Chapter Text
Tommy has decided that he doesn’t half mind embroidery. He’s raged against it, but 17 years of age had brought new maturity to him.
It had also brought his boredom to a new high.
He sits in the sitting room, not pricking his finger with the needle for once as he adds another little cow to the cuff of one of his sleep shirts. Captain Puffy, his governess who had retired from her trade ship sailing after a brush with French privateers (although Tommy had always privately thought that she must have been a pirate), had forbidden him for altering his day clothes. So now he is adding to the farm scene he has slowly been making. He likes cows, once he and Mr Sam had travelled to a nearby farm and he’d gotten to feed one. Mr Sam had hoisted him up so he could reach without climbing on the wooden gate. Tommy smiles at the memory and tunes back into listening to Miss Clara read out a letter from her family, working in a nearby manor house. Nearby was, of course, relative. Nothing was less than a days horseback ride, this deep into Sherwood forest.
Ms Clem suddenly laughs uproariously. She is an older woman who Tommy had clung to the skirts of his entire childhood. He looks up at her and Miss Clara ruffles his hair,
“My half-sister is pregnant and to be married.”
“Oh,” he says, suddenly feeling awkward, “Congratulations.” he adds on, remembering his manners.
“Indeed!” Ms Clem crows, “Indeed, congratulations to her marriage to the spare son of a Lord.”
He begins embroidering a sheep next to his little cow. He’s never seen an alive sheep, but he’s seen mutton brought by the cook, a man employed from a nearby hamlet, and had even helped him bring it in with his other fresh ingredients. Once when he was 8 or 9 and curious, he had pulled back the cloth to see the dead, cold thing. Blood matted the fur black from its slit neck. He had touched it, feeling how it was cold and slightly hard. It’s eyes were dull. He’d stood looking at it, transfixed, until Ms Clem had found him. She’d smacked his hand for it and sent him to be scrubbed down, tutting how he was ‘already a wild little beast,’ and how ‘it wouldn’t do his marriage prospects any well, no lord wished for a Medea,’. He hadn’t understood what she had meant then.
For a time after, whenever he caught his eyes in the mirror, he’d imagine how he’d look dead. Would his eyes be as dull as that sheep? Would blood drip down his neck, left to dry by an uncaring hand?
He decides to use blue thread on the sheep he is embroidering. Just to give it a little life.
--
Sure he might be 17 now, and any other man would be embarking on their Tour and entering his father’s business, but Tommy takes simple joy in wandering the forest. He kept away from the paths that cut through the growth, stories of bandits and other miscreants fed to him, scaring him more than any predator or unexpected stag ever could. He calls to the birds and looks up, up to the tops of the trees, seeing how the sun or moonlight dapples through the deep green leaves.
Even since he was a child, he had chased the foxes in effort to catch one and feel its rust coloured fur against his hands. Once Mr Sam, on a rare visit home, had offered to procure him a foxfur scarf, but Tommy had declined. He wanted to catch a living fox, watched to see how fast its heart beat under his hand, and then let it go. The closet he’d gotten to this dream was when he’d stumbled upon a young cub, but he’d been too worried about hurting it.
Of course he’d seen many more dead animals on his adventures, often pretending to be the Great Pirate Captain Puffy with a long stick as a sword and a bush taking the lead role as a French or Spanish or even Roman (especially if his Latin studies were just deplorable that day) naval officer being decapitated, but they didn’t generally bother him. In the noisy silence of the forest, it seemed much more natural. The forest cared for its dead, burying it under moss and grass in gentle decomposition.
It is on one of his after lesson wanderings, where he had promised the Captain he would return by dinner but they both knew he was not reappear until after the sun had slept, that he broke one of his self appointed rules. He’d found himself at a dirt road, wide enough for a horse drawn carriage to travel down it one way. The sun had just set, and Tommy, instead of turning his back on it like he had many times before, walked in the tree line along side it. Branches made an avenue over it, their long limbs reaching across the gap like lost lovers. He could not tell you what compelled him to step onto the road, but his heart beat in staccato in time with the hooves of the black mare suddenly galloping down the middle. He stood shocked still and watched it pass by him, seeing the leather straps and gleaming buckles which would have attached it to a carriage.
There must be a carriage, maybe it crashed and someone needs help. The part of his brain which worried about bandits or marauders was satiated by Tommy remembering that Miss Clem always made sure to tell him how horses of such attacks would either be killed or stolen, and that one was neither. Still, he located a thin, flexible branch which could be used as a very effective whipping cane if need be, and put one foot in front of the other under the large shadows of the trees.
