know anything else.
Seeing Jameson the way he'd been the past several days, though? That scared Fred, and he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do about it.
Fred did not have clear memories of his parents, and he'd survived on the streets while fending for himself. Most of what he'd learned from others have been through observation, not direct tutelage, and so he'd never formed much in the way of close bonds before. There had been a few that tried, but Fred's quiet demeanour and the way he took too long to decide what to say had impeded many such efforts, and he'd spent most of his time alone.
Jameson was the closest thing he had to a parental or sibling figure, and now he wasn't even aware half the time.
He was out and about, so at least there was that, but his eyes seemed glazed over most of the time. Fred had seen that look on people on the streets before, and it had never ended well. It might be different, since Moriarty Manor was much more secure and had people who could keep Jameson safe in the meantime, but that did nothing to ease the growing pit in Fred's stomach, and keeping his hands busy with helping cover Jameson's share of the chores was limited in how much it could distract his attention.
Despite the chill in the air, working for several hours on trimming the hedges around the manor had pulled a layer of sweat over Fred's forehead, and he wiped it off on his sleeve. His hands were covered in dirt, which was somewhat comforting, but not enough. He'd wanted to finish about halfway, but keeping going was just going to make his work sloppy, which he didn't want to do. If Jameson were out and about, he would no doubt have come and reminded Fred to take a break, so he put away his supplies, went in through the servant's entrance so he wouldn't track dirt everywhere, and washed himself up before heading to the kitchen.
When it came to food, Fred had spent his time being lucky if he could come across something still warm to eat, and so the concept of a kitchen was almost foreign to him. It was something he understood the purpose of, but never thought he'd be able to step foot in himself. And while he could enter it at will, he still had no proper idea how to operate anything there—but Jameson had always made him feel welcome, even often leaving out sandwiches and the like for Fred to snack upon between his chores.
There was no such plate sat out for him at the moment, but there was Louis.
Louis James Moriarty was someone that Fred hadn't spent too much time with, and, even when he had, they were both quiet individuals, so they didn't speak much. In fact, most of their talk for the past month had been in regards to caring for the manor, and that was about the extent of it. Louis was not a bad person, but it didn't change the fact that Fred wasn't sure how to handle him most of the time.
Still, it was obvious that he considered Jameson someone worthy of concern. Fred could at least relate to that.
None of that was enough to stop Fred from hovering in the doorway of the kitchen, though, unable to bring himself to enter. Louis was already busy at the stove and countertops, preparing something for lunch that Fred was sure would smell delicious were he not so occupied by so many other things. Interrupting seemed just as bad as leaving without anything to show for it, and the change in atmosphere just made Fred miss Jameson all the more.
"If you want something," Louis said, not even bothering to look over his shoulder, "then I cannot give it to you if you don't tell me what it is."
Fred jolted; though he hadn't been attempting to hide, that didn't mean he was used to people noticing his presence, and all his apprehension about being around Louis just made it even worse. But I can't just come all this way and not do something whenever Jameson's done so much for me…
Making sure to speak loud enough for Louis to hear him on the other side of the room, Fred said, "I wanted to take something up to Jameson, if I could…" He swallowed, landing on a better choice of words: "Please."
The worst case scenario that Fred had imagined was getting yelled at and kicked out, so to just hear a sigh from Louis was a good start. Louis also muttered something, but Fred couldn't hear it over the chopping of a knife upon a cutting board. "I was thinking about taking him some tea soon. If you can wait a minute for me to get my hands free, I'll make the tray and you can run it to him."
Fred's mood brightened, and he did his best to stay out of the way while Louis handled the preparations, setting the kettle on the stove while putting out a small selection of biscuits that would be more than enough for the two of them to share, should Jameson feel up to it. His motions seamless, Louis didn't waste a second returning to his lunch preparations until the kettle whistled for his attention to be poured into the teapot.
"If you go now, that should be brewed by the time you get upstairs," Louis said, and Fred tried not to rush as he stepped forward to take the tray. Bits of steam were leaking out of the spout of the teapot, and the dishes rattled a bit as Fred began to navigate. "Try and see if he'll eat something, since he skipped breakfast. Understood?"
"Yes," Fred said. For once, he was feeling fortunate at his general lack of expressiveness, since it meant his sense of surprise at Louis's fussing wouldn't seem so obvious. "Thank you, Lord Louis. I appreciate it a lot."
Louis harrumphed, turning back to the countertop. "Get going before that tea becomes too strong."
With such clear instructions, Fred wasted no time in heading out the door, using the lift to send the tea tray upstairs, then going to retrieve it. The delicate porcelain ratted as he picked it up, but there were no major incidents, which Fred was grateful for. The last thing he wanted to do was add more stress to the situation by breaking such a pretty tea set to pieces. From there, it was a quick journey to Jameson and Lord William's now shared bedroom, and Fred knocked upon the door, hoping he was loud enough to be heard further back should Jameson not be in the main sitting area.
"Come in," said a voice that wasn't Jameson's. Instead, it was the Earl Moriarty, and Fred might've retreated if his concern for Jameson wasn't powering him. While Albert was far more amicable than Louis by a long shot, there was something still the slightest bit intimidating about his presence. Fred chalked it up to Albert being nobility, albeit a very different sort of nobility than Fred had ever encountered. "Oh, it's Fred. I'll confess I expected to see one of my brothers instead." His smile didn't fade, however, which Fred supposed counted for something. "You've brought tea as well, I see. Come in; I'm sure Jameson would like some."
