Archive of Our Own

“Careful now, Jimmy,” said Donald. Leaning up against the bar, he rifled through his purse. He pulled out a silver compact and opened it with a snap. “That ginger dreamboat over by the stage is ogling your man.” Inspecting his reflection, Donald let out a dismayed noise. “Lord, why didn’t ya tell me my lipstick were a mess?” A napkin was hastily dabbed into a gin-and-tonic to wipe off the scarlet that had migrated across a round, agreeable sort of face, the smattering of freckles camouflaged with white powder.

“For the last bleedin’ time, he ain’t my man,” Jimmy said.

He kept trying to explain to the blokes who frequented the club that he was a normal, red-blooded lad who happened to manage an underground nightspot in Soho for working-class folk of the lavender persuasion. Yes, his best mate and business partner was as bent as they come, and yes they lived together in a flat just down the road—but really, it was entirely platonic and above board.

Eye rolls were all he ever seemed to get in response.

There had been a time when having his manliness thrown into question in such a way would’ve inspired some choice words, if not fists, from him. But when a fellow spent every evening surrounded by men dancing with one another, men kissing each other, men rougeing their cheeks, he learned to pick his battles in that arena. So what if the patrons of the club giggled about how Jimmy and Thomas were a couple of old marrieds? They weren’t the ones who’d throw them to the rozzers^[1] for it.

Jimmy’s gaze wandered over to Thomas, who had emerged from his natural habitat—a nest of ledgers and loose receipts stacked in piles around the cramped backroom—to discuss something with one of the musicians on break beside the raised stage. The petite, olive-skinned woman wore sweeping tails and a monocle over one eye. Thomas gestured with a lit cigarette as he spoke. Pale smoke drifted across his striking profile in a way that made Jimmy’s stomach turn an inelegant somersault. They talked for a while, then shook hands. The band struck up another tune.

So focused was Jimmy on the way the sultry orange spotlight of the club clung to the lines of Thomas’s dapper suit, that he hardly noticed the other bloke until he was right up next to Thomas. The red hair was disconcertingly similar to Alfred’s, but to Jimmy’s annoyance the man was very nice to look at otherwise. Broad shoulders and a ruddy complexion spoke of days spent hauling heavy things beneath the shining sun. Once he was close, he made a show of being pushed by a passing patron. He hadn’t been—that much was obvious even from Jimmy’s distance of several yards—but he used the excuse to clasp a hand to Thomas’s shoulder for “balance.”

To Jimmy’s shock, Thomas did not do the sensible thing, which would be to throw off the cad’s clumsy advances. Instead they—they started chatting. The hand migrated down to a bicep, squeezing playfully.

Jimmy sniffed. “If you think he’s handsome, you need those specs even more than I thought.”

Eyes stared down at him—wide, guileless, fringed by charcoal lashes. “Honestly, ducky, glasses with this frock? A chap would look ridiculous.”

Jimmy had to laugh at that. He nudged Donald with his elbow as the other man, compact still held aloft, turned his attention from the smudged lipstick to the arch of his penciled brows. “Oi, quit your fussin’. We all know you only look a fright because you’ve already kissed the best-looking bloke here.”

Donald paused in his ministrations to shoot a significant glance in Jimmy’s direction. “Surely not the best-looking.”

With a snort, Jimmy said, “Not everyone’s a vain shite like y’are, mate.”

Donald smirked. “I reckon it takes one to know one.”

A quick look around the room confirmed to Jimmy that at least two men were giving Donald appreciative once-overs. And what whetted a lad’s appetite more than a little healthy competition? Besides, he owed Don for something or other from… oh, years ago, it must have been. So he put on his best bedroom eyes and pressed a kiss to a cheek creamy with rouge.

“Ta very much, Mr Kent.” Donald shooed him away with wide sweeping motions. “Now move your lallies,^[2] and ask your husband for a dance before that cheeky beggar does.”

