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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(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.