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The Hamilton house is big. As ridiculous as it may seem to point out, considering the fact is clear from the facade alone, James does not truly notice it until well into his newly formed friendship with the couple.
Into the first week of his affair with Miranda, he starts to suspect she’s making a game out of fucking in every room she can get him in, but even then, he still does not understand how big of a house it is. Maybe he’d grown used to the endless corridors of Whitehall. Maybe he’d grown too comfortable inside this particular house, in these particular rooms, so much so he stopped seeing all the closed doors he never got to open. Maybe it was because of how Thomas and Miranda inhabited the place, making it feel warm and alive, no matter how large and empty the spaces were.
Maybe that’s why he finally came to the realization of how big and alien the Hamilton house is on a cold early morning, as he was leaving Miranda’s room.
Even the previous night, as they dined en tête-à-tête, James had felt wrong-footed, a strange feeling of unease creeping up on him as they moved from room to room in what James finally identified as an eerie quietness without Thomas’s presence. He was out dining with friends, Miranda had told him, all fellow Eton attendees, and they were going for a show after, and probably an unnecessary amount of drinking, and she did not expect him back all night, which she was grateful for as it meant having James all to herself for once.
James knows he ought to be excited too, and he had been pleased when she had invited him, but as the evening passed by and they moved from the salon to the dining hall to the smoke room to Miranda’s boudoir, the more James wanted to finally reach her room and hide under the covers from the emptiness of the house without Thomas’s presence.
At least, when they did reach her room, the night turned pleasant enough he was able to ignore that ridiculous feeling, and he thoroughly enjoyed himself and made absolutely sure Miranda did too.
The next morning, he wakes before her, as he almost always does, the habit firmly ingrained by now, and he slips away as the morning light barely starts to peek through the curtains. The corridor is only dimly lit by the pale light filtering from under the doors, but he doesn’t mind. The darkness makes the space seem smaller, in a way he’s accustomed to, for it is the darkness of cheap buildings.
As he makes his way towards the stairs, the thick carpet absorbs the noise of his heavy boots. The silence feels just as soft as the carpet itself, the way it often does in the first hours of the day, peaceful and quiet. James almost holds his breath for fear of disturbing it.
Then, there’s a sound, a rush of voices whispering, and a stifled laugh, a snort, and a giggle. James freezes, and this time, really does hold his breath. He’s almost at the landing, and apparently, two other people have beaten him to it.
His first thought is of servants going about their morning duties, although he now knows the bedrooms are equipped with service entrances leading to the servant stairs, and that the rest of the upstairs rooms are rarely opened until later in the day, since the Hamilton both share a habit of sleeping in late.
But then, he recognizes one of the voices, although how he couldn’t possibly say, considering he most certainly never heard Lord Hamilton whispers and chuckle like this. The earl says something James cannot make out and the other voice answers plaintively. A male voice, James finally realizes.
His heart is hammering in his chest, and he’s not sure why since he knows not to fear Thomas finding him sneaking out of his wife’s room. Still, he takes a few careful steps, and very carefully, peers past the corner into the landing.
Thomas is there, talking to a man standing a step down from him, holding his coat over his arm and smiling familiarly at him. He has a hand resting on the lord’s hip, pulling him closer, and when he speaks, he leans in, seeking, demanding, and Thomas…
Thomas is only wearing a shirt.
He’s a vision in white in the weak morning light, from the short blond hair of his uncovered head to the long bare legs, the skin of his calf as pale as the thighs he can glimpse from under the hem. So much naked skin, aglow in the morning twilight. Even his feet are bare, toes digging into the carpet as he let himself be pulled closer, grinning.
James’s chest seize and he feels himself choking on the breath he’s holding.
“Come now, Harry, I’m freezing!” Thomas half whispers, half laughs, half-heartedly batting the other away.
“Then why are you chasing me away when I could warm you up so nicely?” The man now identified as Harry whispers back, his voice full of honey and his hand slipping down, fingers gathering the shirt and digging into the flesh underneath.
James feels the hand squeezing Thomas’s arse like it’s on his own, and it feels like a hot brand of rage and a freezing cold shower of terror and it takes him all of his will and training not to charge the stranger and throw him out of the nearest window.
Thomas sighs and crosses his arm over his chest, his smile turning into a gentle scold.
“Harry, you have to go— …”
“Alright,” Harry interrupts, both disappointed and still pleading, “a kiss then? Because I am leaving, and Tommy, you may never, ever see me again!”
Thomas chuckles and James bristles, and Thomas leans in and kisses the man, and James’s heart stops.