Jimmy shot him one last glare, but there was no venom in it. And he did walk over to Thomas and the bum who appeared to be shamelessly begging for a smoke now, given how Thomas fished through his pockets for a packet and his lighter. Jimmy had things to discuss with his business partner—all the constantly spinning plates that kept a club of highly dubious legality open night after night. These were complicated matters; he couldn’t be expected to explain them all to Donald. The fellow would just have to draw his own conclusions.

He was practically on top of them by the time words were audible over the blare of the trumpet and the manic pounding of the piano. Neither one had noticed. With a cheeky grin, the red-haired man said, “You know what they say, all the nice boys love a sailor…” He spoke with an American accent, which explained the boldness well enough. The bastard took a long drag on the fag Thomas had lit for him, ostentatiously hollowing his cheeks.

“That’s not how the song goes,” said Jimmy. He was certain he was glaring, and he didn’t care.

Both men started a little, visibly surprised to find a third participant in their conversation. Thomas raised his eyebrows. “It’s a good job I’m not nice, then,” he said before snatching the cigarette from the ginger’s fingers. When he exhaled, he blew smoke from his nose like a dragon. Jimmy reckoned that gesture had no business being as attractive as it was.

Judging by the glitter in his dark eyes, the other fellow thought so too.

Thomas said, “Sam, this is Jimmy. Jimmy, Sam.” He gestured with the fag, and the redheaded sailor neatly plucked it back from the air.

“Nice to meet ya,” he said, smoking, refusing to take his eyes off Thomas. “Care for a dance, handsome?” He held out a hand.

“He has work to do,” Jimmy snapped.

Finally, Thomas gave Jimmy his full attention. He didn’t look amused. “Nothing pressing. And anyway, my eyes were beginning to cross staring at all those numbers. I’ve earned m’self a break.” He tilted up his chin. “Y’know, you’re one to talk. You’ve been hanging about Donald all evening.”

“How would you know, if you’ve been so busy?” Jimmy shot back.

“Go on, tell me I’m wrong.”

Somewhere beside them, Sam muttered weakly, “Listen, fellas, I didn’t mean to cause a spat…”

Jimmy crossed his arms and puffed up to his full height—not that it counted for much next to two men who cleared six feet. “It’s totally different.”

“How’s that, then?” asked Thomas.

“Because—” Because Donald doesn’t fancy me. “—because it’s my job to make sure the patrons are having a good time! I handle the front, you handle the back, it’s how we’ve always done it.”

That wasn’t entirely true. They’d decided on those terms when they’d taken on the management of the club two years ago, but of course it couldn’t work like that most of the time. There was always some disaster, and there needed to always be someone around to handle it. Thomas spent loads of time out on the floor, behind the bar, up on stage introducing the acts. But that didn’t give him the right to flirt with some awful American right under Jimmy’s nose.

Speaking of, Sam appeared to have slunk away while Jimmy and Thomas were in the middle of arguing, disappearing into the throng of moving bodies. Good, Jimmy thought viciously, buy an expensive cocktail and then sod off, mate.

“Oh, you were doing your job, then?” Thomas scoffed. “That’d be a first.”

The barb slid in between Jimmy’s ribs and stuck there. He wasn’t a silly footman anymore, palming his chores off on other people while wearing a sour face. He worked harder than he’d ever worked at anything to keep that place running. He poured drinks, he played piano up on the stage, he ordered rowdy drunks to clear off, night after night. And he was glad to do it, all of it. He did it for Thomas.

Jimmy still remembered the expression that had played across his best mate’s face when they’d first set foot in the club. They’d been living in London for about a month, squeezed into a shabby boarding house with a mean, old landlady and another tenant who had snored loud enough to wake the dead. Jimmy had caught Thomas sneaking out in the middle of the night. He’d forced the other man to let him come along.

Don’t you understand, there could be a raid, Thomas had hissed as they huddled together in the darkened corridor. You could end up in prison.

