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The train hissed out of Brighton Station as if it were exhaling a breath it had been holding for weeks. The platform, still slick with the early‑morning drizzle, was already beginning to empty, the last of the commuters slipping into the steam‑cogged tunnel that led south.
James pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the carriage window and watched the sea of pale houses recede, their thatched roofs and brickyard chimneys turning into a blur of green and brick. He could feel the pulse of the countryside against his own - steady, patient, a lullaby his mother used to hum while mending his school‑boy socks.
At present, though that school boy would have never imagined it, James cut a figure that seemed almost too large for the cramped compartments of the Southern Railway. His hair, dark as the night on a new moon, fell in a loose fringe over his neck under his hat and his eyes - those deep, moss‑green eyes that had once caught the attention of a few eager record‑label men - were now glazed with a mixture of anticipation and weariness.
He had been a celebrated pianist in Brighton’s fledgling jazz scene, his hands dancing across the ivory of the Steinway at The Regent Club with a confidence that made the crowd sway and the critics nod approvingly. Yet he was more than a musician; in the new age of moving pictures and wireless sets, he had become a “broadcast star,” his face a familiar silhouette on the gramophone records that spun in living rooms across the South Coast, his voice a soothing baritone that droned over the crackling ether of the BBC’s nascent waves.
Speaking of waves, he caught a waft of one made solely of pipe smoke that made him have to clear his throat as the carriage door in front of him clanged shut behind a pair of suited gentlemen, train shuddering ever forward, drawing a thin line of steam across the morning sky as inside where it was rather warm, he pulled his coat tighter - its wool was thick enough to keep the small package concealed within it hidden from curious gaze, but not the thick enough in fibre to remove the anxiety that settled deep in his chest each time he left the seafront for the iron rails.
It was not that he was anxious to reach his destination, but for the people who wondered why it was just so. He thought of the friends who would ask him, again and again, why he kept returning to London. “The clubs in Brighton are proper,” they would say, waving a glass of amber ale. “The travel’s long, the motoring is a nightmare - petrol’s a dear thing now - and the city’s nothing but snobbery and high‑class pretensions. You are a king here, mate.”
As usual, he would just smile, a thin, practised smile, and mutter something about “a need for inspiration” before turning the conversation back to another topic (the most recent his upcoming gig at the Empire Theatre, where he was slated to accompany a troupe of dancers from the Folly Theatre in a charity performance for the war widows) and moving on swiftly so that they didn’t have the chance to catch back up to it, earning him some joking ire (and other sentiments both good and bad) at his expense.
The truth of the matter, for lack of better word, was far more intimate and far more secret, something James wanted for himself that they - and others outside their circle - would never understand. Let them think he was chasing after some society girl in pearls and silk, or performing private concerts for men whose pockets were lined with gold, or filling his days with hobbies beyond their need for knowledge since he had become abstinent.
All James cared about was getting to where he needed to go on time.
London was still the cesspool it had become since the streets had been allowed to come back to life after so many years of drudgery udner Victorian classes. James could practically feel the cobblestones humming with life as he stepped out of his cab, the engine ticking like an impatient clock as he paid his fare and it drove off.
The alleys as he passed them, given he’d requested to be dropped off a few blocks away from his true address, smelled of petrol and rain, a sheen all over buildings and the ground that throbbed under the glow of electric lights.
Smoothing his coat, James adjusted his cuffs and made his way through the labyrinth of Soho, past speakeasies and bookshops, until he reached the unassuming door of a dimly lit flat. Ascending the short flight of stairs, he raised his fist. One knock. A pause. Two more.
The door soon cracked open, and there he was - William Lenney, his beloved Will, tousled brown hair, lips quirked in that infuriatingly smug way of his. "You’re late, Jim." Will said, though the glint in his eye betrayed his amusement.
James just smirked back, leaning against the doorway. “Good evening to you as well, William. I would say the sky is blue and you would still correct me.”
“Well, lucky for you, it’s grey.” Will jested, but didn’t make any type of move. “Password?”
James sighed, feeling like the breath came from the soles of his feet. “Wonderland.”
The door finally, thankfully, was pulled wider, James shedding his coat and placing it on the coat hanger along with his hat and below it, his shoes, as he stepped into the living space.
Will’s flat was small but neat - a gramophone in the corner, a stack of well-thumbed novels on the side table, the lingering scent of tobacco and bergamot that followed him around like an invisible cape on his robe as he poured himself a gin and tonic from his bar cart before pouring James a sparkling water.
"Your Brighton mates still think you’re slumming it with a chorus girl?"
"Something like that. They think a lot of things, fill their heads with idle gossip I couldn’t really care for.” James sighed, placing his gloves on the table as well as the gift he had brought before loosening his collar, Will looking at him over his shoulder as he settled in a nearby armchair and snorting.
"You have some nosey friends, mate, if I’m honest.” Will offered him his glass with a rueful expression. “If only they knew you were slumming it with a rent boy instead."
James caught his wrist, pulling him close. "You’re not a rent boy." He muttered, though the words tasted bitter. Technically, Will was - or at least, that’s how this had started. A transaction. A bit of fun in exchange for some sinning, some excitement in James’s life beyond just music, until it became something else entirely.
Will rolled his shoulders, forcing lightness back into his voice regardless, loosening the tie on his robe as he sipped his own drink. "Anyway. You’re here now. Better late than not at all, given the company I keep outside of you. Suppose I should earn my keep."
James caught his thigh this time through the ribe, given Will was now that close, pushing back as Will attempted to kneel in front of the fireplace, James’s zipper a hair away from his teeth. "I just got here. You don’t have to-"
Will just pushed in further and kissed him, cutting him off. It was sharp, playful, a distraction from the conversation at hand, a wittier way of James’s technique used against the person who practically felt like he invented it. "I know-" He said against James’s lips. "-but I want to."
James couldn’t bare to say no to that soft, pleading tone.
Later, when they were tangled in Will’s sheets, the room bathed in the pale light of early dawn, James traced idle patterns along Will’s spine as Will’s head pillowed itself against his chest, legs intertwined like ropes of a clipper ship. The gramophone - still using up most of Will’s allotted power to cover his business practices - crackled out a jazz tune, the city’s heartbeat just beyond the window as the early morning markets were in full swing.
"People would die, if they knew, you know." Will mused, a sigh in his tone. “Sir James Marriott, fucking a rent boy from London. They would hang you without a second thought.”
“They would have to find me first.” James mumbled. “I’m sure this bed will still have room for two, if it ever comes to that.”
"God, you can’t let me be melancholy for one minute, can you? You’re terrible."
"You love it."
Will didn’t deny it, he just turned in James’s arm and rested his head over where his heartbeat was obvious most, James dropping a kiss behind his ear as the bland lines cradled them back into the softness that was dreaming, not that James really needed to do such a frivolous thing when he had his dream in front of him.
Yes, the trip to London was long and he would no doubt find some way to complain about it later - either through socialising or composition - but he equally knew he would be back without a second thought if asked or allowed.
This was because London had Will and that was worth every mile taken in his heart.