Fred did as instructed, though his eyes were drawn to Jameson where he was sitting upon one of the armchairs. That he was out of bed and in proper dress instead of his pyjamas were both positive signs, though the look in his eyes was still distant. He did look to Fred as the boy shut the door behind him, though, offering a smile, as weak as it was to his usual expressions of joy. "Hello, Fred."
"Hello," Fred said, and, even to him, his voice sounded far too quiet. Jameson attempted to muster up a smile, the corners of his lips twitching but not getting much further than that. Were it not for Albert waving him in, Fred might have stood in the doorway for much longer, trying to piece together some semblance of the joy he'd become used to seeing; instead, he rolled the cart inside, uncertain of the proper way to move its contents to the table. "Lord Louis said that it should be finished brewing by the time I got upstairs…"
Albert took a brief sniff at the air. "Earl Grey," he said, which Fred recognised as a name of a tea but had no confidence in his ability to pick it out by scent alone. Jameson's expression brightened the slightest bit at the mention, though, and that was what mattered. "Yes, that should be enough time, assuming you didn't rush." Fred had not. "Would you care to join us?
Fred was about to mention that he didn't think there were enough cups for such a thing—but no, there were four of the mint and lotus flower-painted cups on the lower tier of the cart, as if Louis had anticipated Jameson having company. Without any ready excuse (and coming up with an excuse was silly enough, seeing that Fred had wanted to spend some time with Jameson in the first place), Fred nodded, finding himself in one of the empty chairs. Albert poured Jameson a cup first, dropping four sugar cubes into the cup before passing it over, then he set about pouring the next. "I'm afraid we haven't shared enough tea for me to know how you take yours. Cream or sugar, Fred?"
Being waited upon by an Earl was almost enough to make Fred's head spin, which didn't help matters. While Jameson often invited him to tea, Fred spent far more of his attention on the food (he still had yet to shake the feeling that he had no idea where his next meal would be coming from, though Moriarty Manor kept to a regular dining schedule) rather than the contents of his cup. "The same as Lo—" He caught himself. "However Jameson has his." It was his go-to bet, seeing that Jameson was well versed enough in tea that he had a good instinct for what tasted well with what, though his sweet tooth always prevailed.
Albert did as requested without further comment, setting the sugared tea before Fred before preparing his own—one sugar, a dash of cream. From there, Albert crossed his legs and relaxed back into his seat, the teacup and saucer fitting into his hands as if they belonged there. "This blend in particular is lovely. You picked this one out, right, Jameson?"
It was small talk at its finest, but Jameson nodded. "I'm not certain what makes the flavour so distinct, but it does come across sweeter than other Earl Greys, so I'm rather fond of it." Fred peered into his cup, already feeling in over his head—wasn't the point of a type of tea that all blends would taste the same?—but that seemed to be a naïve question in such a high-class environment, so Fred kept the question to himself.
"I'm sure Louis picked it out because he's worried about you." Had that been the reason why Louis had been so brisk in chasing Fred from the kitchen? He couldn't help but think that Albert might be viewing his youngest brother with rose-coloured glasses. "Either way, though, it is a delicious brew. A fine choice on your part."
"I like it, too," Fred said, not because felt he needed to participate in the conversation, but rather because he wanted to say anything that might give Jameson a hint of happiness. He received another twitch at the corner of Jameson's lips for his efforts, which he would take. Though perhaps, Fred kept to himself, I could do with one less sugar cube next time.
"Well I know there's plenty of it to go around," Jameson said. "In my excitement, I might have ordered quite a bit."
Albert let out a chuckle that wasn't replicated by his fellow conversation partners. "That could also be the reason Louis chose it today, I do admit. But, yes, Fred, I was surprised to see you come up. Did you have something in particular you wished to talk about?" Fred shook his head, though the response would have been the same whether or not Albert had been present; he hadn't had much on his mind other than doing something nice for Jameson. "I suppose you are a man of few words. Not that there's anything wrong with that."
Jameson lifted his teacup and saucer from the table, the steam wafting into his face. "Albert doesn't mind since it makes it easier for him to talk to his heart's content." Albert's chuckle made it clear those words were to be a joke, which would have been heartening, were it not obvious that even that remark had taken Jameson a great effort to produce. "Still, I'd like to hear what you've been busy with, Fred. We haven't had much of a chance to catch up these days."
No one brought up the fact that the lack of catching up was due to Jameson not being in any state to do so, and he couldn't help but feel that transition was a request to not press the issue. Fred would just be grateful for any sort of conversation, as subdued as it might be—though he wasn't sure he had much interesting to say, since a good portion of his days had been spent on helping around the house, filling in for Jameson's chores wherever he could. But other than that… "I've been working on the book you told me to practise with." It was a slow process, once which involved looking up a lot of words, which then led to looking up more words—but it was satisfying, nonetheless, as he kept discovering the story he'd been shared.
"Well we have no shortage of books for you to explore while you practise. You're welcome to anything we—ah, perhaps almost anything is better?" Albert said, amending himself once Jameson gave him a flat look. "I'll admit I didn't realise you were practicing, though. When time permits, I'll have to arrange things so you can have a shelf to yourself as well. You can keep whatever you're enjoying there, and we can leave you things as well, if you like. The rest of us have one, after all."
Fred stared at the snacks upon the tray. "I'm not sure how much I'll read, though." It was a great skill to learn—one that would be helpful for crime consultancy operations at any rate—but sitting for too long tended to make Fred antsy.
"That doesn't matter one lick. Even if you just partake on occasion, you should still have the space to keep things." Fred supposed that, between the book Jameson had lent him and the couple of dictionaries he had, there was a small stack growing on his bedside table, but more than that—
He's saying that I belong here.
