Thomas doesn't dare to move. His back is beginning to ache, and his arm has fallen asleep, the uncomfortable tingling spreading through the limb. It's almost as if it is begging him to finally change his stiff position into one that's more comfortable and less restricting than the one he's been in for quite some time now. But still he stubbornly remains seated on the hard, wooden stool at the dining table, watching the end of his cigarette gradually turn into nothing but a stub.
He can't recall the last time a person felt comfortable enough with him to fall asleep on his shoulder — if it ever happened before. He's spent some nights in other men's beds and arms, yes, but still; physical closeness is a scarce sensation for a man like him. Especially the kind that matters. And with Jimmy, everything matters.
Thomas is almost painfully aware of the weight of Jimmy's head against his shoulder, of the soft ends of hair tickling the skin on the crook of his neck, of Jimmy's lips so close to the fabric of Thomas's suit.
Too close, Thomas thinks, suddenly wishing that the others servants were here. Daisy, Mrs Hughes, or hell, even bloody Carson, the latter surely capable of giving Thomas a reason to put a stop to this immediately.
It's in this moment that Jimmy happens to stir beside him, and Thomas briefly forgets to breathe in an attempt to keep as still as possible. His muscles and nerves are as taut as they can be, and he braces himself for Jimmy's reaction, for Jimmy's anger, perhaps even for his disgust. But instead of yelling at Thomas, Jimmy merely inches even closer to him, eyes still closed, a content murmur leaving his lips.
God damn those lips, Thomas curses internally, unable to take his eyes off of them. This entire picture awfully reminds him of a similar situation the two of them had been in before, in which Jimmy had been asleep before him, still, peaceful, oblivious. Though 'situation' hardly seems a fitting term for the one mistake that almost ruined his life.
But Thomas has learned from his mistakes. Or so he convinces himself, as his hand rises almost of its own volition to gently push a wayward strand of hair out of Jimmy's face. An ordinary gesture among friends, Thomas tells himself. Friends are allowed to touch each other with ordinary gestures, aren't they?
It's the first time since 'the incident' that Thomas has consciously decided to touch Jimmy, always having been too afraid to drive him away, to lose his friendship. Of course there have been times in which he accidentally brushed Jimmy's hand while reaching for something or touched his shoulder with his own while walking around the corridors. Every time those unavoidable encounters happened, Jimmy had given him an unreadable look, and Thomas had been sure to quickly retreat, muttering a quick apology under his breath.
Thomas still has Jimmy's friendship; late nights playing cards as they've done this evening, talking, sometimes hours at a time, sharing a cigarette, listening to Jimmy play the piano. Thomas never had a friend before. Not like that. And he surely isn't going to jeopardise that just because he happens to be in love with Jimmy.
So he's tried to conceal his feelings as much as he could — though he's sure that anyone taking a proper look at his face during the past years would have seen through his pretence in an instant.
"I do love you," Thomas whispers without moving lips, so softly that it's really nothing more than a breath of air. "Still."
It feels good, saying it out loud. Even if it's just this once. Even if it doesn't change anything.
It's not against the law to hope, is it?
"Thomas," Jimmy suddenly mumbles against his shoulder.
Thomas freezes, his heart skipping a beat.
You foolish idiot. You lovesick, foolish idiot.
"Jimmy, I—" Thomas begins, utterly uncertain on how to proceed.
