Chapter Text
Prologue
So, I managed to get a few days off from Downton, with the excuse that I needed to go back home to visit a dying grandmother. It’s a lie. Any visit to my family would be a lie. Me and my family haven’t been on speaking terms since my father died. I don’t care, it doesn’t affect me. Just a fact of life. Besides, they still have their use. One by one they suffer imaginary illnesses, and mournful deaths, giving me an excuse for some time off. Works wonders. And Carson is a gullible sap. So far I’ve used up a nice and two grandfathers. Now it’s grandmamma getting me some extra time off.
In truth, I haven’t been up north in years. Much rather go to London, anyway.
I walk through Hyde Park, pretending it’s the short-cut I need from work to my flat (not that it matters, but it makes acting the part easier, should I require an excuse). It’s a dangerous game and not one I play very often. It’s not like it's the sort of thing you can find in any city, but here in London, you can.
I remember there was a time I thought I was the only one. I thought I was damaged, at first, broken in a way that couldn’t be fixed. Even as a young boy, girls didn’t interest me. I never thought about finding a wife and marrying her. I never saw the appeal in the pictures and photographs my older brothers sneaked into the bedroom. At school (not at school, but during my school days), I learned of the vileness of sin, of the unspeakable kind and their corruption. I didn’t understand the point they were making, but I remember that I didn’t think they were talking about me, as such. Didn’t put two and two together until much later.
I felt guilty for a while, when I did eventually do the math, believing my own sin, but it didn’t last. I’ve never seen myself as vile. I’m different, but I’m not vile. I know what society makes of me and my kind, but I don’t feel it. I won’t deny there’s something wrong with me, but I’m not depraved.
I stop and linger by a tree, pretending I’m in search of a light for my cigarette, when he crosses my path. He’s handsome, but I’m not in it for that. I gather he’s upper-class from his attire, but no one looks at that sort of thing here. All men are equals here, in the park, at night. It’s the sort of thing that should appeal any working-class man, if not for what actually goes on in the shrubberies, which doesn’t hold the same appeal to most. It does, however, hold appeal to me.
I apologize and ask him if he could spare a light. The game starts. If he’s not here for the same reason I’m here for, he might look down his nose at me; a working-class man daring to address him. As it is, he doesn’t look down his nose, but produces a box of matches. He doesn’t offer the pack to me, but strikes a match himself and holds out the burning end for me to light my cigarette on. This means I have to lean in to light it, which I do. If I hadn’t been here for the reasons I’m here for, I might have looked strangely at his gesture (why not just give me the pack, for example). I don’t. Instead, I put my hand over his to help steady the match as I light my cigarette . If he hadn’t been here for the same thing I’m here for, he might have pulled his hand away at the touch. He doesn’t. His eyes momentarily stray as they look behind me to see if anyone’s coming. Possibly to see if anyone’s coming. Possibly he’s just an insufferably polite and naïve upper-class git and I’ve misinterpreted all the signs. Perhaps he thinks the same of me. Perhaps he thinks I’m just a drunkard in need of a light.
One of us has to make the first move, the first irrevocable move, that one gesture that makes all intentions perfectly clear. I’m not sure I dare to be the one just yet, so decide to push it a little more.
“Thank you,” I say, and amicably put my hand on his arm. He freezes, and can I see shock in his eyes. My hand is stuck on his arm. I don’t dare to move. Did I misinterpret everything? Did I read into things because I’m desperate for it? Can I still come out of this with my head held high?
“Here?” He asks and suddenly it makes sense; he hasn’t done this before.
I squeeze his arm, and I don’t let go. “Here,” I tell him, and together we leave the main path.
When you’re like me, this is probably the best you can get. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind. It’s better, in a way. We don’t have to worry about what we do and who we do it to. No consequences, unless you’re caught, of course. While normal men run the risk of impregnating some poor girl by accident, we can go about doing what we like. Under cover, of course, in secret and hidden from the world, but still. You get used to secrecy. And then you can do what you please.
I won't deny I feel a pang of jealousy when I see happy couples in the street. They have what we can’t have, not in public. A loving touch of the arm, a smile, a caress. It’s not for us. But you get used to it, right? You learn to live the life you’ve been dealt and you don’t seek out what you can't have. You don’t look go for it, you just take what you can get. And it's fine.
But sometimes, something good comes your way. A little hope, a little dream. It’s foolish, but it can’t be helped. Sometimes the hope of not dying alone, the possibility of being loved, of being held, wins over common sense. Happens to the best.
And despite myself, I have let it win.