Well, if you end up in prison, I’ve no hope of making rent by m’self, Jimmy had replied, so I might as well be sitting in a cell with you.

They’d walked together into a respectable-looking front room where bored fellows dozed into their pints, and a barman wiped idly at a glass. Thomas had muttered something to the bloke behind the counter, who had muttered back, then waved the two off towards a shadowy alcove. The door had been directly across from the ladies’ and the gents’, the sign on it reading STORAGE. The stairs had led down to the basement.

Jimmy had thought it clever at the time. He didn’t know then that the ingenuity was the product of harsh experience. The club bore no official name, but most patrons called it, “the Bona,” on account of the wooden plaque in the front window, which proclaimed in faded letters, the gold gilding mostly worn away: Bona to vada!^[3] It had existed, in one form or another, for nearly fifteen years, albeit not consecutively. The owner—a kindly man in his middle-sixties who the regulars had dubbed “Uncle Pat”—had to close up shop and move elsewhere several times when things got too hot with the vice squad. Once, he was slow getting out a window and wound up serving a stint for gross indecency.

Jimmy hadn’t been aware of any of that. All he had understood was the way Thomas had stared agape at the crush of men dancing and kissing and sitting upon one another’s laps. He had looked as if he’d been years away, but at last, at last he was home.

Although he was far from brave or noble, Jimmy would do anything to keep Thomas home.

Except it was clear now that Jimmy’s devotion meant nothing to Thomas. Apparently some dishy omi^[4] had only to snap his fingers for Jimmy to become nothing more than a persistent nuisance, a mosquito in Thomas’s ear since 1924.

People were watching, some more obviously than others. If not for the music, Jimmy was certain he’d be able to hear the whispers. Thomas glared—at him, at them.

Face growing hot, Jimmy barked, “Fine, I’ll go back to the flat! Since I’m so useless here.”

The angry expression quivered, and for a moment Jimmy thought Thomas might be the first to break. But suddenly the man was wearing a servant’s blank, perfectly stoic. As if—as if Jimmy were the Earl of Grantham, or something. “Do what you want.” Thomas turned on his heel and strode away.

“I—I will!” Jimmy called after a retreating back. He stood there, alone, feeling like a prat. Attentions began to wander as folks sensed the show was over. The lively music came to a halt, and the band struck up a new tune—something slow a person could use as an excuse to hold his sweetheart close. Jimmy was angry enough to spit.

He stomped over to the stairs. On the way, he overheard someone muttering about a lovers’ quarrel, and automatically his hands clenched into fists.

“He didn’t mean it.”

Donald had appeared beside him, rosy mouth pouted in concern, sandy hair glinting with threads of gold in the dim light.

“You don’t even know what he said.”

“I know he didn’t mean it. He adores you.”

With a growl, Jimmy shoved past him.

The flat Jimmy shared with Thomas was only three blocks from the Bona, which was rather convenient when one had to travel by foot through all manner of weather—some days, at four or five in the morning. Certainly it overruled any concerns about the dodgy plumbing or the downstairs neighbours who fought and made love with equal volume and vigour. But more important than any of those things, the flat wasn’t some toff’s property furnished with ugly curtains and a rug too worn to be used in a guest room anymore. It was theirs. A watercolour painted by an artist friend hung on the wall. The gleaming carriage clock on the mantle Thomas had revived from the dead with some spare parts, plus a bit of elbow grease. Jimmy’s favourite biscuits were always in the tin. They were saving up, bit by bit, to buy a wireless. Cheap and cheerful, Jimmy’s mother would’ve called the place.

He was in no mood to appreciate it that night.

A fat, orange ball of fluff waddled over to him to meow piteously when he flicked on the lights. He had to step over the cat to hang up his hat on the rack.

“Oi, Buster, you’re not foolin’ anyone. I saw Thomas feed you just before we left.” He and Thomas often told folks that the cat had come with the flat. It was only half a joke. The cheeky fellow generally carried himself like they were his tenants and he the king of the castle.