The comment was enough that Fred didn't know what to do with all the feelings that stirred up inside him. His lifestyle before had been transient enough that he'd never felt he belonged anywhere, save for the concept that he would return to the streets and could never extend beyond that, no matter how far into the city he wandered. But Moriarty Manor was becoming a home, and that was something Fred had never had before, so he didn't know what to do.
"Thank you," Fred said, though those simple words didn't come close to conveying the full depths of the gratitude inside him. But, for the time being, that would need to be enough.
From there, they chatted a bit longer, Albert carrying most of the conversation as they all worked their way through the tea and treats. By the time the pot was empty, Jameson had mentioned feeling tired enough to wish to take a nap, and there was something about his expression that made him look exhausted, as if no amount of sleep would be enough.
But, a couple of times while they were together, he had smiled, just a little.
Maybe I'll bring him tea again tomorrow.
The shout dragged William from sleep, and he snapped to awareness in an instant. It was a nightmare from Jameson, the contents of which he never disclosed. William didn't make him, though his mind couldn't help but theorise. Even so, the exact contents didn't matter, not whenever Jameson's comfort and stability was the priority.
One of the reasons William had cited for sharing a room on a permanent basis was taking care of Jameson in such events, and he would do so then and there.
"Jameson," he called, whenever it was clear Jameson was still in a fitful sleep. "Jameson, wake up." The call of his name was not enough, though, and William reached out to put a gentle hand on Jameson's shoulder.
That contact did it. Jameson jolted awake, a louder shout following as he recoiled from William's touch. The similarity to the night that William had held him down was striking, but it was no time to ruminate on his own issues. William made sure not to make any sudden movements as Jameson took several, sharp-pitched breaths.
"It's alright, Jameson. You're going to be alright. Take your time." There wasn't much else to do but repeat reassuring sentiments, but that familiarity was good, was something Jameson had said was useful for him to orient himself. "I'm going to turn on the light, alright?" Keeping slow, William reached out to turn on the lamp at the bedside, the flame flickering to life. Jameson had the blanket clutched to him, but he was blinking to awareness, which was a step in the right direction, though the tears running down his face were never pleasant to see.
With his mind, it would have been a simple process for William to track how much time Jameson spent crying, but he didn't wish to know such a depressing figure. The words out of his own mouth were steady and gentle, and Jameson's jade green eyes were locked on William, as if he were afraid to look anywhere else. After some time, he went fishing for a handkerchief to blow his nose in, the process a noisy affair.
"…I feel disgusting," Jameson said at long last, his voice still watery and hoarse.
"What would you like to do, then?" If Jameson didn't volunteer anything in particular, William would make suggestions, but it was always best to let Jameson voice his ideas first.
"I'd like a warm bath, if it's not…" He realised what he was about to say, and then changed course: "Please."
"Of course, dear. It's no trouble at all. Do you mind if I move?" Jameson shook his head, and William was able to move out of the position he'd been in for some time, his muscles relishing the change in position. "Are you coming with me, or do you wish to stay alone?"
"Please take me with you."
William had thought as much, and so that was what they did. As they were both already in complete sets of pyjamas, they didn't do much more than grab robes before venturing out into the dark hall. Jameson lingered close to William's side without contact, though William kept his hands free at his sides, should Jameson wish to grasp one. Once they made it to the bathroom, William went about the process of filling up the bathtub, which Herder had rigged to make it quick to fill and heat, though it still took time to finish. Jameson lingered, clutching his robe to himself, but his gaze wasn't vacant, so there was that at least.
"There we go," William said, once the tub was about three-quarters of the way full. In the time it took for the water to be ready, he'd gone ahead and assembled the soaps together, and they were in easy reach of the tub. "It's all yours."
"Thank you," Jameson said. He moved, as if to disrobe, but his hands were shaking. "I-I'm sorry, but…"
William offered a smile. "I'll step out, then." If Jameson's dream had made it so that he did not wish to share his nakedness with even him, then William had no issue. Still, the worry lingering in Jameson's face was enough to give him pause. Please don't abandon me, Jameson had said, desperate and afraid of being alone. "How about I go get you a fresh set of clothes, and then I'll be back? I can wait outside the door, but I'll be here if you need me."
"Mmhmm." Jameson nodded his approval, and so William stepped out of the bathroom, leaving Jameson to his own devices. Behind him, the click of the lock almost echoed, but he couldn't begrudge Jameson the sensation of safety that could bring.
Not when there was nothing that William could do to deny the tension beginning to stir inside him.
He had almost always been at war with himself. From a young age, William had been able to grasp that the world they lived in was broken, that those in power could commit atrocities with no consequences to speak of. In a flawed system like that, people were bound to suffer, and that broke his heart. It had been with such thoughts in mind that William had begun to piece together his plan to reform the world for the better.
That was something that hadn't changed.
That wish would always be inside of him, and it was a wish that was strong enough that he would commit awful acts if necessary.
What he'd felt inside Waterford's townhouse, though—none of that had been necessary.
He'd been enraged in a way William hadn't been aware he was capable of feeling. Each and every word that came out of the Marquis's mouth had burned like venom, had created a fierce fire inside that had refused to go out, not even when the man was dead. He'd said such things, disparaging Jameson and everything that was good and wonderful about him, and William had wanted to—
William had wanted to do more than kill him.
Not much more, because keeping Waterford alive was something he never would have asked Jameson to endure—but if the opportunity had presented itself, William would have been happy to show Waterford the extent of pain and torment that he'd made Jameson go through in a different form, letting him bleed out nice and slow.
Such a thing was in no way necessary to enact justice, and William had never had such thoughts before, but for Jameson's sake—oh, for Jameson's sake he would do almost anything to eliminate those who dared to hurt him. To make matters more complicated, he hadn't the slightest idea where such emotions were springing from, which made it much harder to pinpoint what he should do with them in response.
