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The December air is cold, much colder than Thomas enjoys, or has any mind to be exposed to for a moment longer than strictly necessary. It isn’t quite wintry enough for snow, not quite yet, but it will get there soon enough, crystals already forming on the windows upstairs in the early mornings before any fires are lit. The sun had set some hours ago now, leaving only the moon for dire illumination and stealing the last traces of warmth away, with the bitter winter breeze bringing droplets just sharp enough to pierce the skin like tiny cuts.
As such, the only good thing, the only reasonable explanation for anyone venturing outside in these conditions, short of an emergency, is the pleasure of someone else's company. And Thomas, desperate and pathetic that he is, has continued his walks, long past the point where they were pleasant, simple because Jimmy Kent had agreed to come along sometime in September and has never quite stopped.
Thomas is proud to say that he hadn’t even been the one to initiate it, the friendship too new and complicated for him to risk it all by inviting Jimmy to go somewhere alone, but Jimmy had invited himself along. Thomas thought it had probably been the promise of cigarettes or simply the chance to get away from Alfred for a moment longer that had been the cause, but he wasn’t going to question something so good that came freely given.
They’d spend most of their walks in companionable silence or with idle chatter. Jimmy had occasionally told him about his life before Downton and Thomas had offered up small pieces of his own in exchange, carefully choosing his words to make sure the stories he told were palatable and never alluding to anything that may not be fit to be repeated in polite company. He'd been waiting, heart in his throat, because he was certain that, any moment now, Jimmy was going to decide that he'd had enough. Of Thomas' company, or of the icy winds, or even just of pretending to care, although Thomas still hasn’t made up his mind on whether Jimmy is capable of something like pretence altogether, impulsive that he is. But Jimmy hadn’t changed his mind and so Thomas had continued to put on his coat, scarf, and thickest gloves after dinner and they’d continued their nightly tradition.
“Alfred looked like he were going to fall over himself when Ivy offered him that biscuit. You’d think she’d dropped her knickers, he was so eager,” Jimmy says, the moment they’ve made it through the door.
Thomas barks a laugh, and he can see out of the corner of his eye that it makes Jimmy preen, vain boy that he is.
“She seemed set on you last I heard,” Thomas offers. “She was all pink tryin’ to get you to try that gingerbread.”
Jimmy scoffs, then shrugs.
“She’s nice enough,” He finally says, after a few more steps. “But it’s all just a bit of fun. I’d never do anything serious about it, y’know.”
“You’re still young,” Thomas says, digging the cigarettes out of his pocket. He lights the first one and hands it to Jimmy, careful not to let their fingers brush and decidedly keeping his eyes off his friends’ lips where they wrap around the cigarette, because that way insanity lay and Thomas is half gone as it is.
He sticks the second one in his mouth and lights it, just in time to watch Jimmy blow out smoke in a perfect ring into the winter air, as he’d taken to doing whenever they had a cigarette on their walks now. The smoke kept them warm, but it lasted only seconds, and Thomas could already feel the familiar ache in his left hand, where scars wrapped around what little muscle remained. It hurt almost all the time now, between the walks that aggravated it in the evenings, the cold of his room that made the pain worse overnight, ripping him from sleep and clinging to him the whole morning, and the laborious Christmas preparations that seemed to require even an underbutler to do jobs more befitting of a hall boy, straining the muscle. The only good thing to come of the cold was that the bite of the air on his face would hide any blush that might colour his cheeks if Jimmy smiled at him or if Thomas got carried away. It was another benefit of these walks, an excuse to look at Jimmy, as long as he took care to never be too obvious or let his gaze linger in the wrong place. It wouldn’t do him any good to get too comfortable, to indulge too much in something that could never truly be and take something that wasn’t freely given.
“What about you?” Jimmy asks and Thomas can feel his back straighten up, tension returning to his shoulders.
“What about me?” He replies, trying his best not to let his surprise or discomfort show.
“There anyone you fancy?” Jimmy clarifies, and Thomas’ breath catches in his throat.
It’s a dangerous question, territory they haven’t ventured into before for good reason. Jimmy knows the answer to this question and maybe he hopes it has changed but it doesn’t mean asking is wise. If he caught Thomas on a bad day, he might let slip the truth and then what?
“We shouldn’t be talking about that,” Thomas says, and a lifetime in service means his voice is even and measured when he says it. He’s in control of his emotions, as much as he ever is.
“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t want to know,” Jimmy says and when Thomas catches his eye he grins back, light and unbothered. Thomas almost believes it. “Come on, you’re an old man now, Mr Barrow, you must have your eye on someone. Some lad in the village?”
He sounds like he cares, like he genuinely wants to know but complacency is dangerous, and Thomas knows better than to believe that acceptance comes this easily.
“You’re only a boy,” Thomas says instead. He swallows hard. “You don’t know the questions you’re asking.”
“Are we not mates,” Jimmy asks. “Mates talk about who they fancy, do they not?”
“I imagine they do,” Thomas mumbles, because he’s not had a mate, not the way he has Jimmy now, so he has no idea if they do.
