"I didn't like the angle of the light," Thomas says airily, using the hand that isn't being held to sweep through his pirate captain's copper hair. Nonsense, the light is definitely worse deeper inside, and Thomas's eyesight has been damaged by years trapped in the dark, but despite the way the world has carved him, he is still who he is; Miranda's husband, James's lover, a man who prefers laying around indecently to a desk.
"Why, would you prefer it?" An innocent (haha no) smile before he steals a quick kiss and then slips away, kneeling on the mattress so he can gather up the errant papers and deposit them elsewhere, shove the one lone shoe onto the floor. He's not even sure who that one belongs to, as he's never wearing another heel or wig again so long as he bloody lives.
Thomas looks forward to the day when James can push at him with more aggression and not be baiting the echoes of Bedlam, but he doesn't dwell on it now. Things are as they are.
A different version of James might counter with a sharp line - 'I might,' - but this one just lets his crooked grin twitch wider as he works rings from his fingers, dropping them into his boot where he'll have no choice but to remember them later. There are only two parts to this: an impossible, bursting fondness and a pervasive, clinging want. Neither cleverness or patience finds much leverage in the moment; he pulls his shirt free and strips that off too before climbing after Thomas into the bed.
There are still papers in it, something crunching between the mattress and his knee, but it's Thomas's mess. He has no responsibility to manage it and so instead slides his thumb into the waist of Thomas's trousers, fingers splayed at his hip; moves the collar of his shirt to kiss his shoulder, his neck, to grin and breathe at the tickle of his hairline across the nape of his neck.
"It seems if you worked at the desk, there'd be less need to tidy the bed." Just throwing that one out there.
('How is your work?' 'What news is there since I've been away? 'Where's Miranda gone to?' seem like such non-vital questions.)
"I'll take that under advisement, my darling." No he won't. Thomas takes his face in his hands, just holding there for a moment as James presses in against the curve of his shoulder and neck. I missed you, that touch says. He pulls the other man's face up and presses a kiss to his mouth, deep and ungentle and all those things they should learn to mediate (but won't). I miss you whenever you're so much as out of my sight.
There's playfulness in how he pushes James over onto his back, but he's intent in how he kisses him, along his jaw, his throat, to his chest. He could-- still be shattered into a million pieces, if he let himself. He could find this impossible. He doesn't want to. He can't be the person (or the lover) he was in London, but he can remake himself. He wants to so badly - as much as he wants James. Thomas only pulls back to sit up and drag his own shirt off over his head, skimming hands up James's belly and chest after, finding him so beautiful. Something forged in fire and tempered in salt-water. Something his, under his hands, alive and together.
Giving to Thomas is easy. It's a fixed point - a keyhole through which some other place with the same kind of happiness is as visible as this one. But his hands and his mouth and the ruddy lines of Thomas's tanned skin and the simple weight of his presence are all electric, warming present tense. He is so lovely, so sturdy and real, and loving the disparate and familiar shape of him is simple.
(Imagine a different version of this, a constant thought murmurs: there is no storm, no wreck, and the ship carrying Thomas reaches its destination and the man is swallowed up by the Americas, and they are both ghosts to each other, and--) He catches Thomas's hands, drawing one to his cheek. To kiss his palm. To trace the lines of fine bones and swollen knuckles. To cradle his fingers, to take the edge of Thomas's thumb gently between his teeth and press his tongue to calloused skin.
Maybe the reason this works despite how divided his attentions should be, despite Thomas's fine stark scars, is because this can be enough.
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i'll use more wig icons will that help
"Why, would you prefer it?" An innocent (haha no) smile before he steals a quick kiss and then slips away, kneeling on the mattress so he can gather up the errant papers and deposit them elsewhere, shove the one lone shoe onto the floor. He's not even sure who that one belongs to, as he's never wearing another heel or wig again so long as he bloody lives.
Thomas looks forward to the day when James can push at him with more aggression and not be baiting the echoes of Bedlam, but he doesn't dwell on it now. Things are as they are.
all brown wig icons from here on out ty
There are still papers in it, something crunching between the mattress and his knee, but it's Thomas's mess. He has no responsibility to manage it and so instead slides his thumb into the waist of Thomas's trousers, fingers splayed at his hip; moves the collar of his shirt to kiss his shoulder, his neck, to grin and breathe at the tickle of his hairline across the nape of his neck.
"It seems if you worked at the desk, there'd be less need to tidy the bed." Just throwing that one out there.
('How is your work?' 'What news is there since I've been away? 'Where's Miranda gone to?' seem like such non-vital questions.)
blocks u
There's playfulness in how he pushes James over onto his back, but he's intent in how he kisses him, along his jaw, his throat, to his chest. He could-- still be shattered into a million pieces, if he let himself. He could find this impossible. He doesn't want to. He can't be the person (or the lover) he was in London, but he can remake himself. He wants to so badly - as much as he wants James. Thomas only pulls back to sit up and drag his own shirt off over his head, skimming hands up James's belly and chest after, finding him so beautiful. Something forged in fire and tempered in salt-water. Something his, under his hands, alive and together.
no subject
(Imagine a different version of this, a constant thought murmurs: there is no storm, no wreck, and the ship carrying Thomas reaches its destination and the man is swallowed up by the Americas, and they are both ghosts to each other, and--) He catches Thomas's hands, drawing one to his cheek. To kiss his palm. To trace the lines of fine bones and swollen knuckles. To cradle his fingers, to take the edge of Thomas's thumb gently between his teeth and press his tongue to calloused skin.
Maybe the reason this works despite how divided his attentions should be, despite Thomas's fine stark scars, is because this can be enough.