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The crux of the issue is that Laurence does not like to be ungentlemanly in his affections. He does not want to turn to something closer to a dragon than a man, does not want to clutch and own, even though, of course, he does.
Tucked deep in his breastbone, behind the duty to England and his love of Temeraire and his want of freedom, sits a deep, dark hole of greed.
He has smothered it as best he can, which Temeraire has undoubtedly helped with; it is far easier to temper his own wants when he is beset with trying to convince his dragon that he cannot outfit his crew in clothing that is befitting royalty, or that diamonds are much too fine for a simple dinner.
But there is something in the air, on this cool morning, as he sits and turns to speak to Tharkay; something about the sun, cresting over the trees, the warmth of Tenzing beside him. He looks, and sees, and wants, so suddenly that his mouth is thick with words he cannot say and his hands are free enough that they twitch before he is able to remember himself.
It is the same feeling he had caught once or twice in the aftermath of Granby harnessing Iskierka. Temeraire had spoken true, when he had been attempting to persuade the dragonet to choose another; if it had not been so ungodly improper to suggest another thing, Laurence suspects that he too would have echoed the ask.
Granby had been his; reliable and steady and devout, and Laurence had not asked him to shirk his duty, though he had been filled with the blackest thoughts as the other man had slowly detangled himself from his crew. He had assigned the feeling to regret for the smoothness of control, for the seamless way they had communicated, and he had not let himself look at the emotion closer; too fearful of what would be peering back in the dark abyss.
And here, now, the feeling grows again, a sharp throb in his chest, an ache in his jaw, at the thought of Tharkay not lingering, at the thought of the other man rising for a day, and Laurence not sitting in the sun-warmed corner of the dining room, watching as Tharkay finishes the last dregs of their too-strong tea.
Tharkay does not say anything, as his hands twitch, but Laurence does not let himself think he is not aware; the things Tharkay sees and the things he acts and speaks on are two vastly different pools.
He cannot split the want from himself despite his shame; it is too deeply entrenched. It is also not as though he wholly wants to discard his greed either; there is a piece of him that covets, that wishes to demand devotion, that would, in turn, send him to his knees, if Tharkay so desires; would see him tuned to a note that only Tharkay could pluck with steady hands.
Still, at his side, Tharkay says nothing, watching him implacably.
“I fear I have lost our thread of conversation,” Laurence murmurs, as dust motes swirl through the sunshine, fresh bread and smooth cream lingering in his mouth. He feels near feverish as he looks at the table spread before the two of them, the old white crockery stained and chipped and clearly beloved with years of use; he has the half-mad thought that he hopes his bones have been half as useful, before he shakes his head, banishing his thoughts. The maudlin poetry Temeraire had asked for last night must be affecting him more than he knows.
“Pay no mind to the exact wording of my earlier question,” Tenzing says, brushing cool fingertips across the back of his hand as he reaches for the teapot. Laurence feels as though his entire world has narrowed down to that faint touch, even as he tries to remain focused on what Tharkay is asking. “I was simply inquiring after the state of additions to Temeraire's pavilion.”
Laurence blinks, his words taking a moment to process, before he smiles. “It is going splendidly,” he says, nodding when Tharkay offers him more water for his tea. “The acoustics are quite nuanced, Temeraire did a marvelous job at the math to make the sound echo—why, with just a few musicians, if you find yourself in the right spot, it can sound as though you have your own personal orchestra.”
Tharkay hums, and Laurence takes a moment to doctor his tea to his liking, a splash of milk, a dollop of honey, as he waits for Tharkay's response.
“I shall have to unearth my viola,” he murmurs, after Laurence has picked up his teacup, his fingers holding fast to the warm ceramic. “She had undoubtedly fallen into disrepair, but I shall have to see what remains of her.” He pauses, for a moment, and Laurence lets the silence linger, unsure of what would be welcome, before Tharkay exhales, folding in on himself ever so slightly. “Of course, I may not be able ever to fit my fingers to the right notes again,” he says quietly, as if it is some unforgivable sin. “But I suppose I shall have to try, regardless.”
Laurence sets his teacup down and very carefully reaches out, setting a hand on top of Tharkay's as it rests against the linen tablecloth.
“I would be more than willing,” he says, before the rest of his words get tangled in his throat as Tharkay's gaze rises to his. He presses his fingers down, warm and firm and still as gentle as he can make them; he does not ever want his touch to hurt—could not bear it if he were to cause pain in this quiet home that Tenzing has welcomed him into.
Tharkay does not say anything, but he does not pull away, and Laurence thinks that there is an answer in that; in the steadiness of silence, in the warmth of skin on skin. He is no great poet, no scholar of the heart, but he cannot help but feel as though they have come to some accord, some quiet snap of pieces fitting together.
He can only hope that it will not hurt to tear them apart; that he will not break when they are split, because surely there is an end to the kindness that has been extended to him.
He is unsure how long they remain stagnant, caught in the morning sunshine, the clock ticking away in the hall.
He wants, in this deep, swollen silence, can feel it bleeding into his face, across his jaw, crawling up his cheekbones and into his eyes; it is a despicable habit to covet, and one he cannot break himself from still, despite every attempt.
He wonders if it is plain to Tharkay.
He wonders if he is like Lot's wife; warned and urged and still foolish enough to turn and look, to find a monster in the dark of the night, to see a city burn. He wonders if it will hurt, if he is turned to salt, if his greed to see will be the thing that does him in.
He wonders if it will swallow him whole. He almost hopes it does.
The clock chimes the hour, and slowly, as if there is all the time in the world, Tenzing turns his hand and fits their palms together.