Not to be deterred, Buster strode into the sitting room—or at least, the little area of the cramped flat Jimmy and Thomas deigned to call a sitting room. He leapt up onto the top of the sofa with surprising grace for a creature so roly-poly. From this position, he could paw at the window while he wailed like the damned.

Heaving a great sigh, Jimmy said, “If you get into trouble out there, you’re on your own,” then undid the latch and opened the window enough for the pudgy beast to squeeze through. There came a clatter of metal from outside when Buster landed on the fire escape. Since it was summer, Jimmy left the window ajar, curtains billowing in the cool night breeze.

He ought to just go to bed. If he was asleep when Thomas came home, they wouldn’t have to talk. But working at the Bona had made Jimmy nocturnal by nature. He wouldn’t be tired for a couple of hours yet. So instead he planted himself on the sofa, feet tucked under him, smoking viciously. He settled in for a good, long sulk.

Obviously, it hadn’t been the first time a bloke had flirted with Thomas in the club. It hadn’t even been the first time that week. Thomas always brushed the man off, whoever he was, if he pushed for something more than a drink and a turn or two around the dance floor. Still, Jimmy was afraid, because one day he wouldn’t stop there. And if a man could worm his way into Thomas’s trousers, he could also worm his way into his heart. With bent fellows, finding someone willing to accept the risks of settling down with another man was a bit like finding a unicorn. But Thomas could manage it. He was the bravest, cleverest, handsomest person Jimmy knew, and he wanted more than anything to share his life with a person he loved.

Eventually Thomas would move on, move out of the flat, and leave Jimmy all alone.

Jimmy had given up on women ages ago. It hadn’t been a conscious decision. For a while after the disaster with Lady Anstruther, he simply didn’t have the stomach for it. Then he didn’t have the interest. And finally, once he’d gotten irrevocably mixed up with the Bona, it simply became an impossibility. The place hadn’t changed him, hadn’t made him something other than a normal, red-blooded man. He was as attracted to the fairer sex as he ever had been.

But he enjoyed his life exactly as it was. What would he do with a girl? Marry her? Have children? That would spoil his cozy, if chaotic, existence. He’d have to give up the Bona. He’d have to give up Thomas—perhaps not entirely, but things wouldn’t be the same between them ever again.

It was selfish of Jimmy to expect Thomas to take a similar sort of vow. Well, so what if it was? He was selfish. When he’d been thrown out of the Abbey for bedding one of the Upstairs crowd, standing beside that wagon with tears pricking his eyes, he’d known the right thing to do. He’d known he ought to thank Thomas for being his friend, and reassure the man that he would be fine, and walk out into the unknown with his head held high. Instead he’d begged with all the dignity of a frightened child for Thomas to join him.

That was the most selfish thing he’d ever done—also the best thing. He’d be selfish again in a heartbeat if it meant Thomas stayed. He’d—

The answer came to him like a bolt from the blue. He, Jimmy Kent, would seduce Thomas.

If Thomas wanted a man to hold him, to kiss him, to—to go to bed with him, Jimmy could give him that. He wouldn’t enjoy it, of course. Not the strong arms wrapped tight around him, nor the stubble prickling his skin, nor the heavy body pressing him down into the mattress—

Jimmy blinked, then hurried to put out the cigarette, which had burned mostly to ash and threatened to singe his fingertips. Resolutely, he ignored any entirely coincidental stirrings below the waist. No. He wouldn’t enjoy it. But Thomas was kind—kind to Jimmy, at any rate. It wouldn’t be an unpleasant experience. If he did it once—or a few times, perhaps—Thomas’s yearnings would be sated. He’d stay put for a while. It would buy Jimmy some more time.

The dread eased its clawing grip upon Jimmy’s chest. He had a plan. He had something he could do. Satisfied, he leaned back, head tilted up towards the ceiling, inhaling and exhaling long, steady breaths.

