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Both James and Thomas were familiar with the routine: Thomas's parlour late at night, a bottle of red wine, and a pair of wineglasses. Two friends, indulging themselves in relaxation after days of hard work. Breathing easy in a way they couldn't in public — couldn't around anyone, really, except each other. Catching up on what had happened while Thomas was away in Paris, lost time that James didn't know if they could ever make up for. Reminiscing.
They had taken no time at all to fall into this pattern after Thomas's return. It was as natural as breathing, every time feeling like a return to normalcy. Which was why James had no reason, when Thomas began to speak of the past, to suspect anything abnormal might happen.
"Shit's complicated now, huh?" Thomas said. He took a sip of wine. "We used to think impressing the ladies at the next ball was such a big deal. Most important thing in the world. And here we are now."
James, who could not honestly claim he ever had "impressing the ladies" as one of his top priorities, said nothing. In general, any talk of women left him dreading that — depending on the amount of alcohol Thomas had imbibed — the conversation would turn to Martha. James could handle all of Thomas's other moods, but Thomas while drunkenly grief-stricken made James feel as though his heart was splintering slowly. Out of empathy for his friend's pain, and out of something more base he knew he should not feel. And so he tried to steer Thomas off that path whenever possible.
James searched for a topic of conversation less likely to lead to that subject, but Thomas had already gone on.
"Now I think about it, s'been a while since I've been to a ball and really danced," Thomas said. He looked discontent but not mournful, which meant James could breathe easy for the moment. "They don't make them the same way up north. Not like back home." He cast James a sly glance. "I don't expect you miss it?"
"I prefer not to step on toes when I can help it," James said, which got a chuckle from Thomas.
"Maybe not the parts about humiliating yourself in front of women," Thomas said. "But the dancing itself. The music, the..." He was quiet for a few seconds as he topped up his wineglass again. "The way you forget everything else that's happening around you."
"I suppose," James said dubiously.
Thomas downed a generous portion of his wine and set it down on the table with a clink. He got to his feet, surprisingly steady.
"James," Thomas said. "This talk makes me feel like dancing. Dance with me."
Of all the directions James had expected the line of conversation to take, he hadn't counted that among them. His reflexes slowed by the wine, it took him a few seconds to process Thomas's request.
"Why?" he said.
"I'm tipsy," Thomas said. "Tipsy enough to think this is a good idea, but— c'mon. Two old friends, sharing a dance for old time's sake. Nothing wrong with that." His gaze was steady, as if he remained in firm conviction of this being a good idea.
They hadn't drunk enough to have any excuses for this. A few glasses of wine. Enough for a buzz, maybe, but not to the point where drunken debauchery sounded like a good idea. Then again, James corrected himself mentally, debauchery wasn't the word for what Thomas was proposing. It was more like college-aged foolishness than anything else. And there was nobody around to see them.
When James made up his mind and rose from his chair slowly, the grin that lit Thomas's face convinced him that this was worth whatever might follow.
"Over here," Thomas said, leading him over to a space of floor roomy enough for them to do a few turns around it without — hopefully — injuring themselves.
"What did you have in mind?" James asked. "A minuet?"
He hadn't meant it. The idea of the two of them dancing together still seemed unreal enough that he could joke about it, and really, he didn't know what they could do. But Thomas seemed to take the question seriously.
"Fuck no," Thomas said. "With this much wine in me, I'm not depraved enough to butcher a minuet yet. We waltz."
"I don't know how to waltz."
"I picked it up in France," Thomas said. "I'll teach you."
"To what music?"
"To my music, darlin'."
James raised an eyebrow. "It might be hard to dance with your violin in your hands."
"Ha ha ha," Thomas said flatly. "No, listen. I heard this in Paris."
He started to hum, which he often did to himself when walking or riding. After all, he was a great lover of music. But in all the times James had heard him humming, it had never been in a situation like this.
"Nice tune," James said.
"I know. So..." Thomas cocked a hand on his hip and surveyed James with a grin. "Hey." Said as if he was what he'd been discussing right at the beginning before all this started — a young man, sure of himself and angling to catch a young woman's attention.
James, rather than attempt to respond similarly and make a fool of himself, stepped into Thomas's reach.
Thomas gave him no time at all before grabbing one of his hands and holding it up. Admittedly, it was gentle, but the contact was so sudden and so much that James twitched regardless. Before he could speak, Thomas had another hand pressed to his back, against his shoulder blade.
