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It wasn’t the first time he’d had to tuck Anthony into a cozy chair or bed after an incident, and, James reflected, it wouldn’t likely be the last. This time it was fireworks at a New Year’s Eve party, Anthony having gone pale and stuttering after only a few pops and bangs. James had feigned a jovial inebriation as an excuse for both of them to leave early.
“Sorry, old chap,” Anthony said, voice low and muffled as he rested his head in his hands.
“Quite all right, quite all right.” James pressed a cup of tea, nearly too hot to hold into Anthony’s hands, making sure he had a secure grip before stepping back.
“It’s not. I wish you wouldn’t pretend it is.” He finally looked up, his eyes reddened. “I’m…” he swallowed, his voice strangled.
James was uncomfortable with silence, had been since he was a child, even when filling the quiet meant punishment, corporal or social. He’d learned to bite his tongue, swallow his discomfort, burning his insides for propriety’s sake. Stillness gnawed at him, painfully.
With Anthony, though, when James had forced himself to stop talking, for one blasted moment, the quiet didn’t make his teeth itch, at least not after their feelings were demonstratively mutual. He shuddered to think of how much he’d nattered on and on at Anthony as a defense to his prickling hot unease. Around Anthony, the quiet was nearly sacred, the space where even the mundane break in conversation or the mutual sounds of enjoying tea and breakfast without a word felt special. And right now, the quiet was for Anthony alone.
“I…” he’d started again, his jaw working overhard at that singular syllable. “Feel used up and fractured. It all hurts up here.” Anthony touched the crown of his head gently. “And I can’t even seem to remember it all correctly. Not much good for anything now. The blasted fireworks. I should have known better.”
He buckled inward, all of his long limbs and straight lines reaching and surpassing the fatigue limit. Best to stop this before implosion was complete.
James knelt, ignoring his knees’ audible protests.
“I don’t mind. Well. I mind because it hurts you so, but I don’t mind any of this one bit.” James cleared his throat, remembering their first kiss, both of them flushing red, James’ thoughts short-circuiting entirely with Anthony’s lips pressed to his. Objectively, it was probably fine as far as kisses went, in comparison to those that lay ahead for them, but it was, in its own way, superior to all others. His mind skipped over those hushed conversations, their first time alone and seeing Anthony fully nude, the first night they had slept together in the same bed, even the first time James stuttered out his confession of love.
“You came back. You survived. As much or as little as you ever want to tell me, I will listen.” James took the tea from Anthony, despite having forced it into his hands minutes earlier, setting it aside so he could curl his fingers into Anthony’s.
“I wish you saw this not as pity, but as what it is. Devotion. I’m not your nursemaid. I’m…well. I’m not sure what I’d be but maybe husband. That’s, ah, probably a discussion for a later date.” James swallowed, wondering if he’d done irreparable harm. He risked a glance up.
Tears had welled up in Anthony’s eyes, one sneaking out, rolling over his cheek, down to his chin, James reaching up to brush it away with his thumb.
“Take me to bed, James.”
Later, much later, after some lovemaking with an intensity that bordered on desperation, and a cigarette each, Anthony pulled the sheet down to his waist. Pointing to a small round scar, he looked up and began to tell James the cause.