Next thing he knew, he was startled awake by the sound of a key turning in a lock. Thomas stepped through the front door, placing his hat beside Jimmy’s on the rack without bothering to look. He stared instead at Jimmy sprawled on the sofa with haunted eyes. Absent-mindedly, he removed his leather glove, rubbing at the scarred hand the way he only did when the pain really bothered him. Normally, Jimmy would go over and massage the aching muscles without even asking. He’d scold Thomas for not ordering one of the younger lads working at the Bona to do the heavy lifting, the proud fool.

Automatically, Jimmy got to his feet, but then he remembered they were fighting. He stood pinned to the spot, feeling stupid again. He glanced at the clock.

“You’re home early,” he said, trying for aloof and falling short by a mile.

“I asked Bill to close up tonight.”

Thomas strode forward until he was close enough he could’ve reached out and touched Jimmy, who hadn’t moved an inch himself. Mouth drooping at the corners, Thomas looked perfectly miserable. Well, at least, Jimmy wasn’t alone in it.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas continued, “for sayin’ you don’t work hard. I know you do. And I appreciate—”

Jimmy kissed him. Kiss was perhaps too delicate a word for it. Since Thomas hadn’t known he was going to do it—neither had Jimmy, as it happened—the lips landed off-center, teeth clacking together. Thomas pulled away almost immediately.

Doubt flooded in. Was Thomas about to refuse him? Stupid that such a response hadn’t occurred to him beforehand. Thomas knew Jimmy better than anyone living, and Jimmy was quite aware that nothing put potential lovers off more than really knowing him. A charming facade would normally do the trick on such occasions, but it would do no good with Thomas. He would see through the act in an instant. Too much had passed between them.

Thomas gazed down at him, lips wet with Jimmy’s own saliva, hair sticking up a bit at the sides where Jimmy had mussed it with grasping hands. Jimmy could hardly breathe. “Oh, hello,” said Thomas. He spoke like Jimmy had wandered in while he was cooking dinner, or like he’d searched the Bona from top to bottom, only to find Jimmy in the last place he looked. There was no condemnation in his voice—no great surprise, even.

Jimmy was relieved. Then he was a little insulted. Surely Thomas ought to be more shocked that straight-as-an-arrow Jimmy Kent had kissed him. Maybe it would sink in if he kissed him again.

So he did.

Things went easier this time. Thomas cradled the back of his head, guiding him until their noses slotted together. The man’s left hand was light as a feather at Jimmy’s waist, his mouth soft and unhurried. If Thomas had been a girl, Jimmy would’ve been worried about receiving a slap if he got too fresh. But Thomas wasn’t a girl, and Jimmy was certain he would lose his mind if he kept being treated like something precious. He snaked his arms about Thomas, hauling him closer, running his tongue teasingly along a plush bottom lip. Thomas opened up to him with a gasp.

It was as if a switch had been flicked. Suddenly Thomas gave as good as he got. Their tongues brushed again and again, electricity zinging up Jimmy’s spine at every point of contact. Hands wandered across the expanse of Jimmy’s back, hot and heavy even through two layers of fabric. I’m good at this seducing men thing, Jimmy thought. He grabbed a handful of Thomas’s arse, and when Thomas made a low, rumbly noise that Jimmy felt deep in his chest, he stopped thinking altogether.

They’d hardly paused for breath before Jimmy said in a husky voice he almost didn’t recognise as his own, “Let’s go to the bedroom, yeah?”

A bit of the haze of arousal cleared from Thomas’s eyes. He took the other man by the hand, rubbing a thumb against the palm. “Jimmy—are you certain?”

In response, Jimmy caught Thomas’s free hand—his left—by the wrist. He pressed it flat against the unmistakable bulge straining the front of Jimmy’s trousers.

“Does that feel bloody certain to you?”

Thomas grinned. He dragged Jimmy down the hallway without another word.

* * *

Blinking against the sun that streamed in through a gap in the curtains, Jimmy decided something was wrong. No, not wrong. Different, that was all. Unexpected.

