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He comes around slowly, to the faint sound of birds chirping, to a mild breeze tickling his naked skin, to the pleasant caress of the light filtering through the curtains. With sheer relief, he observes this awakening is a most peaceful one, with no lingering shadows from half-forgotten dreams.
Yawning, he fully stretches his limbs on a bed that is, at last, more than big enough for his tall frame, not to mention Richard's; it is more than big enough for both of them, their bed, and what a lovely thrill this reminder brings him.
He rolls over and lands face down in a comfortable sprawl, his left arm reaching out to the empty, yet still warm spot on the other side of the bed. Of course somebody is already up and about, he quietly snorts, unsurprised; regardless of necessity, Richard frequently tends to be quite the early riser, one as outrageously chipper as they come, and Thomas knows he's not supposed to work today, so he must be somewhere in the house - their house, he corrects himself yet again with another thrill, muffling a happy sigh into the pillow. What a ridiculously soppy picture he must make, he reckons, but he can't bring himself to care... it's a sight only Richard and, occasionally, what he likes to call "his mismatched family" at Downton Abbey, are ever privy to.
He remembers vividly the early days of their blooming relationship, the inevitable feeling of anticipation before reading a letter, the ostensibly idle yet emotionally charged telephone calls, the uncontrollable rush of joy he experienced every time they met; he also recalls Mrs Hughes and her motherly concern, dear Phyllis and her unwavering support, Daisy and her infectious excitement... and their overall tendency to fuss over him far too much, even now.
Distracted as he is, he takes little notice of the mattress dipping under a new weight. He takes very keen notice, instead, of the kiss being dropped on his jaw and the hand which starts petting his hair (said hair, he inwardly laments, must be an awful mess, one which he will have to sort out, but later... much later, because Richard has always been so good at this, and he has gotten even better over the years, and Thomas is emphatically not going to stop him anytime soon).
Richard's fingers take their time playing with his locks and combing through them, with a motion just as tender as the man they belong to can be, then trail down to lightly scratch the back of his neck; unable to resist and not inclined to in the slightest, Thomas shifts and leans into them with a low noise of approval, a wordless request for more thorough attention, and yes, there they go, those careful fingers, digging into the vulnerable flesh and kneading skillfully (how does such a small thing feel so nice he can barely keep in check), and he lifts himself onto his elbows and shamelessly arches into the touch, humming... and well, that's the point when Richard would usually tease him about purring, but he's curiously silent.
He cracks his eyes open, blinking sleepily until the precious vision lounging next to him comes into focus. Richard is staring with raw intensity, the way he does when he wishes to commit to memory every tiny detail, the way he does when he has no qualms whatsoever about letting slip how much he is affected; he used to worry about that, sometimes, until Thomas' blunt reassurances - screw whoever made you believe you were too much, Richard - had eventually sunk in. He is staring with a now familiar gentle wonder that is more than Thomas feels he deserves (he's selfish though, always has been, he's never claimed otherwise).
It has become so easy, almost frighteningly easy to let go and give himself over to all this, and languidly bask in it, not much unlike an indolent cat that will stretch and roll under the bright rectangle of a sunny window. Thomas doesn't remember having ever voiced such thoughts, or such an embarrassing analogy, either; he wonders if anything along those lines might have crossed Richard's mind too, somehow, and he wouldn't be surprised at all, if that were the case.
Impossibly perceptive he is, at times, and Thomas loves him all the more for it.
To think how bashful he used to get during private moments like these between them, full of soft looks and helpless smiles - he wilfully ignores the sarky voice in his head reminding him who is he trying to persuade, he still does get like that, often enough, and Richard makes no secret of loving it, and Thomas doesn't mind it at all, so what...
His reverie is broken when his partner smiles and utters a quiet "morning", his expression a blend of content and rapt and a tad smug; Thomas, powerless as anything when he's under the combined attention of strong emotions and genuine displays of affection, can't help but smile back like the most besotted of fools, offering the same greeting in a sleep-roughened murmur.
Then Richard pulls away all of a sudden, rising, and Thomas immediately lets out a whine of both disappointment and protest, which is good-naturedly shushed. Long ago he'd have, at the very least, been mildly horrified at such spontaneity, at the sole idea of openly showing this side of himself, but nowadays he has mostly overcome that old fear about coming across as silly, or demanding, or anything else like a burden - I don't wish for you to be anybody else but you, Thomas.
"I'm not going anywhere, dearest."
Indeed, it soon becomes evident Richard is only sitting up for the specific purpose of gaining better leverage; this time he resumes his welcome ministrations with both hands, exerting a delightful pressure along his muscles which has Thomas flop down and relax among the sheets with yet another pleased sound.
Once again, give himself over to Richard and his love, he does.