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The night is crisp and wintry, the sky devoid of clouds and, according to Richard, almost as inky black as Thomas' hair – that is, if you don't count the gray hairs at his temples, Thomas thinks a little sulkily. The small cottage they're staying in has fallen behind a hill, but the moon hangs big and round in the sky among a canopy of stars and provides just enough light to see by. Richard's winter-pale skin stands out, ghostly in the gloom.
The long, dark moors stretch out around them, and Thomas wonders again why on Earth they had to come outside when they had the option of a warm bed or a warm fire, or both – easy for Richard to be thrilled about the cold and soggy country, living in London – before he turns back to Richard, who is studying their only source of illumination at present.
"What's with you and the moon?"
"Don't you like it?"
"It's just the moon," Thomas shrugs.
Richard hums thoughtfully. "When I look at it, it makes me feel both insignificant and deeply connected to everyone. People have been gazing at the same moon for countless millennia and will continue to do so long after we're gone, no matter their class or distinction."
"That's... nice, I guess? Though I don't know if I much fancy thinking myself insignificant," Thomas says. Sometimes he really doesn't understand Richard.
"Well you'll always be significant to me," Richard replies with a beatific smile and leans sideways towards Thomas and nudges him with an elbow, warming Thomas deep inside, before he returns his gaze to the moon. "But we're here for such a short time. Contemplating the moon reminds me of that, of what's important."
"And what's that?"
Richard pauses, unusual for him, with a certain weight to the silence. Suddenly acutely aware of the moon fob attached to his watch chain he left on the dresser, Thomas awaits the answer with his heart leaping, a touch trepidatious but always eager for every bit of affection and romance Richard bestows upon him.
After a spell, Richard continues, and Thomas feels both relieved and disappointed that he's still looking at the moon.
"It's love, isn't it? Connection. We work just to stay alive, like people have always done, so we can live when we're not working. We do all these things, drink and laugh and play music and dance, court one another, cheat on spouses and look at art and read poetry, just to feel things, don't we? To feel good, or to feel alive. And I can't think of anything that makes you feel both as much as love." He turns slightly to focus on Thomas. "Can you?"
Thomas swallows. "No," he says, looking back at Richard, voice thankfully his own, heart beating fast inside his chest. "I can't."
He doesn't have much experience with love, but even Philip had once made him feel so alive he'd been fit to burst. The memories Thomas had once tried so hard to bury have loosened their hold on him over the years, but he knows Philip was insignificant compared to how Richard makes him feel. It's funny, in his youth he was so quick to make his feelings known, and now that he's got a bloke who, through his actions if not his words, has made it clear he returns Thomas', the words disperse inside him along with the butterflies in his stomach before ever reaching his mouth. He clears his throat lightly, self-conscious.
"Quite the philosopher, aren't you? Maybe you should've been a poet," Thomas says in the hush of the night.
"Maybe," Richard laughs. "Would beat dressing and undressing the king. Could just undress you instead."
"What, and leave the dressing to me? I'd expect better service from His Majesty's valet."
"I like you undressed."
"So you don't like me dressed, is that it," Thomas says, laughing. Richard laughs too, low and breathy. A thin white cloud forms and evaporates in front of him.
"Well, you do have a beautiful body. No shame in appreciating it," Richard replies, eyebrows raised.
"Flanneler," Thomas retorts in delight, and knocks into Richard with his shoulder.
"I only speak it how I see it, Mr. Barrow. It is the poet's highest calling to observe the truth," he says self-importantly, suddenly every inch an aristocratic twat. Thomas snorts and then laughs, joyful and unbidden.
They spend a moment horsing around and giggling as if they were still in shorts, Thomas feeling so very alive indeed he feels younger than he has in years. He'd all but forgot they'd been talking about the moon in the first place, when Richard returns to the subject once they've quieted down and are just holding each other in the cold.
"You know what else? The moon has kept me company the many months I haven't been able to see you. I'd perch on my windowsill at the palace or elsewhere, and imagine you gazing upon it at the same time. Though as I've learned now, you most assuredly didn't," he finishes wryly; amusement sparkles in his eyes.
"Maybe I will from now on," Thomas says perhaps more earnestly than how he usually replies to Richard's whimsy.
Richard smiles at him, genuine and pleased and so lovely, and gives him a soft kiss on the lips before releasing him and turning back to the moon.
"Besides, it's beautiful. Sometimes that's all you need to light the way."
"I suppose," Thomas says despite himself, feeling grateful and comforted if Richard can really see it that way, and surveys the shadows and soft moonlight on his face. The wavy strands of Richard's loosened fringe glow, as if the moon itself picked them out to call attention to the vision.
Richard would undoubtedly find something more poetic to say, but Thomas finds he doesn't need any more words. He takes in the man next to him, and reaches for his hand to find it warming his own in the twinkle of an eye.