He sat up in bed. This was his room, that was for sure. He thought at first that all the furniture had been moved slightly. Why was the wardrobe so close? He turned his head to find the bed nearer to the window—the one Jimmy had slept in every night since they’d moved into the flat—staring accusingly back at him, untouched. Jimmy, it appeared, had fallen asleep in Thomas’s bed. A quick glance beneath the sheets confirmed that he was, in fact, entirely naked.

The clatter of pots and pans came from the direction of the front room. Thomas hummed loud enough to be heard over the ruckus, punctuated by the occasional lyric before dissolving into cheerful gibberish. Jimmy recognised the tune right off—some soppy love song about dancing beneath the stars at midnight. The band had been playing it at the club last night.

Last night. Oh God, last night.

Shame threatened to drown him. He wanted to curl into a ball under the covers and never come out. He wanted to climb out the window, shimmy down the drainpipe, and hop a steamer for parts unknown. He’d slept with his best mate. Who in the hell would sleep with his best mate just because he flirted with someone else?

Jimmy wasn’t an idiot. At least, he hadn’t thought he was. He understood that he and Thomas were more entangled than your average couple of chums. Their situation worked because clear lines had been drawn in the sand, even if they weren’t spoken about. Thomas and Jimmy sharing a one-bedroom flat might seem odd to outsiders, but they each had their own bed. The lock on the washroom meant that no one stumbled in on the other at an awkward moment. There was only a problem now because Jimmy had stomped all over those lines in the sand like a child on a seaside holiday. Now he had to walk out there and tell Thomas—who sounded so bloody happy—that it’d been a mistake. It couldn’t be that way between them. Jimmy wasn’t like Thomas or the other lads at the club. He was… normal. He was just a normal bloke.

Thomas, being Thomas, had put away the clothes they’d left strewn about the floor. So Jimmy fished out an undershirt and a pair of sleep trousers from the wardrobe. A dressing gown was hung on the hook fastened to the door, so Jimmy threw that on as well. He shuffled down the corridor to the front of the flat as if he were a man condemned.

In the kitchenette, Thomas fried up a sizzling pan of eggs and sausage on the stovetop. He didn’t hear Jimmy come in. Unlike Jimmy, he was properly dressed, although he’d rolled his shirtsleeves up and out of the way. Misery forgotten temporarily, Jimmy spent a long moment studying the pale flesh of the bare forearms, the dusting of dark hair that swept across the skin. He’d seen Thomas in such a casual state many times, but it felt almost indecent now that he knew what Thomas looked like without the entire shirt. Now he knew what Thomas looked like without so much as a stitch on.

Jimmy swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. Thankfully, the heavenly smell of a fry-up filled his nose, distracting him with the promise of a different sort of earthly pleasure. His stomach gurgled loudly.

Thomas laughed. Rather than turn around, he removed the pan from the heat and speared a sausage with a fork, transferring it to one of the two waiting plates. He did the same with the other sausage, then he began to dole out the fried eggs. They were a little runny in the middle, just how Jimmy preferred them.

Go on, open your mouth and break his heart. Jimmy said, “It’s my day to make breakfast.” Coward.

“I know. Thought I’d let you have a lie-in. Did you sleep well? I slept very w—” Finally Thomas turned around. As soon as he caught sight of Jimmy’s expression, the cheeky grin fell like a deflating souffle. “What’s the matter, eh?”

Unable to bear Thomas’s eyes on him, Jimmy let out a strangled sob, burying his face in his hands. Next thing he knew, he was wrapped up in a gentle embrace, being guided blindly over to the sofa and urged to sit down. Buster mewed, then leapt up onto Jimmy’s lap, warm and purring. Jimmy removed his hands to run fingers through soft fur. Obligingly, Buster rolled over, exposing a generous belly. Jimmy smiled, a little.