The true priority should be to take care of Jameson, though. Not focus on his own complicated feelings, not worry about anything else. Waterford was gone, after all, the target of William's ire already having left the world.
(Beauclerk was still out there, Beauclerk had been the cause of many of Jameson's problems, but he was out of reach for the time being, but the moment it was possible—)
William released a long exhale, hoping to expel the festering feelings inside of him.
It worked, but nowhere near as much as he would have liked.
Before he returned with a fresh set of Jameson's pyjamas, William sat in their room and smoked a cigarette in dead silence, until every last bit of ash had crumbled.
It had been almost two weeks since William had touched him.
That was not to say that they'd shared no physical contact at all. In fact, Jameson almost thought that William had entertained him more with casual touches, using it as a quick reference for testing Jameson's awareness, which was wont to vanish without warning. On the other end, if Jameson reached out at any point, William would meet him halfway, providing a much needed comfort. And yet, and yet, and yet—
William hadn't touched him.
Jameson could not blame him, and not just because he doubted he was ever capable of blaming William for anything. In fact, such a thing was the very situation that he'd been aware of for so long: that he was a dirty plaything, no matter how much he pretended. William was kind enough to indulge him, but once the disguise was washed away, like Cinderella's dress disintegrating at midnight, whyever would anyone want to keep it up?
Whore, Waterford had called him.
That whore will open his legs for anyone—
He was desperate—
Waterford had been right, and Jameson was just proving it all over again.
Such thoughts had been getting louder and louder as the days passed, and even writing them out, the pen almost tearing through the precious pages of his journal, wasn't working well enough to keep things at bay. His nightmares weren't happening every night, but the ones that did happen were enough to have him awake crying and pushing William away from him—which just made it some sort of grand irony that he couldn't help but crave intercourse, just to prove that—
Prove what?
Jameson didn't know what any of it was supposed to mean anymore. All he knew was that he wanted the thoughts to stop—and joining together with William had almost always helped, was one of the few things he had left to try. Jameson had been waiting, looking forward to the moment whenever William would smile and draw him closer, when his hands would begin to wander in bed, and yet none of it had happened. The obvious next step was for Jameson to make a move, but he couldn't help but doubt himself.
After all, last time, you tried, and you couldn't follow through.
If he were to throw himself at William and once again retreat in fear, Jameson wasn't certain he'd be able to survive it.
And yet hadn't they been in such a position before? Jameson terrified that he was unwanted, that he'd been thrown away? They'd…been able to talk then, had been able to come to the arrangement they'd maintained since then. No matter what, whenever Jameson woke up crying and screaming, William still held him close and didn't push him away.
He'll listen. You have to believe in him.
And if by chance that belief wound up misplaced? Well, it would be much better to rip the bandage off sooner rather than later so that Jameson could start working on picking up the tattered and shattered pieces of his soul in the aftermath.
Seeking William out was something too much for him, even with that resolve. Jameson instead tucked into one of the chairs in their sitting area, his journal in his lap. Reading anything would be a fool's errand, as he would not be able to summon the focus to read anything at all, and he doubted he'd have much luck writing anything, either, but it was better to have the option to do so, rather than not at all.
Sure enough, by the time the door clicked open, Jameson wasn't doing anything more than bouncing the pen in his hand in a rhythm that hadn't been conscious. The sound startled him enough to make the utensil tumble from his hand and under the couch, but he didn't have the mind to attempt to retrieve it.
"Oh, there you are," William said, and he did look happy to see Jameson. "I was wondering where you went off to." He settled into the seat closest to Jameson's without invading his immediate personal space. His eyes flicked to the open journal in Jameson's lap. "Did I interrupt?"
Jameson shook his head. "I was waiting for you. Did you need something from me?"
"I've just wanted to check in with you," William said, which made everything so much easier. "It's been some time, but I know this has still been hard for you. And if I'm not mistaken, it seems like you've had something you want to discuss with me as well." Grateful that William was able to read him like a book, Jameson nodded. "Then it works out, doesn't it? Shall we go ahead and take a walk outside, then?"
Jameson shook his head. "I'd rather stay in if we could." Yes, the grounds were vast enough to give them privacy, but Jameon already wanted to go and run away, to hide beneath the blankets and never come out. Not being able to retreat to somewhere safe at a moment's notice was out of the question.
William had half-risen from his seat, but, realising the sincerity of the request, eased himself back down into the chair. "Of course, dear. Whatever you like."
He's still calling me "dear." That's a good sign, right? Jameson hoped so. Looking William in the eye was too much for him, so he stared at his hands in his lap, taking a few deep, long breaths to prepare himself.
"I've become worried," Jameson confessed, his voice already starting to shake. Part of him wished to make it stop, while the other part of him couldn't be bothered to care about such things. So what if he was weak and pathetic? Forcing himself to be alright was getting him nowhere whatsoever. "About myself. I'm starting to feel as if…I might not ever be able to escape what I went through." Waterford hadn't even needed to touch him; just a few words and Jameson had been terrified, enough to lose all sense of mind. "But," he said before William could give him the same reassurances he'd done every day since they'd returned home, "I'm much more afraid of you not wanting me."
There was no taking back the admission, though Jameson wished he could, if just to ensure William didn't make such a distressed expression. It was one thing for Jameson himself to deal with such feelings, but to cause William pain as well, after everything he'd done for Jameson? It was almost too much to bear, almost enough to make Jameson want to run away. As if sensing that distress, William reached out, his hand hovering above Jameson's in a silent offer to take it.
