[PSL] in this sense the open jaws of wild beasts will appear no less pleasing than their prototypes

[katabasis]

The bread that is over-baked so that it cracks and bursts asunder hath not the form desired by the baker; yet none the less it hath a beauty of its own, and is most tempting to the palate. Figs bursting in their ripeness, olives near even unto decay, have yet in their broken ripeness a distinctive beauty.

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[katabasis]

The small bundle Thomas brings to the bedside with him doesn't go unnoticed, but its contents could be nothing, anything - some small useful artifact recovered during their escape, a bundle of papers, or some valuable trinket that might be exchanged for a sum of money. His own thoughts have trended toward the question of their funding in the past few days, a piece of him regretting whatever unnatural aversion had gripped him long enough to leave the Oglethorpe with so little to support their bid for freedom. There must have been some hard currency to be had from the house or belongings nondescript enough to sell without suspicion. The possibility that Thomas might have been more calculated than him that night doesn't surprise him. Thinking of it, he honestly can recall very little of that evening between when they'd first passed into the house and when they'd left it.

What he doesn't suspect despite a thousand pieces of evidence to the contrary (books with inscriptions and being read to and a painting behind a piece of furniture; chipped teacups and the brilliant green ribbons Miranda had brought with her from London which lived for so many years in a box below her bed, unsuited to the look of a Puritan woman but cherished anyway; lives led in quotations, in letters, in too warm rooms and shared beds, in wanting things) is something so tender.

--Like Thomas touching his face; like a bruise--

Which is riduclous. He knows it the moment Thomas unwraps the pieces of the machine in his lap. Of course this is what Thomas carried from the Oglethorpe house alongside pistols and fresh clothes. It siezes something in him that's both relief and vitriol: thank god not every piece of it burned and thank fuck that it's finished working. But more importantly - most importantly--

James touches Thomas's knee. He laughs, exhaling - sounding wounded even if the reality is some sharp brilliant thing like happiness punching out rather than into him. "You know, you're very like him," he says. "The person I loved."

[aletheian]

He looks surprised at first, half-expecting a dozen reactions but not this one, apparently, blue eyes wide and for a deceptive flicker of a moment, so much younger than the rest of him, watching someone he adores do something impossible. And so- and so--

Thomas throws his arms around him and laughs, bright and ridiculous and without a care for anything else in the whole world. Just for this moment, physical embodiment of stopped time between them, drifting between idle responsibilities as if pushed along by the breeze, sun-warm and safe and inseparable. He doesn't think he could put words to the emotion if he were pressed to - joy and love, beautiful and true as they are, doing nothing to encompass the way James is transformative and sheltering at once. It isn't about machine parts or wanting to hold him or thinking about a pirate's war it's - everything. Everything, and just sitting here simply.

The book is poetry, and though it turns out to be a mediocre kind, Thomas will read from it anyway, with commentary and with one arm looped protectively around James's shoulders, and they will let hours slip by them so sweetly until it's time to return to the kitchen. The Earth will turn, bringing the moon until they find the sun again, and maybe Abigail will finally speak to Thomas. Or Ida will come and sit everyone down to make plans to leave for Virginia, or they will spend a few more rotations of this strange planet doing nothing (everything), and Thomas can learn to stitch a lopsided and ugly flower on a bit of white cotton with Sophie while James reads aloud to them.

The best part of it is there are no maybes, and it all happens, and dinner is only a little singed.