It’s barely more than a peck, Thomas closing the distance over his still folded arms and Harry still holding on to his godforsaken coat, lips chastely pressed together, but still, Harry makes a very satisfied noise, and leans into it with his entire body. He tilts his head, moves his hand to get a better grip on Thomas, holds him there, and the kiss stretches on and Thomas hums into it and it is obscene to watch as James is.
“Now away with you,” Thomas says as he finally breaks the kiss, and when Harry goes to protest again, he presses a finger to his lips, and steps away.
Harry stands there for a moment, holding his coat, defeated, then hangs his head dramatically and finally turns to leave. James follows his every step as he climbs down the stairs, tensing every time the man looks back to Thomas in the hope of being called back to his side. But Thomas stays firm, watching him leave from the landing with a bored smile, definitively cold by now if he hadn’t actually been before.
As Harry disappears from view, James strains, trying to make sure, somehow, that he actually leaves. There’s the sound of a door opening and closing, loud and heavy enough it could be the front door, and it seems to satisfy Thomas who relaxes with a sigh. In the same breath, James does too, eyes flying back to him, and as he breathes out, he loses his precarious balance and stumbles the rest of the way into the landing.
Thomas almost jumps in surprise, and as he sees James, his face turns white.
James’s does too, and for an awful, horrible moment, they stare at each other, both caught, both terrified of the other’s reaction.
He had always known, in a distant sort of way, about Thomas’s preferences. It made sense, it explained why he would allow his wife such a large berth, while he himself never seemed interested in the pretty ladies attending his salons or flocking into Miranda’s boudoir for tea and a laugh. He wasn’t the first man James had met who preferred the company of other men, not even the first lord. Hell, it seemed to be standard practice in the higher circles of society, if all the gossip and crude jokes the lieutenant hears are to be believed. Something about the thrill of the danger, the baseness of the instincts, the ridicule of flaunting their vices for all to see, made untouchable by status and money.
At least, until they weren’t.
That wasn’t Thomas, though, James thinks fiercely. Not once had he seen him flirt and make a spectacle of himself, not a ubiquitous word, not even a furtive glance that James had seen.
And yet, here he was, caught in his own home, where he thought himself safe, hidden away in the depths of his house, so far removed from the rest of the world no one could ever find him unless he brought them with him. And he hadn’t brought James. He feels his stomach churns, like it does in combat, and right now, he thinks Thomas could kill him just as surely as any musket could.
“James— …” Thomas gasps, breaking the silence, “Lieutenant, I— …”
‘Oh God,’ James thinks, the use of his title hitting him like a blow, the formality, the masquerade of politeness, the horrid separation between them it creates, one Thomas is trying to hide behind. He’s scared of me, and I know why, for I now hold his entire life in my hands.
No burden had ever felt so heavy to bear.
“I’m sorry my Lord, I did not mean to pry, I should’ve made myself known— …”
“No, please, it’s my fault! I should not have put myself on display like this, really, I cannot apologize enough.” Thomas cuts him, and there’s a slight tremor in his voice.
On display in his own home, James thinks madly. His own home I invaded. His own home I am now a threat to.
His throat is too tight for any word to come out, and even then he wouldn’t know what to say, so instead, James walks briskly to the stairs and past Thomas, avoiding his gaze with what he hopes is a polite nod. Thomas stands frozen. James can feel his eyes on him like a brand. He makes it down the first flight of stairs before stopping, back resolutely turned.
“Lieutenant, I am— …”
“My lord, you must know— …”
They both speak and stop together. Silence stretches out until James gathers up the courage to start again.
“My lord, please know I would never do anything against you, or say anything that could harm you, especially not something I was not made privy to by your own volition.” He blurs out. His voice is tight, as tight as his fits clenching where they hang, helpless and furious. “Please excuse my intrusion, I shall take my leave now.”
He holds there for a second, feeling a cold sweat gathering at his neck. He thinks of the lord’s terror, and he aches for his friend.
“Thomas.” He finally adds softly, with a tilt of the head, like a safe word of recognition between true friends.
Behind him, Thomas inhales shakily.
“I am sorry, James.” He says after a moment, in a small voice.
James squares his shoulders, and slowly climbs down the rest of the steps, determined not to run. He crosses the hall to the front door and lets himself out. Behind him, the door closes with a slam, and the fresh morning air hits him like a slap across his heated face. For a moment, standing on the Hamilton house front porch, he wonders if hearing that sound caused Thomas another sigh of relief. The thought makes him want to punch the nearest wall, so he forces himself to banish it, and he resolutely walks away as fast as he can without actually running.