"Keep going," William said, his voice gentle. "Tell me everything you need to get off your chest."
"You haven't propositioned me since we got back from handling Waterford. I thought…" The words in his mind hadn't ceased—he was filthy, filthy, filthy—but speaking them aloud was much more difficult. What if William hadn't been thinking such things already but he would as soon as Jameson told him? Even worse, what if he was thinking them, and Jameson's admission would be the perfect opportunity to confirm it as true. "I thought...that you didn't want me because you thought I was dirty."
There. He'd said it, and there was no taking it back. At some point, Jameson had shut his eyes tight, and he kept them that way—not that the darkness was providing any sort of comfort, nor was the silence, which seemed to stretch on for what felt like an eternity.
"Jameson," William said, his gentle tone not enough to keep Jameson from flinching at the sudden address, "is this something you've been thinking this whole time?" His voice failing him, Jameson nodded. "Because of what Waterford said?"
That whore will open his legs for anyone that gives him the slightest bit of attention!
Nodding should have been simple, and yet it felt as if someone had tied down the back of his head with heavy weights that he had to drag with him—but that was just part of the truth. "I didn't…want him to say anything else."
Not whenever every word out of the Marquis's mouth could have shattered apart the life Jameson was, after so long, starting to get used to.
"Oh, Jameson," William said, his voice soft. In almost a perfect counter to Jameson's worries, William leaned forward, grasping Jameson's hands in his, their warmth such a beautiful form of comfort that Jameson thought he might cry from it. "Jameson, of course I still want you."
"…Then why haven't you touched me?" It was a rare sight to watch William look bewildered by a statement, but Jameson didn't have anywhere near the sense of mind to appreciate it in that moment. "I understand that it's asking for far too much for you to desire me after what you've learned, but I…I tried my best to reassure you. I know I couldn't go through with it, but I promise I wanted to!"
He'd wanted William then, wanted to be in his arms, wanted to feel that familiar body, wanted to hear all the affection and reassurance that he'd gotten used to—and it was selfish and dirty and awful, but Jameson couldn't taper any of that down. No matter what, even amongst every awful thing Waterford's words had reminded him of, Jameson craved the safety of William, and though asking felt like greed enough, Jameson still wanted more.
"I meant what I said! That I want you and no one else!" Hadn't he proved that to himself whenever he'd rejected Albert's advances, whenever his seduction of Robson had felt hollow? Those things should have been enough, and yet they weren't—so however could he hope to convince William? "I know you're careful with me because you care, because you do not wish to hurt me, but whenever you do nothing, I feel as if you've at last come to your senses and intend to toss me aside, and I cannot take that, William, I just can't!"
Jameson was sobbing again, just as he feared he would, but he didn't have the sense of mind anymore to care, not whenever the fear was gripping him that William, too, would toss him aside, leaving Jameson with nothing.
"Jameson," William said, the sound of his name upon those beautiful lips just making Jameson sob harder. William wiped those tears away, his comfort as unceasing as Jameson's crying. "Jameson, I apologise. I know these weeks have been rough for you. I didn't want to add the pressure of feeling you had to be available to me whenever you were so affected, so I put any of those feelings to the side for the time being and didn't pursue them. But I want you to know that my lack of advances has had nothing to do with you somehow becoming undesirable to me." William's smile was sad, but he didn't let go whatsoever. "It appears that by trying to ensure you feel safe, my actions have had the opposite effect."
"Then don't do it again!" Jameson hadn't meant to raise his voice, but William didn't begrudge him for it. That unconditional forgiveness just made Jameson feel worse, so he took a moment to collect himself. Wringing the words out as much as he was wringing his hands, Jameson continued. "I…can see your logic with that approach. But without telling me as much, I was scared I'd at last ruined everything. More than anything, I would rather you ask so I can tell you what I need." It was, in many ways, a less severe version of what they'd experienced earlier in the year, and while Jameson was grateful that William hadn't gone to the extreme of avoiding him altogether again, that didn't make what had happened any less unpleasant. "No matter what, William, I feel safest when I'm with you."
It didn't matter if it were in bed or otherwise, those words would always ring true. William was such a source of comfort for Jameson that he'd never been able to imagine having before—and yet, there William was. Everything about his presence made Jameson comfortable, even with the parts of himself that he hated, and he didn't wish to sacrifice such a thing before he had to.
"I…I'm honoured, Jameson. Truly." William offered his hands, and Jameson took hold of them, clinging on as if William were a lifeboat whilst Jameson was lost at sea. "It is…a bad habit of mine to assume that I know what is best for other people, as my treatment of you has reminded me." Jameson shook his head, unable to take William being down on himself, but William just continued, "It may not mean much, but I would like to attempt to correct my flaws. What is it that I can do for you to show that I don't wish to hurt you?"
"You promise you don't hate me? You promise you don't find me filthy?" Those worries had been with Jameson ever since they'd first met at Aldborough Manor, but he'd at least been able to manage them throughout their days, even if just for the most part. To speak them aloud was terrifying enough; what if by asking William to promise something he couldn't, it just became all the clearer how broken and busted of a plaything Jameson was—that he feared he would always be?
But William looked straight into Jameson's eyes and said, "I promise that such things have never crossed my mind."
"Then make love to me," Jameson whispered.
The words felt as if they were far louder than he'd spoken them, in no small part thanks to the silence that fell over the room in their aftermath. William hadn't bothered to control his expression, but that also just made it all the more difficult to tell what he was thinking, and that uncertainty was terrifying; it almost felt like rejection, and—
"Putting my own desire aside for a moment," William said, as if that wasn't what he'd been doing for the past fortnight, "is intercourse something you want now?"
