[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 curls his fingers against James's and feels something in his chest flutter at how careful he is - it is a precious, beautiful thing that they can be here like this and still be so gentle with each other. They both deserve that kind of care, even after all they've been through and done. Thomas presses his nose into the juncture of his shoulder and neck, loving the heat of him even in the already sweltering weather, loving the smell of him beneath sweat and grime and medicated liniment. Loving him, and the fact that he thinks Thomas is anything but a grain of sand lost in the filthy machine parts of an empire that moves ever-forward, carelessly devouring.

He matters to James. He is as real to James as he was in London, he is real now as the person he's become. Thomas can't put into words how much that matters, to him. How much James does.

At some point, Fate stitched them together with her thread. It's been pulled, they've been torn, but it's stayed.

Thomas is quiet until Annie returns, just sitting with him, their points of contact so tender and vital. The woman clears her throat when she approaches and Thomas turns his head, wry smile tugging at his mouth.

"I almost nodded off," he tells her, slight teasing in his voice for thinking they might be up to anything physically intimate in the middle of the damn field. She huffs, and the boards of the deck creak under her feet as she walks nearer, mug of water in hand for James.

She looks at him when she gives it, eyes stern on his. "You will heal. Well."

[katabasis]

Time ticks forward (tick, tick, tick). Eventually this moment - the easy quiet shape of their hands together and Thomas's breath warm on his neck, the line of his thigh there beside him and every other small, logged point of contact between them - passes like anything else does. He lifts his head at the creak of the boards, accepting the mug (and the fixed look that comes with it) without question.

"That's a relief." He usually does, doesn't he? James swallows down the contents of the cup, and because he isn't ungrateful: "Thank you."

Annie has a soft sniff reserved in answer. "Less walking after hours tomorrow. And less stirring up trouble with your people maybe," she says, clearly with the full understanding she'll only be minded if it's convenient. Apparently there'd been some talk after they left the supper table. "I might say a little less sun too, but I don't expect that's up to you."

"Give me a few days and I'll see what can be arranged." His spare hand is still wrapped in Thomas's. After a moment he undoes that too, trusting that the high sharp sensation in his chest doesn't need the contact to sustain it. Fetcheing up the fresh shirt and setting aside the half drained cup, he begins the slow process of crawling into it.

Before she takes down the lantern and reclaims her jar of salve, Annie demands to examine Thomas's arm 'while I have you' and spends some minutes checking over the drawn tight flesh. She dabs some of the same salve at a few points, leaving them both smelling of meadowsweet and wax. "Have him massage this for you when you can stand it," she tells him, then bundles her things into the pockets of her apron and takes the lantern from its hook.

[aletheian]

The feeling of wondrous contentment stays, for Thomas, even after they are no longer touching, after he's helped James carefully with the shirt and let Annie press at and attend to the burn on his arm. Once she's done, he takes her hands and thanks her quietly, and the weight of his sincerity makes her turn with a flush and flap a hand at him to shoo them away for the night.

Thomas catches one of James's hands in his on the walk, brings it to his mouth to kiss the back of his fingers. He knows how brutal and desperate what they plan to do is. He knows just how much misery and struggle the time after holds in wait for them. None of it has the power to touch him; no matter how bad it is, he has endured worse, and no matter how bad it is, it will be weathered alongside this man.

Outside the bunkhouse, Romans 4:18 (real name Cuthbert; Romans is an improvement) is picking stones out of a shoe. He gives them a nod as they draw closer, and there's a clear measure of solidarity in it. Factions are becoming established. Thomas squeezes James's fingers. When Marshall makes possible the shuffling of sleeping arrangements, some will surely notice and have an opinion. Likely some accusatory ones.

But by then it will be too late.