“You didn’t enjoy those things we did last night,” said Thomas. There was no anger in his tone, no disappointment. Somehow that only made Jimmy feel even more of a bastard.

It would go easier if Jimmy let Thomas think he hadn’t, but it would be a lie. And Jimmy didn’t lie to Thomas, unless it was a cheeky fib about eating the last biscuit or some such. “I—I did enjoy it. You’re so—I enjoyed it.”

Well, of course he had. What fellow wouldn’t enjoy being touched and kissed like that? No one could accuse Thomas Barrow of not knowing what he was doing in that particular arena. And naturally he’d kissed and touched Thomas in return. Who didn’t want to see their best mate happy and sated and blushing so handsomely—that is, who didn’t want to see their best mate happy, full-stop? As for any… appreciation of Thomas’s nude body, that was hardly unusual. Jimmy had been admiring other boys in their all-together since he was a lad bunking off classes to go swimming with school chums in the river. All men noticed the handsomeness of other men from time to time. Jimmy had never asked anyone, but he knew they did. They must do.

“But you don’t want to do any of it again?” Thomas pressed.

Jimmy swallowed down a scream. Why was Thomas talking about what Jimmy wanted as if that had anything to do with it? He stopped petting Buster, hands curling into fists. The cat crawled away. “That’s not the point.”

Thomas sighed. “What is the point, then, Jimmy?”

He began to explain, but the words promptly died in his tongue. At first he considered saying that he couldn’t allow it to happen again because he was normal. Except normal was subjective, wasn’t it? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a man and a woman kissing in real life. Meanwhile, you could hardly swing a cat at the Bona without hitting a couple of blokes necking. So Jimmy supposed that a fellow being bent was more normal than being otherwise in his particular corner of the world.

He could say that he was a real man—if he knew what in the hell a real man was meant to be anymore. He remembered clearly the last time he’d spoken those words out loud without a hint of irony. It had been the third or fourth jaunt he and Thomas had taken to the club. Jimmy had still been in the habit of constantly glancing over his shoulder on the premises like a sharpy^[5] might be around any corner. He hadn’t appreciated it when Thomas had nipped off to the loo and had left Jimmy alone with a chap wearing a dress.

So… you think of yourself as… a real man? Not, you know, something else?

Donald had appraised him coolly over the rim of his drink. They hadn’t been friends at all, at the start. I’m a real man. What else am I supposed to be, a real octopus?

Back then, Jimmy had been astonished at the cheek of the fellow, glaring at him as if he were the indecent one, rather than the bloke wearing silken stockings.

That was before the countless times Jimmy had watched men stumble into the Bona with a black eye or bruised ribs, too afraid to set foot in a hospital. They knew Donald was a surgeon at London hospital, and that he kept a spare doctor’s kit in the club’s back office. He asked no probing questions as he perched on top the desk to disinfect a nasty gash, sequins glittering in the lamplight clashing with the owlish, tortoiseshell glasses sliding down his snub nose. If the fellow wanted distraction, Donald told bawdy jokes while he worked. If the fellow wanted to cry—some of this type were so young as to be barely out of school—Donald held him until his eyes were dry.

Jimmy knew now that Donald was far more decent than he, Jimmy, would ever be. He was one of the most decent people Jimmy had ever met. Jimmy would be proud to have something in common with a man like that. And if he was truly honest with himself for once, they did have something in common.

It felt as if it took a lifetime for Jimmy to gather up the courage to raise his head and look Thomas in the eye. But Thomas still sat there, close enough for Jimmy to feel the warmth of his body. His expression was unbearably soft—asking nothing, expecting nothing. Jimmy wanted to cry. He wanted to kiss him again.

Instead he swatted Thomas hard on the arm.

Thomas cried out—more from surprise than pain—then swatted him back. “Brat,” he said with a sharkish grin.

“Why didn’t you bloody tell me I was in love with you?” Jimmy demanded.

Thomas blinked a few times. “I s’pose I thought it was something a person ought to find out for himself.”