"It…it would make me feel better if we could." Jameson was far too terrified by the alternative, far too fearful of the prospect of being shoved aside just due to his past, and words weren't feeling like enough. They should have been, he should have learned to trust William by then after everything, but Jameson was far too selfish and dirty and couldn't feel that anything was real unless it was carved into his body. "P-please don't abandon me, I—!"
William pressed in his lips to Jameson's, the movement gentle but not hesitant. He held the kiss for a few more seconds, breaking apart for a moment before pressing together again. He repeated it a few more times, brushing his fingers over Jameson's cheek in a soothing motion.
"Jameson," William said, and the sound of his name was almost enough to make Jameson want to cry even more. "Jameson. Jameson, I promise I'm not abandoning you."
Not then.
Not yet.
"If you wish to make love tonight," William continued, his voice just as soft, and Jameson nodded, "then I would be glad to do so." He brushed his thumb over Jameson's lips with just enough sensuality to mirror his words. "And if at any point you change your mind, I will not consider it an insult. I will listen to every word you have to say, and I will be happy to enjoy you the next time you wish to do so. No matter what, that will always be the same, Jameson. I swear to you."
"O-okay." Jameson's own voice was watery, which wasn't alluring in the slightest, but it didn't need to be. "I-if you could…tell me that again, I would appreciate it. But! That's just if I need to stop." He did intend to go all the way—he wanted to—but it would be a great comfort to know such reassurance would be available should he need it.
And William, because he was wonderful, nodded without hesitation. "I will tell you whenever you need it. In fact, tonight, I will heed your every last wish, no matter how insignificant you may believe they are. I want to hear them all, my dear."
The term of endearment made Jameson hiccough, though it was far more from a sense of relief than anything else. And yet the feeling of relief wasn't as pronounced as Jameson had expected it to be, leaving him to chew on the inside of his lip while he attempted to form his thoughts into words. "Before," he whispered. "On the night that…" That was more than enough for William to understand, so Jameson didn't dare to explain more. "You…you called me 'dearest.'"
Not dear, but dearest.
As if Jameson was the most precious person to him.
It was, like everything else about their relationship, a pretty lie, but it was one that Jameson hadn't been able to let go.
"I did," William whispered in return, tucking Jameson's hair behind his ear with the gentlest of touches. "Did it bother you for me to do so?"
"No! I mean, no," Jameson said at a more reasonable volume. "I mean…at the time…I wasn't quite…aware of myself and what was happening. But when I thought back on it, I remembered. Or, well, I thought I might have imagined it, but nonetheless…"
"It wasn't your imagination." Jameson's breath caught, but William continued. "I did in fact call you 'dearest.' And that you thought it might have been a fantasy means it was something you enjoyed hearing." Jameson nodded, already feeling his face burning, though he wasn't sure if it was shame or arousal that was responsible. "Shall I continue to call you as such?"
"P-please. Even if it's just for tonight, I… I want to hear you call me that."
"My dearest." Oh, it was so unfair how William was capable of sounding so caring and so seductive all at once, though perhaps it was Jameson's own fault that he thought as much. William's face drew closer to his, their gazes locking into each other as Jameson tumbled down, down, down those pools of brilliant scarlet. "My dearest Jameson," William whispered, his lips almost fluttering against Jameson's, and Jameson could hardly do more than breathe he was so captivated. "Just like always, if that's what you wish, then I'll provide it.
"Dearest, I want you."
The words stole Jameson's breath, but that was fine, as William took a kiss the next moment. Jameson threw himself into it, threw himself out of his chair and into William, clutching at his lapels without any intention of letting go, though he knew he would at some point. He wanted William, too, wanted to feel that rush of something bright and good amidst all the other darkness lingering in his mind.
"Darling, I want you."
They took their time, and for once Jameson did not have any complaints. William led him to bed, where they began the process of sharing long, tongue-filled kisses and stripping each other of their layers. With each bit of skin revealed, William showered him with compliments, ones for him and him alone. As such, by the time the two of them were bare, Jameson was already more than ready, William's fingers brushing against his wetness and sending a shiver through Jameson that he wasn't able to deny, and William hoisted Jameson up by the hips as he arranged them so that William was lying down, Jameson atop him.
"Jameson," he asked, "would you do me the honour of taking the lead?"
The request sent a shudder through Jameson, and he nodded as he adjusted. "Keep your hands on me," he said, not wanting to lose the feel of William's touch for a second. "I do not care where," he continued, grasping William's erection to make it easier to line himself up with, "but I want you touching me and talking to me." He wanted those reminders that William was there, that William wanted him, despite every last thing that Waterford had spewed.
He wanted to feel that easy sort of happiness again, and being one with William was an excellent place to start.
Thanks to William's foreplay, it wasn't difficult for Jameson to slip down onto him, and it was a slow sink as William's erection filled him up. The pleasure of that sensation began to thaw something inside of him, chipping away at the darkness that held tight around his heart, and each murmur of dearest contributed to that. William followed Jameson's instruction to the letter, his hands always somewhere: up the side of Jameson's leg, a palm sweeping across his back, fingers caressing Jameson's face as Jameson rode him in a slow and steady pace, his eyes never once leaving William, afraid that his partner might disappear if he were to look away.
"Jameson, dearest," William called him, the repetition doing nothing to lessen the impact of those words. "Jameson, you're beautiful."
And with those words and William's fingers dancing across his clitoris, Jameson orgasmed with a whine of "Darling!", attempting to memorise the sensation buzzing through him. William aided him along with continued thrusts at their slow, gentle pace, and Jameson clung tight to William's shoulders. "Go ahead, I want you to—"
"Jameson, Jameson, Jameson." William released one more long groan as his own orgasm died down, and he held Jameson in a close embrace, almost as if he refused to let him go. Jameson took a kiss, whimpering as he came down from his high. "I could want no one else but you. So long as this is what you want, I will never turn you away."