For a moment Jimmy stays quiet, and Thomas finds himself relaxing a bit, hoping the topic has been laid to rest. They’re past the trees, on the road out of the abbey and it is cold enough that Jimmy will call to turn around any second now. They’ll take the longer way back, through the grounds, but it won’t be long before they’ll be having a cup of tea in the downstairs dining room.
“I truly don’t mind, Thomas,” Jimmy says, and he sounds serious now, or as serious as Thomas has ever heard him be. The use of his Christian name isn't exactly new but it still carries a certain forbidden novelty that never fails to make Thomas feel special. “I know I were… I know ’ve not always been fair to you. I were awful, and I am sorry for it.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Thomas says, and his voice sounds small, even to himself. “I don’t want to put you off, is all.”
“I don’t mind it,” Jimmy says and there is something undefinable in his voice, “Please.”
Thomas curses inwardly. He has never been particularly good at denying Jimmy anything he truly asked for, and he has a feeling he isn’t going to be able to start now.
“There’s someone in the village,” He finally concedes, almost holding his breath because he is half certain that any moment now Jimmy will look up at him with disgust. “The baker’s son.” The baker’s son, Harold, is a pretty young thing, broad-shouldered and cheerful, but Thomas has spoken to him before, and he is as dull as he is tall, and it put him off before too long. Still, it was the closest he came to having his eye on anyone that wasn’t Jimmy, and he was almost certain that it wasn’t conversation that Harold was trying for anyway.
“So, you don’t fancy me anymore then,” Jimmy says, and Thomas’ breath dies in his throat.
He feels like Alfred is catching him in the act all over again, cold tearing at his bones, threatening to take him over if he gives it a chance. He feels like running, like sinking down on the floor and letting the ice crystals form on his body. It’s a cruel question in a series of cruel questions and he wonders, just for a moment, what Jimmy is trying to achieve, if he truly is clueless or if this is punishment for his crimes, a reminder of all the things he will never have. Maybe it is all a test, and any moment now Jimmy will threaten to call the police and maybe this time Thomas will just go quietly. He’s not sure he’s got any fight left in him.
“It’s alright,” Jimmy says, and his voice is still light. “I were only asking.”
“We should turn around,” Thomas says and he’s three steps ahead before Jimmy speaks again.
“Thomas,” Jimmy says, and Thomas pauses, better judgment gone with the icy breeze. He can feel his skin growing colder with each second. He doesn’t want to be here. It had been a mistake from the start, letting himself get closer to Jimmy. It had been dangerous, to ignore that he could never be like Jimmy, to let himself pretend that he could be someone’s friend. Any moment now he was going to pay for it, through whatever it was that Jimmy was asking, caught in a trap of his own making. If he’d been less blind, less deluded, he’d have seen that what seemed too good to be true usually was. He’d been so desperate for a friend he’d forgotten to be careful.
“Don’t-” Thomas bites out but cuts himself off because what good will it do now to beg? He doesn’t have much left but he will hold onto the last shreds of his dignity like a proper man, even if he is the only person who believes him to be one.
“I really were asking,” Jimmy says, gentle and somewhat halting. It’s not what Thomas expected. “Because if you did- If you still…”
Hope, Thomas knows, is the most dangerous of emotions. Misleading and scheming, clawing away at sense and decency. It’s what brings children’s laughter, writes poems and fills churches. It’s not for men like him. Still, he’s brimming with it, for a moment, before he has the mind to clamp down and shove it far away.
“If you still fancied me,” Jimmy finally manages, eyes still on Thomas, “I thought maybe you would…” He trails off.
“I would…” Thomas says, voice carefully even. Any moment now, Jimmy will tell him how wrong he got this, will ask him to leave and not return.
“I’m not sure,” Jimmy says and a minute passes as they stand in a stalemate between the trees, the icy wind cutting into their skin, through layers of clothes, the half-frozen droplets biting down on them. “I don’t know what I’d like you to do about it,” Jimmy continues after a long pause. “But if you still fancied me… I don’t think I’d mind.”
Thomas drags his gaze from where it landed in the dirt and for the first time in weeks allows himself to truly look. Jimmy looks nervous, teeth worrying at his bottom lip, brow furrowed ever so slightly, but he’s not scared. Thomas doesn’t know why he is expecting him to be scared. Maybe because he’s venturing dangerously close to saying something a man can’t take back. But Jimmy seems aware of that, bright blue eyes flickering over Thomas' face like it’s not an admission of guilt. Thomas is certain that any moment now, Jimmy will take it all back.
He seems smaller like this, frozen and anxious, younger somehow. He’s beautiful too, but then again he always is and Thomas has accepted this as much a part of life as he has the existence of a god, or the colour of the sky. Beautiful, sarcastic, wonderful Jimmy Kent, who is making him feel all the most dangerous of emotions.
“I’m in love with you,” He whispers before he can help it and he comes to his senses half a second later. There is a moment of hope when he thinks the words have been swallowed by the wind but Jimmy smiles at him, broad and unguarded.
