Work Text:
The day had been warm and clear—like most days seemed to be in Los Angeles—and Thomas had eaten dinner on the patio beside the pool to catch the last of the evening sun. Guy was filming a short piece down in West Hollywood and would be home when he was home, which was always the way it went when he was working.
Thomas found he didn’t mind it as Guy—or Quentin, which is how he should probably think of him, but couldn’t quite get there yet—always came home to him. And when he wasn’t filming, they took trips to Santa Monica pier and Venice beach and the theatre. They went to soirées hosted by Greta Garbo and Chaplin as a couple and no one batted an eye. They danced together in the innumerable clubs for men of their sort that lined the west end of Santa Monica boulevard.
They did whatever the hell they wanted. America the Beautiful in-bloody-deed.
And Thomas—who hadn’t had the time or money to do as he pleased for almost twenty years—felt so free and giddy with joy it took all his self-control not to stand on the balcony of their house and dance a jig. He had found love and friendship and community and freedom at a point in his life where he’d felt like he would never be anything more than a butler—living in the shadow of the previous butler—for the rest of his life.
Thomas gazed up at the pink and orange-streaked sky and smiled. Even the sunsets here were sprinkled with Hollywood magic.
As if on cue, the telltale rumble of Guy’s motor pulled up and the man himself appeared on the patio moments later.
“The prodigal returns,” Thomas smiled, “how was it today?”
Guy leaned in to peck Thomas on the cheek. “Took Kitty fifteen takes to get one line right, but otherwise it was a good day.” He flopped into the chair beside Thomas and toed off his shoes. “That girl was made for silent films.”
“Not everyone can make the transition to talkies look as easy as you do,” Thomas said.
Guy gave him a bashful smile, as if he still didn’t quite believe Thomas thought so highly of him. “There’s no need for flattery,” he said, before pressing his lips to Thomas’s in more heated kiss, “though I won’t pretend I mind.”
“It’s not flattery when it’s true.”
Guy chuckled and stole a sip of Thomas’s wine. “What are you still doing out here at this hour?”
“Thinking.”
“A dangerous pass time.” He sounded concerned. Thomas was still unused to having someone care so much about his feelings.
“Thinking about good things,” Thomas reassured him, taking back his wine glass. He drained it in one swallow, then licked his lips, aware of how Guy’s eyes followed the path of his tongue.
“Am I a good thing?”
“The best thing.” Thomas reached for his hand and Guy took it immediately. “And I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of the sunsets here.”
They sat in comfortable silence and watched the sky turn punch-pink, then mauve, then finally a star-dotted black. Thomas shivered; the nights were nowhere as cold as what he was used to back in Yorkshire, but the days were so much warmer by comparison that it made the evenings feel cooler than they were. Guy, who never missed a trick, slipped off his jacket and draped it around Thomas’s shoulders.
“You’re cold,” he said, “let’s get you inside and warmed up.”
“And how do you plan on warming me up?”
Guy broke into a grin so brilliant it put the stars to shame. “Oh, I have a few ideas.”