"Always you," Jameson whispered, the words a promise.
And William answered, "Always you."
Jameson was impressed that he hadn't burst out crying far sooner, but any and all such control vanished as the dam inside him cracked to pieces. He buried himself into William's shoulder, but even that wasn't enough to erase the sounds of his sobs, which were louder than even his earlier cries of ecstasy. Even if he'd wanted to, there was no stopping his outburst, his tears relentless, bringing a torrent of snot along with them. William held him close the entire time, rubbing Jameson's back and tugging the blankets up and around them so that they were warm and safe and together.
"It's alright, dearest. Cry as long as you need to."
With that permission given, Jameson didn't stand a chance. Time had already ceased to have meaning through their intercourse, and it continued to be nebulous and distant in the aftermath. At some point, Jameson moved, shifting their positions so that they laid upon their sides, face to face, rather than Jameson on top of William, but not much else changed. And then, with close to the same suddenness as its onslaught, the tears eased away, leaving behind a pleasant sort of hollowness, as if the torrent had dislodged a massive boulder inside Jameson's chest. Sure, he'd drenched the handkerchief William had fished up for him, but that was a small price to pay.
And, in the middle of that, Jameson found a tiny kernel of bravery.
"Before," Jameson said, keeping his head tucked into William's chest. He knew that looking up would make it easier to speak, but that was the one thing he couldn't bring himself to do, so he stayed put, and William was silent to listen. "Before. When it first started. I didn't…I didn't realise that something was wrong."
William's hand had stilled for a moment, but then he went back to stroking Jameson's hair. "There's no shame in that. I'm sure the Viscount made sure that there was no reason for you to worry about anything." Jameson had been young, after all. And while he'd known some concepts of sex due to his upbringing, being fed misinformation for Stratford to get what he wanted wasn't that unusual.
But Jameson still felt sticky just thinking about it.
"Yes, but… I still…" His breathing felt shallow, and that was all he was able to do for several minutes, William stroking his hair all the while. "I liked it," Jameson managed to eke out. "I liked how it felt. I liked the attention." The words rushed out of him, like a gust of wind on a blustery day, hollowing out something inside of him in the process. "For about the first year, I wanted it."
There.
He'd admitted it.
Just like Waterford had said, he'd been a whore, through and through.
He'd wanted everything, and just thinking about it made him nauseous. But he couldn't deny the way he'd felt, the excitement of having a guest over, of having Stratford indulge himself in bed. Waterford had been there in those times, too, had borne witness to Jameson's then willingness to be subject to whatever it was they wished of him. That had been what Jameson had been so afraid of, had been what had made him abandon the plan in favour of silencing the Marquis as soon as possible.
"Oh, Jameson," William murmured, pulling Jameson closer. His fingers were a comfortable caress in Jameson's hair, not having changed in the slightest from before Jameson's confession. "Jameson, it does not matter what you felt then. It does not matter if you wanted to or even requested it. You are allowed to change your mind—and even before you did, what they did to you was unacceptable, no matter how you may have been led to feel about your circumstances. You were a child. You should have never been put into a position where you could feel something about it in the first place." He adjusted their positions, pressing his forehead to Jameson's. "All that happened is a reflection upon their own depravity. None of that makes you dirty, Jameson."
If Jameson had had any more tears into him to cry, he would have done so then and there. But even without tears, the pure relief that washed through him at that statement was undeniable, even more euphoric than the orgasm he'd experienced not too long ago.
"Please," Jameson said. "Please tell me that again."
And so William did, the words becoming a new lullaby that eased Jameson into the most peaceful slumber he'd had in weeks.
As Jameson had found time and time again, the first step in recovery was often significant, but it was, by all means, still the first step. One night of intercourse and some pretty words weren't enough to return him to his state of mind prior to the Waterford operation, but they were enough to nudge him closer, and that made a lot of things much easier. Jameson was able to get out of bed in the morning with little more than gentle coaxing from William (the slight chill was the main enemy, rather than his own fear), was able to participate in household chores, and could even hold conversations without having to push himself to the limit. There were still times whenever his skin felt sticky, whenever memories came pressing down upon him, but his view of the world wasn't as fuzzy anymore and he could also remember the days instead of them passing him by.
The exercise of his physical training helped, the movement giving his nervous energy somewhere to go. Even with all his interruptions, Jameson had been making steady progress the past several months. For starters, he didn't get winded anywhere near as easy, and he'd also begun to put on some muscle. Many of the beginner techniques were engrained enough in his body that he could perform them without much thought, but Louis always had something more up his sleeve to show him, and so the process of learning never quite came to a stop, which was doubtless a good thing, since it gave him something to focus upon. Fred was also learning at a steady clip, though Jameson tried not to take it to heart that it was clear the boy had a higher level of base strength and stamina than him, able to outpace Jameson despite his much shorter overall practise time. Rather than dishearten him, it made Jameson all that much more determined to not be left behind in the dust.
It was with such thoughts in mind that Jameson was performing his warm-up exercises in the yard, easing the tightness out of his muscles as best he could. He'd been doing the routine long enough that he didn't need instruction to complete the process—which was good, as Louis had yet to show up. Basic conditioning was something Jameson could handle on his own, so he decided to start with a light jog to pass the time. He no longer gasped for breath at the exertion, instead finding something comforting in the steady rhythm of his limbs pumping along.
"Looks like you're up and raring to go there, boy!"
