It's the breed of supremely absurd thing that Thomas Hamilton- Thomas Barlow - just Thomas, first names and loosened collars and and now the sunburned backs of his ears, can make sound true because he believes it when he says it. In anyone else's mouth, it would be cloyingly sweet, overwrought. No one thinks that's true. But Thomas does, and so James believes it; that he could be all iron tang, the metal and smoke smell of gunpowder not just in his clothes but of his skin. Tell him anything, as long as Thomas is saying it.
"If you wrote that down," James says. His mouth is twitching behind his mustache. "It might almost be worth the paper you put it on."
He laughs then, low and full. In the tangle of their bodies, he kisses Thomas while grinning.
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"If you wrote that down," James says. His mouth is twitching behind his mustache. "It might almost be worth the paper you put it on."
He laughs then, low and full. In the tangle of their bodies, he kisses Thomas while grinning.