oh, it's a bloodless revolution!

"I want to understand," says Jimmy Kent. "I don't know you as much as you think I do."

It's an obvious statement that he inflicts onto the other man tonight, as if he expects Thomas to brush him away with a simple gesture of his hands. He presses his fingers on top of Jimmy's, hoping that somehow, the heat of his hand would give some kind of assurance to him and the confusion, the void that translates to anger onto his face. Thomas Barrow wants, but Thomas Barrow does not get, however, Jimmy does not belong to him and he will never. Jimmy will be a better man if that were to happen.

He clears his throat, and a tremor runs through the brittle bones in his hands, almost threatening to clench the fingers he holds beneath. He resists the urge to stroke them, to kiss the pads of his thumbs and brush his lips against the hard knuckles. Thomas wants to familiarize himself with the length of his palm, wants to clip those nails of his when they get too long for service.

Jimmy isn't his, though.

He's a selfish man, that he would not refute, but he knows when is the time to ask himself if this is enough; homosexuality is illegal and he is a disgrace. Shame on him for loving another man as much as he does. Why does he grasp onto so much? These fingers were made to envelope a woman's soft, tender skin with its own rough, masculine touch, not for him to hold, not for him to kiss.

"You'd better get back to the abbey. It's late; we're going to get found out." Thomas stretches his lips into a smile, but Jimmy still looks uncertain. He talks a good case for himself, tells him about their supposed future in detail. It reeks of flimsiness and broken promises, but he does not tell him that. He holds his hand when they walk back to the abbey. There is no job for him over there, now, but he still recalls the winding route that leads up to the servants' hall. If there is anything he can do for Jimmy it is this, but he is afraid that Jimmy is not a woman; he is not there for him to coddle and protect but for him to /leave/, and perhaps he would be better off this way too, he cannot, he cannot—

Jimmy leaves a kiss on his lips, before he goes. It is gentle and quiet and everything he seeks for in a romance, and it warms his pale cheeks into different variations of red when Jimmy pulls away only for the sake of fresh air. He has breathed in tobacco for the majority of his life at this point, can filter through the filthy air for the sake of his addiction, but a kiss from Jimmy leaves him suffocated, and he worries he might smother the man. He wants to. He cannot.

"I want to understand," Jimmy tells him again. There is pain in his voice and it stabs a hole through his conscience. He doesn't know what is right anymore. He only wishes that someone else would cover Jimmy's hands with their own, tangle their fingers with his and provide him with the warmth that he cannot with his gloved hands.

Winter is a bitter season. It gets cold sometimes. Somebody else needs to suffocate him with the attention he deserves.

He only wishes that the last kiss on Jimmy's knuckles would somehow process these thoughts of his into Jimmy's mind.

He's sorry.