"Put your other hand on my arm," Thomas said. "There. Just below my shoulder."
James did as instructed, his fingers curling against Thomas's biceps. He hadn't failed to notice — on occasions such as these, with them both in their shirtsleeves — that Thomas had rather nice arms.
At this distance, there were a lot of things it was difficult to fail to notice. Such as the way Thomas's white shirt, the first few buttons undone in accordance with the relaxed atmosphere of their conversation, revealed an expanse of brown skin, of shoulder and collarbone and chest. It was, James thought, easier to deal with the effect Thomas had on him when he was sober, and when Thomas wasn't so very close.
Really, the proximity of it all was a unique sort of agony. With one of Thomas's hands in James's, and Thomas's other hand holding him close, it felt like an embrace. And yes, they were friends, and perhaps they were sometimes affectionate with each other, and there was nothing wrong with that, but...
"Thomas, this is very—"
"It's a waltz," Thomas said. "If it's not a little scandalous, where's the fun in it?"
He looked so animated just then, a glimmer of mischief in his dark eyes, that James could never have found it in himself to deny Thomas what he wanted. James felt a smile rise to his own lips, which just made Thomas beam brighter.
"Show me how to waltz," James said.
"Just follow my lead," Thomas said, and took a step. "One, two, three. One, two, three."
James moved with him. Trying to stay aware of where his feet were, directing his gaze to somewhere over Thomas's shoulder so they wouldn't have to stare awkwardly at each other. Another, then another. In the silence of Thomas's parlour, the rhythm followed easily.
"Hmm," Thomas said. "Très bien, mon chéri."
After they had done a few turns about the room, Thomas began to hum again. It was slow — slower than a real waltz, James assumed. Better than the silence, but it made James more conscious that this was just for the two of them. At least there was enough distance between them that Thomas couldn't feel the way James's heart was pounding.
This was the sort of moment other men might have killed for. Not this in particular, not with Thomas, but one dance with the person they—
Thomas — apparently now more caught up in his humming than in keeping their rhythm — stepped on James's foot.
James winced.
"Shit," Thomas said, halting. "Didn't mean to do that. Sorry."
"It's fine," James said.
Reassured, Thomas started up again. Only to stop when James stepped on his foot.
"Sorry," James said in response to Thomas's hiss of pain. He looked Thomas in the eye to deliver his apology because it would have felt insincere otherwise, but the first glance reminded him why exactly he had opted to gaze elsewhere while they were dancing. If Thomas's grins were bad enough at normal speaking distance, his eyes warm and lively and crinkled at the corners...they were positively lethal at such close proximity.
"Maybe we really are too drunk for this," Thomas said wryly.
"I'll keep trying if you will."
Thomas let out a breathy laugh and swept him into the dance again.
It wasn't like old times, no matter what Thomas thought or wanted to pretend. In his limited experience with ballrooms, James had never felt as comfortable dancing with a woman as he did with Thomas. Maybe it was the wine working wonders on his inhibitions, but Thomas's hand seemed to belong in his. He didn't want to let go.
And, now that James had looked, he couldn't look away. Even stranger: it wasn't awkward as he had expected. Somehow it felt perfectly natural for them to gaze into each other's eyes. He didn't know how he could have done otherwise; how he had managed without seeing the pleased look on Thomas's face every time they completed a turn without tripping over each other. There was a softness to Thomas's gaze, a softness that most people who only saw him as his public persona would not have expected. As if he was gazing at a thing of wonder. Though it was directed towards James, he was not foolish enough to let himself believe it meant anything.
Slower and slower they went. Thomas had stopped humming. No doubt the alcohol was affecting him, and he had to be more careful where he stepped. James adjusted his pace accordingly.
"I can't seem to hold my arm up," Thomas said, sounding frustrated. He let go of James's hand, making James feel a fleeting pang of disappointment. "Here. Put your other hand of my shoulder."
Unsure of where this was going, James did, both hands now resting loosely on Thomas's shoulders. Thomas immediately put his other hand at the small of James's back.
"Thomas," James said carefully. "I don't think this is a waltz any more."
"It isn't," Thomas agreed.
They gave up on trying to do much else with their feet besides small steps. More like a controlled swaying over a small area. And it— it was nice. The respectable distance they'd tried to keep between them had dissipated given the new positions of their hands, making it more like an embrace than it had been before. The warmth of Thomas's body pressed against his was almost too much to bear.