Where the road bends, and a little further, there was indeed a carriage. The deep red lacquered wood had been dented in, a wheel was broken and it was tipped over to an angle against a large oak. The door was flung open, showing off the interior. Lantern light spilled out, illuminating the rest of the scene. The poor horse which hadn’t escaped was pawing at the ground with a hoof, tangled in harnessing. A harried looking man was trying to sooth it with one hand and work at untangling with the other. He didn’t seem to be having much luck, the beast becoming more and more agitated.
“Sir, can I help?” Tommy asks, shifting his makeshift weapon behind him slightly, as to not look threatening but also to catch him off guard if need be. The man jerks to look at him, his face catching the light and opens his mouth to speak. Tommy it starkly reminded of the time he ran into a chest high branch without looking and was left lying in the dirt, winded. This gentleman is surely the most beautiful person he’s ever met.
Deep brown curls fall into a smooth and angled face, bouncing back to rest across his forehead as he stops moving. The man’s dark eyes, behind round glasses, lose the agitation they held, taking on a glint which has him standing a little straighter, warmth curling gently in his core. His eyes dart away with an unknown instinct, and he briefly takes in the man’s dark wool coat. The man brings a hand up to wave, long fingers adorned but not weighed down by a couple of rings, with a smile. The grin really makes him seem so much younger, lighting his pale face up more than the flickering lantern ever could.
“Greetings,” a smooth, deep voice, he grips at his stick-whip in an effort to not collapse at this man’s feet pathetically, “I’m afraid that I’ve found myself in a bit of a problem.” He waves at the carriage and steps forward more into the light to offer Tommy his hand. Tommy suppresses the urge to wipe his hand on his breeches, suddenly anxious that his palm is sweaty, and shakes it. The man has a firm grip, not too tight and slightly cold. He shakes Tommy’s hand once more before bending his back and kissing the knuckles.
Tommy sucks in a breath as discreetly as he can, as the spark is fanned into a flame.
Say something Tommy, it’s not that hard, he begs of himself. Dr Ponk said you could talk the countries ear off during your last general check up.
“So it seems,” he gasps, before shaking his head to clear some of the fog. Now noticing the red staining this gentleman’s white, high collar, his eyes go wide, “Are you hurt? What happened?” He wipes at his neck with the back of his hand, staring down at it before sheepishly glancing at Tommy. He cleans his hand on his dark breeches, and coughs self consciously,
“I must have been hurt trying to soothe and catch the other horse,” It sounds almost like a question and Tommy peers at him, manners gone out the proverbial window and raising an eyebrow. He must have been incredibly lucky to be more seriously hurt, and stupid to try and seize a scared mare, “She’d gotten spooked by something crossing the path, and well,” he gestures to the carriage and other horse, who seemed better off now attention wasn’t being afflicted on her, before rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. Tommy crosses his arms over his chest, the small corner of his brain which marvelled over the flatness carried on with its usual business, but the rest of him was incredibly amused by the wide eyed look the gentleman gave his stick as he let it come into view. “Did you always have that?”
“Yes,” and Tommy laughs, “You could have been any old creep,” Which makes the gentleman laugh too. “Do you actually know anything about horses? You do not seem to have the best record with them considering I passed your other mare who did not seem like she was planning on stopping any time soon. And that one,” he gestures at it, still tangled in harness, “Seems like it hates you.”
The gentleman gives a rueful look behind him at the beast, and it snorts at him,
“Animals are not too fond of me.”
Tommy rolls his eyes and walks forward, stepping around the man, towards the horse. It does not cross his mind to ask for permission, and the gentleman turns to watch him without comment. It stares at him with what he is sure is malice, before craning its neck to try to eat the leaves off a bush. He discards his stick, sure that the horse would give him warning if the gentleman approaches him which any speed. He touches the side of its neck. When it does not go to bite him, he gives it a little pat, and begins slowly unbuckling.
“So,” both Tommy and the horse whip their heads around to stare at him, and he takes a step back before continuing when they both go back their respective activities, “Where do you hail from, mysterious young sir? Unless you live in the woods, but you’d have to be one of the fae folk to have such a cadence and countenance this far from, well,” he trails off and Tommy finishes the sentence for him,
“The rest of society?” The gentleman nods, “My patron owns an estate in Sherwood to ‘escape the bustle and gossip’ he tells me, but I’ve never left it.”
“Oh?” Tommy hums, tugging at a particularly stubborn length of leather.
“What about you? There’s some other estates nearby, but you do not seem to be that knowledgeable.” He also doubts he would have forgotten such a neighbour living nearby (relatively).
“I had a meeting with a friend, who I swear is almost allergic to the trappings of high society. I was on my way back south, until,” and he laughs again. It really is a nice laugh. Tommy can imagine it ringing across gentlemen’s clubs and parlour rooms and, with a shameful snarl in his breastbone, even across candle dark bedrooms.
