Archive of Our Own ^beta

Thomas can’t stand the cold much these days. In England, it’s inescapable, the chill seeping into every nook and cranny as if infused into the mortar between bricks, even when the sun is high. It doesn’t creep into Edward’s joints the way it does Thomas', even if he’s loathe to complain, but it still lingers around. It’s becoming easier now to shake the feeling that he’s walking through a dense mist, now that he and his man have each other to come home to. If a floorboard creaks, Thomas laughs and presses it again with his foot until the groans of a ship buckling under the weight of the surrounding ice is far from their minds. Certain food items have disappeared entirely from their household, and they can afford to find alternatives rather than scrounge, which is a luxury Thomas knows he would not be allotted but for living with Edward.

Which isn’t to say that the only reason Thomas lives with Edward is the culinary freedom it affords him. There are many reasons, too many to list in one lifetime, starting with the warmth in his heart when Edward looks his way.

Today is one such day when the cold and damp has found its way between Thomas’ kneecap and thigh, and makes walking about taxing. Unduly taxing, Edward had agreed, and set about on his own to run the errands that necessitated leaving the house. Thomas had bundled him up, tucking a soft scarf around his neck so that it covered where hair could not, and knew that Edward shared his memories of wearing many more layers to venture outside.

“It’s a more fashionable ensemble than our slops, wouldn’t you agree?” Edward had said with a self-conscious chuckle as Thomas smoothed his coat at the shoulders.

“With a face like yours,” Thomas had replied, punctuating the clause with a kiss, “I’m none the wiser.”

Today’s errands shouldn’t take longer than a few hours. Privately, Thomas decides to avoid the stairs and keeps to the lower floor, and mainly to the sitting room, where light filters through the blinds and makes him almost forget the cloudy skies. The light is good enough by which to mend the cuff of one of Edward’s shirts, and when he’s finished with that task, he moves on to the next garment in need of mending. When he ties off his last stitch, he rises from his chair, taking a moment to bend and extend his left leg a few times until the joint limbers up, and goes to the kitchen for a bite to eat. He makes himself a slice of bread spread with cherry preserves, and mournfully notes that the jar is running low.

His snack finished, he returns to the sitting room, picking up a book from the table beside his chair and sitting down to read; such is the life of Thomas Jopson now. He opens the book to the marked page and plans not to look up until he hears the door.

It’s not until just past five in the evening that he finally hears the turn of the key in the front door and the accompanying footsteps. Edward appears, closes the door after himself, brushes his hair back into place with his hands.

“There you are,” Thomas calls. “Here, let me help you with your scarf.”

The hours he was sitting down have been enough, by now, to stiffen his leg again; he gets to his feet gingerly, stumbles, and regains himself. The stumble is loud enough for Edward to notice, or perhaps he just has sharp hearing, and he turns his head sharply and hurries into the sitting room, arms already outstretched in anticipation of helping Thomas stand up straight or sit back down, whichever he requires.

“Ah, it’s alright, Edward,” Thomas assures him, waving one hand dismissively while the other remains on the back of the chair for balance as he waits for his knee to decide to work properly. In the meantime, he looks up and flashes Edward a smile. Edward blinks once, pulls in a breath that may as well have been a gulp of frigid Arctic wind, and falls.

It’s only to his knees. Hardly a full collapse, and he remains upright otherwise, but Thomas gives a yelp of alarm and drops with him. His knee smarts in protest. Edward’s eyes are vacant.

“Edward,” says Thomas. “Ned, talk to me, please. Are you injured? Ill?”

The word “Ill,” drifts from Edward’s throat in a wounded noise. Thomas, who has pulled him against his chest, now draws him back so that he can get a good look at him. He’s no doctor, and no Goodsir, either, but he’s had enough experience with siblings and his mother to recognize a fever. There are other illnesses he knows from firsthand experience. He undoes the cuff of his shirt and presses his wrist to Edward’s forehead.