“I kept you waiting for years.” Fear uncurled in Jimmy’s belly. “You must hate me.”

“Waiting? Waiting for what?”

“For… for me to love you properly. I mean, we never even went to bed together until last night.”

“We go to bed together every night. Well, except the ones when I want to stay up a bit to read.”

Jimmy glared. “Thomas. You know what I’m sayin’.”

A pale, slender hand reached over and toyed with Jimmy’s fingers. Overwhelmed, Jimmy had to glance away.

Thomas said, “When I were small, my mum used to read me fairy stories. I didn’t care much what they were about, so long as they ended with them all living happily ever after. I thought a lot about what that must be like, to live happily ever after. When I were too young to know I wanted a man to kiss me, or fuck me, I still understood that I wanted to share my days with a fella who made me happy.” Grey eyes misted over. “You agreed to run the Bona with me the moment I asked. Every day, you risk prison just to see me smile. What love could be more proper than that?”

“I’ve made you happy?” Jimmy asked, voice small as a child’s.

“Love, these past few years—I can’t begin to tell you how happy you’ve made me.”

Jimmy gnawed at the inside of his lip. “All the same, you seemed awfully relieved to get your end away last night.”

Thomas snorted. “So did you.”

Jimmy made to pull his hand from Thomas’s grip, but the other man held fast. “I enjoy sex,” said Thomas frankly, “especially when it’s with you. But I don’t need it to know I’m yours and you’re mine. I never did.”

The relief was immediate and dizzying. An enormous weight lifted from Jimmy’s shoulders. Somehow, impossibly, he was good enough for Thomas Barrow exactly as he was. He spoke aloud the one thought racing through his mind he trusted himself to say without his voice wobbling: “Our breakfast is getting cold.”

Thomas kissed his forehead, then got to his feet with a little grunt of effort. Jimmy smirked. Immediately, Thomas wagged a warning finger at him. “Not a word.”

Jimmy, of course, ignored him. “Where’s the spry fella who carted me off to bed in his big, strong arms? Will he be making a reappearance this evening, by chance?”

Head held high, Thomas turned on his heel and scooped up the plates where they lay on the countertop. Jimmy admired the curve of his arse as he walked. He nearly stopped himself out of habit, but then he remembered he didn’t have to. Thomas was gorgeous, and he was his. It was better to look really, so Thomas was reminded as often as possible of how much Jimmy loved and desired him.

Although Jimmy supposed there were other ways to remind him—more tangible ones.

When he returned, Thomas said tartly, “He might show up again if you do the bloody dishes for once.” Any sting was bellied by the secret grin tucked in the corner of his mouth. He set one plate on Jimmy’s lap, the other on his own as he sat down again. It appeared they were going to eat on the sofa like a couple of heathens.

“Thomas,” Jimmy said, very seriously.

“Hmm?” The man was already cutting his sausage into neat, little pieces.

“I think we ought to get married.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Thomas. Without looking up from his food, he gestured at Jimmy with his fork. “Go on, eat your eggs.”

That hurt. “I mean it, Thomas! What’s a wedding, really? Some ancient bloke in funny dress says a few words over ya, there’s the vows, then everybody gets squiffy and eats cake. Hell, we can manage that.”

Thomas met his eye. Finally Jimmy could admit that sweet smile made his heart stutter in his chest. “I only said you’re being silly because we’re already married, Jimmy. You proposed ages ago.”

Jimmy frowned. “I did?”

Thomas straightened his spine, reciting as if from a much-loved book: “I know I’ve no right to ask this, but Thomas, leave Downton with me. Please. I can’t promise it’ll be all sunshine and roses for us, so I won’t try. I just don’t think I could bear it if I never saw your face again.”

Oh. Thomas had memorised every word.

Jimmy cleared his throat. “In that case, could we get married again?”

“I don’t see why not.” Thomas kissed him soundly. “The folks at the Bona will take any excuse for a party.”