Tommy sighs wistfully, “I’d love to go south.”
“Why do you not?” Tommy untangles the last fastens, freeing the mare from the carriage with a small “whoop!”,
“Mr Sam says it would not be safe,” He takes the makeshift reins of the horse in one hand, and, with mentioning his patron, is flushed to realise he does not even know this gentleman’s name, let alone offered his own. Captain Puffy would murder him for this. He turns back around and bows, “My apologies, I have been so rude. My name is Thomas Innis, beneficiary of Mr Sam Warden, and you are?” He holds his other hand out, as is polite, even though they have already shook hands. His cheeks flush in memory of the gentleman kissing his hand, even though he would rage against anyone else treating him in such a feminine way. It just did not feel condescending like when the neighbours did it.
The gentleman looks at the offered hand, then flicks his eyes up, amused. Tommy lifts his chin in defiance, and he smirks, taking his hand.
“Wilbur Soot, beneficiary,” he says the word almost like its an inside joke, “of house Craft. It’s a pleasure to meet someone so competent in my lowest moments.” Tommy sniffs, shaking Mr Soot’s hand, Soot’s long fingers brushing his wrist,
“You’d be dead in the bushes without me.”
“Hmm, no doubt,” he says, with a wink and a smirk.
They stand there a moment, a small silence washes over them until an owl hoots in the trees. Tommy jumps, dropping his Captain Puffy enforced dialect for a moment.
“C’mon then, you can stay at the manor, its safer than out here,” Mr Soot hums, falling in step with Tommy as he encourages the mare away from the bushes. Tommy side-eyes Soot, “Don’t’cha,” he takes a breath to force the ‘polite way of speaking’ back “Do you not need your luggage?”
“Ah of course!” and Soot turns back, leaning into the carriage. Tommy very purposely does not let his eyes stray south, even if the man does have a nice behind. Well he maybe looked. But only once.
Soot returns a moment later, offering Tommy the lantern that was hung up. Tommy takes it and begins walking with the mare at a slow pace. Soot falls in step with him a moment latter.
--
Captain Puffy is stood in front of the manor when they arrive.
She has her arms crossed and is glaring. The front door is open behind her, Ms Clem and Miss Clara are loitering in the doorway, suddenly becoming ever so interested with something in the foyer as Tommy, Mr Soot, and (‘You never named your horses?’ ‘It did not seem too important, I am sure their handlers gave them names, but I do not have a bond with them.’ ‘No wonder Henry hates you.’ ‘Henry? Really Mr Innis?’ ‘Yes, are you telling me she does not look like a Henry?’ ‘I am not entirely sure what qualifies as a Henry look.’ ‘It’s quite obvious, Mr Soot.’ ‘Hmm, I’m sure.’) Henry walked up the path.
“Tommy Innis!” the Captain yells, “Where on Earth have you been?” and then she seems to notice Soot, by how she does not continue yelling but instead gives a bow.
Tommy, cringes slightly before raising his voice across the gap back to her, “I was helping Mr Soot! His horses had spooked and crashed his carriage!” He sees Ms Clem make a cackling comment to Miss Clara which has her shaking her head, but cannot hear it. In a stroke of genius he tacks on “I was being a good Samaritan!” He had never cared for reading scripture, but Captain Puffy was always glad that he at least retained her teachings. He sees her rolls her eyes and begin forward. The Captain was always a marvel and an inspiration for Tommy, since she never went back to favouring dresses and kept to her breeches, boots and impeccably tailored waistcoats and shirts to fit her figure. She said that sailing and teaching unruly children were one and the same; both required agility and adaptability. Tommy was sure that she just preferred them, skirts were hell.
The clicking of her boots stopped in front of Soot, who shook her hand and did not kiss it.
“Captain Puffy; governess and acting head of the household while Mr Warden is away,”
“Wilbur Soot,”
The Captain then directs him to Miss Clara to set him up in a guest room. Mr Soot thanks her, gives Tommy an appreciative smile, and walks away. Tommy gets pulled out of watching him leave by a sharp rap around the head.
“What was that for?” he complains, rubbing at the spot and frowning,
“He could have been anyone - you could be dead!”
“But I am not!” Her hand smooths over his hair,
“You could have been. I know we are all used to your evening rambles, but it had gotten so late. We were worrying.” Tommy looks to his feet, chastised,
“Sorry.” Captain Puffy sighs, taking the reins from his hand.
“Get inside. I’ll lead this horse to the stables.”
Tommy cringes as he crosses the threshold, Ms Clem chuckling at him. She’s sat in a cushioned chair, her night clothes having a coat thrown over, and she’s wearing her boot. It looks like she was about to storm outside and drag him home, her bad back be damned.