Emboldened by the quiet intimacy of the moment, James took one hand off Thomas's shoulder just long enough to tuck away a few corkscrew curls that had escaped from Thomas's 'fro and fallen into his face while they were dancing. He then leaned his forehead against Thomas's and closed his eyes. James heard Thomas's sharp little intake of breath. Whatever that reaction meant, he didn't push away.
Thomas smelled like French wine and French cologne — the former was mildly unpleasant in the way all alcohol breath was, and the latter smelled comfortable and familiar like coming home.
James told himself this was merely a gesture of friendship. Two men as close as they were could do that without anything being made of it. No matter what he might have liked, that was all it signified to Thomas: friendship. And so James would act accordingly.
Still they danced, in silence now. At least until Thomas broke it, his breath ghosting over James's lips as he spoke.
"I can't seem to forget that you're you," Thomas murmured. It was an absent-minded admission, as if he didn't think it through before it slipped out.
James wouldn't have known how to describe what his heart did then. In some way, it didn't just sink — it plummeted. He swallowed. "Would you want to?"
Thomas exhaled quietly. Several moments slid by. "No." He didn't say anything else.
Something hollow had settled inside James, but he didn't speak. He already knew he wasn't what Thomas wanted. Even in this moment they shared — this impossibly intimate and tender-seeming moment — Thomas must have had someone else in mind. Some woman. His late wife, or a flirtatious young thing he'd met in Paris and taken to bed.
James drew away, opening his eyes as he did so.
Thomas's own eyes flew open, and for a moment they simply held each other's gaze. Thomas parted his lips slightly as if to say something. To James's overwrought imagination, it seemed like anticipation of a kiss. He couldn't help staring a moment longer than could be considered platonic, breath catching at the dizzying idea of it: Thomas's mouth on his, James's hands tangled in Thomas's glorious curls.
James flicked his eyes back up to Thomas's and almost wished he hadn't. He didn't know if Thomas had caught him looking, only that this time the eye contact was headier than wine. For a moment James read Thomas's gaze as expectant, but that could be nothing other than a fanciful imagining on his part. Thomas only thought of him as a friend; Thomas would not want to be kissed the way James wanted to kiss him.
James settled for leaning up and softly kissing Thomas on the forehead.
For the briefest of seconds, Thomas tensed — with discomfort? Not disappointment. Not when any desire of a kiss on his part was only an imagining of James's intoxicated mind. Then he relaxed and reached up to touch James's face, fingers brushing against his cheek. As if Thomas wanted to return James's gesture with a platonic one of his own.
"Thanks," Thomas said. "For putting up with my drunken ideas."
James had pulled away from him. There was a finality in the way they looked at each other now. The moment, insofar as there had been one, had passed. "What're friends for?"
"Stepping on the toes of," Thomas said. Then, after making good on his words: "That was an accident."
James chuckled. And, though it pained him to say it: "Maybe it's time to stop?"
"Yeah," Thomas said. "Yeah, I don't want you to have to tell your doctor how you broke your foot."
They withdrew their hands slowly, finally drawing themselves out of the embrace. James already missed the way Thomas's body had felt against his, as if they'd been made to fit. But he'd been accorded all he deserved for the moment, and there was no way for him to ask for more. Not when what he had already been given was so much.
They smiled at each other.
"I'd bow," Thomas said. "You know. If I didn't think I'd fall over."
"Same here."
They made their way back over to their chairs and resumed their seats. James picked up his wineglass and toyed with it, having no plans to drink more but being grateful to have something to do that meant he could stop thinking about the way Thomas's palm had felt against his own, and how it might feel to have their fingers intertwined.
Thomas had settled back in his chair, a slight smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. Bringing it to where it had been before James had disturbed it by clutching at his shoulders.
And James felt peaceful. Even though this could never have happened if they were not drunk; even though this would never happen again; even though he was once again reminded that Thomas did not want him in the same way. Seeing Thomas smile like that— it was enough.
"That wasn't exactly like the ballrooms of Paris, was it?" James said drily.
"Nah," Thomas said. He reached over and put his hand atop James's free one, which lay on the armrest of his chair. Squeezed briefly. One last bit of affection while they were still tipsy — because none of this would ever resurface when they were sober the next day. "But good enough."