“Alright then.”
Thomas doesn’t know what that means, but he knows Jimmy is licking his lips, and his gaze falls to Thomas’ mouth. He’s not sure Jimmy even knows he’s doing it, knows what he is implying here. If Thomas has a chance, he is desperate enough to take it. He’s a sinking ship and he’s dragging Jimmy down with him.
“Would you like me to kiss you?” Thomas asks and Jimmy nods, easy as that. His tongue darts out to wet his lips again and Thomas wouldn’t have been able to look away even if Carson himself were barrelling towards them. Any moment now, Jimmy will declare the whole thing a jest, and Thomas will laugh it off, pretending it never happened.
He moves slowly but Jimmy is already close enough that Thomas can feel his breath. Jimmy’s hand finds his hip, trembling, as Thomas cradles his face as gently as he can manage. He’s glad he’s wearing gloves, his awful wound not on display and his hands not cold on Jimmy’s skin to put him off right away. Any moment now Jimmy will flinch away, he thinks but Jimmy’s other hand has found his neck and is tangled in his scarf and Thomas thinks he might die if he doesn’t do this right now. He moves closer, tilting Jimmy’s head ever so slightly to allow himself to lean down and press their lips together. It’s chaste, barely more than a peck.
Jimmy is perfectly still under him and it lasts only half a second before Thomas moves away. He meets Jimmy’s eyes and something akin to disappointment shines through. Thomas knows that any moment now Jimmy will punch him in the face and then Jimmy’s hand on his neck pulls him down again and brings their lip together for a second time.
It’s nothing like before. Jimmy doesn’t kiss him like an experiment or a man who is trying to see if he has feelings for his friend, he kisses like a drowning man, like he is hoping to find the answers to the questions of the universe in Thomas’ mouth and he presses up against Thomas, layers of clothing separating them but the intent is clear. Joy floods through him like a waterfall and suddenly he’s gasping and he can tear his lips from Jimmy just in time to stifle a sob behind his glove. He’s an embarrassment to himself, falling over for every shred of happiness offered and then crying the moment he gets it. Here he is, old, fat and tearful because the boy he loves kissed him the way he’d always hoped to be kissed.
Jimmy’s hand leaves his neck but before Thomas has a chance to miss it it comes up to his face and starts wiping at the tears on his cheeks. It’s a gentle gesture, intimate in a way that Thomas can’t quite comprehend and all he can do is stifle another sob. He doesn’t get to have this. Any moment now it will all be over and he will have to spend the rest of his life trying to forget the way Jimmy Kent kissed him.
“I’m no good at this part,” Jimmy says, voice small and desperate. “And I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
“You’ve made an old man very happy is all, Jimmy,” Thomas says. He can still taste him, cigarette smoke and the fleeting remnants of gingerbread. “Thank you.”
“It weren’t a favour,” Jimmy says, childish and petulant in that way that Thomas loves. “I only did it because…” He sighs and Thomas can see his jaw clench. Any moment now, Jimmy will walk away, and tell Thomas to forget this ever happened. The thought makes something awful lurch in Thomas’ stomach like he is going to be sick. He’ll fight for every second of this. It’s not his to take, to have, but he’s going to hell either way so what does it matter.
Jimmy leans up again and Thomas takes the chance to press their lips together, giving up on the gentleness this time. If Jimmy is going to leave anyway then Thomas will take, just for a moment, anything Jimmy is willing to offer. The kiss isn’t quite bruising but it comes close, teeth clattering, tongues clumsily exploring each other's mouths, and Jimmy gasps against him, breathy and warm, as he presses as close to Thomas as he can, gripping desperately at him, pulling him in. Thomas is grateful for the thick coat to hide his layers of fat, and the darkness to hide the grey in his hair. If he’s getting everything he’s ever wanted, he doesn’t want to mar it with his flaws.
The kiss turns softer until it breaks and Jimmy starts pressing little kisses to Thomas’ freezing face, gentle, over his cheeks, his nose, any part he can reach. Thomas thinks his heart may explode from happiness. Any moment now, he thinks, any moment I’ll wake up and it’ll all have been a dream. But Jimmy doesn't relent, pressing trails of warm kisses up to his ear.
“Is this what you want?” He asks when Jimmy stops to meet his eye.
“Wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to, would I?” Jimmy says but the smile on his face makes something in Thomas go soft and calm. Jimmy looks happy, happier than Thomas has ever seen him and it's him who made him look like that. He's making Jimmy happy and that thought alone is so large and overwhelming that Thomas doesn't quite know what to do with it.
“You’re a sarcastic little shit,” Thomas says, but he knows it has no bite to it. “Let’s go home, it’s freezing.”
Jimmy pouts for a moment and presses another kiss to Thomas' lips. He has to stand up on his toes to reach. It’s the best thing Thomas has ever seen. As he takes a step towards the abbey, a gloved hand slips into his, holding tight as Jimmy keeps pace. Every time he turns to him, Jimmy smiles, eyes bright and Thomas thinks any moment now, but he finds he doesn’t quite believe it anymore.