"Maestro Jack?" Jameson hadn't been expecting to see the man at all, though it had been some time since they'd crossed paths. Jack was a busy man, after all, being the head butler of a much more bustling manor than the Moriartys'; if it was a miracle that Louis was able to make time for Jameson to continue his training, then it felt as if it could be nothing more than divine intervention that Jack had been able to break away for a matter that didn't involve work. Shaking his head free of his initial surprise, Jameson jogged across the space between them. "It's been some time. I hope you've been well."
"I have, but I heard that you haven't." The shame burned through Jameson's body without any reservation, and part of him wished to disappear on the spot. It was one thing for everyone at Moriarty Manor to know how unwell he was, as they all saw him every day, but for the word to pass on to their comrades outside the house? It felt atrocious. The one saving grace seemed to be that the Colonel had no clue as to what was happening, but even then Jameson couldn't bring himself to feel optimistic about the circumstances. "Now, now, there's no need to be so sullen. I'm not here to ridicule you; I'm here to see if I can help."
"…Be that as it may, I can't help but feel a bit disappointed in myself." He'd lost his composure in such a way, and even now, a fortnight later, he could still feel the echo of it all in bones, even after his main worries were assuaged. "I know that expecting perfection from myself is unreasonable, but to not even be able to function at a bare minimum is rather disheartening."
"You aren't the first person to be in such a position, and you won't be the last. Of course, I know damn well that can only be so encouraging, but the fact remains: you picked yourself up enough to be under my tutelage before, at a time you were far less powerful than you are now, didn't you?" Though part of his mind dismissed the words as platitudes, Jameson was still able to recognise a fragment of truth in that statement, and so he nodded. Maestro Jack broke out into a grin. "Then I know you're capable of using that determination to make it through this as well. Though I am here to help you along so you don't have to face everything alone."
Jameson shuffled on his feet, wishing to argue but knowing it would be pointless. He'd been told the counterarguments so many times that he could recite them himself: it was alright to ask for help; he had gone through something awful, something that no one should be expected to shrug off; they didn't demand perfection from him; the Moriarty brothers, as incredible as they seemed, had not achieved their accomplishments as individuals, but rather as a group.
More than anything else that was going on, Jameson was growing rather tired of his thoughts always managing to get the better of him.
And if others were trying to help where Jameson kept failing over and over…perhaps he should let them instead of struggling by himself and getting nowhere.
"What did you have in mind, Maestro?"
"Some extra training that I think you should be able to handle. After all, Young Louis has been telling me you've been keeping up with your training without slacking." Yes, Jameson had been managing that, hadn't he? Just like he'd managed to get out of bed every day despite the fear sinking into his bones, how he'd been able to keep talking to the others without sinking into himself. It was difficult, but he could remember a lot of the recent days, not having gotten lost in the fog of his own distress for long.
Training, though guaranteed to be exhausting, sounded rather nice.
Taking a deep breath, Jameson went ahead and redid his warm-up stretches. "Whenever you're ready, Maestro Jack."
"Then let's get started."
Louis had been the one to invite Maestro Jack over out of a lack of any other ideas of how he could help—or at least ideas he could pull off without making matters worse. Louis had always been the one to provide blunt answers, but even he understood that was not what a case like Jameson's needed. No, it needed Albert's humour, William's kindness, even Fred's worried fussing.
Or, in the current case, Maestro Jack's strict training that would know when to stop, unlike Louis's that would work Jameson to the bone.
Even so, it wasn't like Louis could do nothing, which was why he'd spent some time preparing refreshments for their training. While autumn was on the cusp of approaching, it was still hot in the afternoons, and regular drinks would be essential. He'd been planning on making some lemonade in any event, so they'd be able to have some during the day, then the rest for dinner.
The process took quite a while, in particular squeezing every last drop of juice from each lemon that one could muster, but the results would be worth it. Before long, he'd gotten into a rhythm, squeezed out half a pitcher's worth of juice and fished out any stray seeds he'd missed from the pulp, and then prepared the sugar syrup mixture to add in with fresh water. From there, all he needed was to top it off with some ice from the ice box, put it on a cart with some glasses, and the preparations were complete.
It took but a few minutes to go from the kitchen to the backyard, the sun shining down with some lingering flavours of summer. Jameson and Maestro Jack were still busy at work, so Louis went to set things up by the table they had nearby. There were a few leftover fruits that Louis spent some time sorting back onto his cart to return to the kitchen. With that done, Louis checked his watch, determining that he had enough time to make sure Jameson got some drinks before heading back to work, and so he settled into a seat, hoping to make notes on Jameson's progress to use in his own lessons.
He'd just finished pouring himself a glass of lemonade whenever Jameson collapsed to the ground.
[Author's Notes]
This version of the author's note brought to you by me retyping it after my cat managed to backspace on the webpage, losing all my progress.
But I decided to be rude and have a season ending cliffhanger, whoops. Jameson is just going through it, as always, but at least he has everyone to take care of him.
As usual, updating this fic will take a short break after this chapter to give me a breather. We'll be back on December 28 for the start of season five and this year's [Shibuya Operation - Story Storm]. Next arc is one of the longer ones in terms of total chapter count, so I hope you look forward to it!
Fun fact: This chapter makes this fic in my Word doc over 500 pages (we are not even halfway through).
I also got around to posting my recent Jameson and William art on my instagram (aviplotbunny). Not to mention the new Jump SQ cover - wild to believe that we're only a couple of days away from part two of the manga! We truly are living in excellent times to be a yuumori fan.
Title of the chapter is from Wednesday's Wolves' "Shake."
Next time: The Bustle at Moriarty Manor. Please look forward to it!
-Avi
[30 November 2024]