“Not me,” Edward says in that same wretched tone. His mouth moves as little as is possible. Worry flies through Thomas like a bird caught in a building, but he can feel no fever.

“Tell me, Ned,” he implores the man, returning his hand to Edward’s shoulder without bothering to fix his cuff. Edward’s eyes turn upwards towards him.

“Not me,” he says again, and raises a hand towards Thomas’ face. On instinct, Thomas makes to cover it with one of his own, but Edward presses on until his hand cups Thomas’ jaw, his thumb pushed against his lower lip. He applies a fleeting pressure, then drops his hand, looking despondent, those heavy eyebrows of his turned painfully inward.

“Your teeth,” Thomas can barely make out. “Your gums. Are they-?”

“What?” Thomas draws back again-- Edward’s arms go up and clutch at him, unwilling to give an inch of slack-- and does as Edward had just a moment ago, palpating his own mouth. He swipes the pad of his thumb across his gum line, and it comes back smeared with red. For a second, he stares at it, mind blank and numb, and then he puts his thumb back in his mouth and licks the red off.

Cherry preserves, from his earlier snack. A wave of hysteria crests and, if it weren’t for the look on Edward’s face, he might have burst out laughing. Instead, he pulls Edward close again and breathes deeply.

“Oh, Edward,” he hushes him, pushing his nose against Edward’s cheek. “It’s nothing. It’s just cherry preserves, is all. I got hungry during the day and had some on bread.”

Edward’s hands don’t drop, but Thomas feels his grip slacken. A tremble runs through him, and Thomas would draw back to ask if he was alright, but right now, it feels like pulling away is the worst thing he could possibly do. He stays, knelt and holding Edward, until Edward draws himself together enough to gasp and say, “Tom, your leg.”

“Could do with someplace to sit,” Thomas admits, and Edward rises, helping him to his feet. Now that he can see his face, Thomas notices that Edward’s eyes are wide and still a bit distant, and worryingly reddened, as is his nose. They move to the sofa and sit down, pressed so close as to be nearly in each other’s laps, and Thomas doesn’t mention that Edward had been on the verge of tears. Instead, he unwinds the scarf from Edward’s neck, folds it, and drapes it over the arm of the sofa. Then, he starts on the buttons of Edward’s coat. Edward can’t seem to look in any direction other than at Thomas’ face, but he blindly finds Thomas’ hand with his own and presses it to his chest, and Thomas lets him keep it, finishing with the buttons one-handedly. Edward doesn’t let go, but helps him get the coat halfway shrugged off, and between them, they do the work of one person’s two arms.

“My heart,” Edward says softly, unclear about whether he means the beating organ in his chest or the man facing him. “To say you are in it would be a disservice to you. You- you encompass it, you are one and the same, and I had the gall to leave without a second glance-”

Thomas shakes his head and cups Edward’s well-groomed cheek. The rest of his sentence dissolves into a shaky exhale, and his eyebrows furrow again, but he doesn’t remove his gaze from Thomas’ face.

“I’m here,” Thomas reminds him softly. “I’m here, Edward. I intend to stay here, and to tell you as many times as it takes to convince you.”

Edward reaches for him. Brushes that errand lock of hair from his eyes. It falls back across his forehead, and the noise Edward makes is pitiful.

“Don’t ever convince me,” he tells him. “The second I forget the danger of losing you is the second I start to take you for granted, and that danger will rear its head again.”

“You won’t,” says Thomas. “You aren’t in danger of losing me.”

The ghost of a thumb pressed against his lips reminds him that it’s one thing to know and another to believe. For some things, either one is difficult. Thomas extracts his right hand from Edward’s hold and holds the man’s face between his hands before he kisses him, slow and thorough. They’ve fallen over each other on this sofa before, kissing and laughing and shucking clothes; this is not one of those times. The coat drops from Edward’s arms and rolls onto the carpet. Neither man budges an inch from the other to retrieve it. Like Thomas, it will still be there later.

Despite insisting on the danger of being convinced, Edward doesn’t stop Thomas from putting his best effort, among other things, into it.