[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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[aletheian]

Thomas does not need to be protected. He can endure things that can break, even kill, other men; if there is anything he can offer Bethlem twisted gratitude for in the life after, it's that it educated him thoroughly about physical pain. There's so much he can weather with a quiet mouth and dry eyes, with impassive consciousness. Thomas does not yet know what would be enough to make him crack.

It's on his tongue to say it. I can tolerate anything. It's you I don't want to see hurt. But that would be circular, wouldn't it, and it occurs to him - with something wrenching his heart it occurs to him - that this is the first time since before his arrest, when Miranda fluttered her hands over his chest and begged him to be cautious, that anyone's said anything at all like that to him. That anyone's felt anything like that for him and the feeling of it in return is almost overwhelming. He feels like a child but Thomas pulls at James's hand and takes it between both of his own so he can press a kiss to his palm, and just holds it there against his face, head bowed between them.

His stubborn, stoic lieutenant, so pragmatic and skeptical, telling him that they're going to get out and that he's going to protect him even though it's impossible. For Thomas, optimism has been treading water to keep from drowning, but for James it's this angry willpower and it's--

Heartbreaking. Beautiful. Horrible. They could have the rest of their lives to work in the fields and talk about books and lay down together at night, or they could do this insane thing, and die challenging the world. Thomas loves him so much.

[katabasis]

It's not that the heat drains out of him. But given time - a moment of Thomas's head bowed between them and his cheek under the rough callouses of his fingertips -, it can be folded over itself and take some different shape than the one made to minimize the number of people standing between them and the gate to this place. Thomas's long fingers and his breathing and the unflagging pulse of his love even here in the dark with James's anger held in check by bared teeth tempers in the way of steel. There's a fundamental quality to it. It's the reverse of being unmade. It's the antithesis to the thing that was created by two people's grief as they fled from London to Nassau.

What was done to Thomas? How has he been changed? It matters, but not here. They can't touch or alter this fundamental unmovable part. Rational creatures exist for one another, and to endure is a part of justice.

James exhales. The sound is harsh in the dark, the loudest thing between them in hours, and with it he sheds the wire taut adrenaline so he can lean his forehead against Thomas's shoulder without trembling like a horse poorly paced. He can touch his face and his side without feverishness and be quiet at last for the continuity of this. Eventually he can turn his face and murmur against Thomas's cheek too: "Come to bed with me."

It's late. There's work to be done in the morning.

[aletheian]

What must it have been like, to go mad with the desire for vengeance, to hold the broken pieces of what they had but be unable to put them back together? How must it have felt to hear the lies and have to believe it for lack of ability to prove otherwise? Thomas can only imagine; yes, James and Miranda had each other, but they had been lost in a storm of unanswered questions, tormented, unable to progress. Thomas was simply apart. No one ever came and told him lies about his wife or his lover, no one tried to force him to live thinking about their deaths.

Thomas presses a kiss against the side of James's mouth. Come to bed with me. It sounds like they're real people.

He stands slowly, one of the other man's hands held captive still. Even in his sleep, he doesn't let go.