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