“Come young master, you haven’t eaten yet?” He stares at her suspicious, offering her an arm to help her to her feet. No matter how Ms Clem is, she has known him most of his life. She was even the first person to call him Tommy when he insisted on changing his name to Thomas.
“You never call me that.” She pats his hand, and laughs again. He wishes he knew what she found so funny, but she found amusement in many things. He assumed it was probably an old woman attribute.
“Now we have polite company, we must all be on our best behaviour,” They link arms and shuffle off to the kitchen.
--
With autumn quickly turning to winter and the cold setting in, after a conversation with the Captain Mr Soot sends a letter by the weekly postman requesting his family should come retrieve him in the spring.
Tommy was ecstatic. Finally someone would be here with him! He’d forced himself to be cool and collected instead of jumping around for joy. Soot had given him a grin that told him that he was not that successful. Tommy stuck his tongue out in retaliation.
Captain Puffy insisted Tommy keep to his lessons, which was more just reading or rereading every book in the library which the Captain then discussed with him. When the weather cleared, the Captain taught him to ride Henry, citing it would be good experience and exercise. Mr Soot would nap though out Tommy’s lesson hours. When asked why, he just laughed and proclaimed himself to have been a sickly child and was ‘more of a night owl, anyway’. Tommy had thought all owls only came out at night.
The maids settle back into calling him ‘Tommy’ while Mr Soot still calls him ‘Mr Innis’, and the Captain eventually laxes on the insistence of a chaperone while they explore rooms that have fallen into disuse. The weather becomes too bitter most days to wander off into the forest in the evenings.
They would all congregate in the sitting rooms instead, conserving their wood and fuel by keeping to the one fireplace. Tommy would flit between embroidering with the maids - Mr Soot had quite enjoyed the blue sheep, calling it charming and making Tommy blush as Ms Clem gave Miss Clara a knowing look unbeknownst to him - and joining the Captain and Soot’s discussion of politics or philosophy or geography or whatever topic they could talk on.
Another person to feed was just a case of paying the cook a little more, and he never had much of an appetite anyway.
Wilbur Soot joined their little community easily and quickly.
--
For once, an autumn day was somewhat warm and the Captain had let him out of his lessons early. So here he is, stood in front of Mr Soot’s bedroom door. He raps on it and waits. When that does not rouse him, Tommy ignores every etiquette lesson he’s ever been forced to sit through, cracks the door open and slips in.
The thick curtains are drawn, casting the room into darkness. Around the edges of them, thin streams of light spill, dust dancing in it. In the middle of the room, there is a four poster bed, the heavy drapes drawn on one side to block out the window, the other side is open revealing its occupant. He sleeps imperfectly, the blankets mused and wrinkled like he had been tossing and turning with a pillow crooked at an angle. Wilbur Soot lies within it all, like a porcelain doll. Tommy’s eyes catch on the hand resting on a pillow, the wrist and palm turned to the ceiling and long fingers curled.
He’d think Mr Soot was dead, for how still he lies, until one of his fingers twitch and he turns his head to face Tommy. Eyes flit open, fluttering a few times before opening. They rest half open, giving Mr Soot the look of a sun warmed cat which had been disturbed.
Tommy could have sworn the deep brown was in fact red, just for a split second. Something curls in his cores and he harbours it as Mr Soot runs a through his unruly hair.
“Mr Innis, what time is it?” His voice is sleep heavy, settling over Tommy’s bones. It takes him an embarrassingly long second to glance at the ornate clock adoring the wall.
“It is nearly 11, Mr Soot.” he murmurs, feeling clingy to have woken him.
“So early,” Soot’s eyes begin to slip shut again.
“My apologies, but it is one of the last warm days of the year. I was wondering whether,” and he shuffles awkwardly, cheeks aflame, for a moment before steeling his nerves, “Whether you may accompany me to the forest for the day?”
Soot opens one eye and stares him down. Then he sits up, blankets spilling into his lap. Tommy’s eyes go wide. Mr Soot was just in his white under shirt as far as Tommy could see. The lacing had been removed and it opened down his chest, showing off a lot skin. Tommy’s hands go clammy and he tries to discreetly wipe them on his breeches. Mr Soot stretches and then the shirt rides up, revealing stomach and a line of hair which travels lower.
Tommy flees the room, Soot’s laughter trickling down the hallway behind him.
That was a terrible idea.
-
That was a great idea.
Half an hour later leads to Tommy lounging on a thick blanket in the garden. Trees lend their bare branches to cover him as he waits. Closer to the house, under a large parasol, Ms Clem works on her embroidery. She would be able to see them but not listen into quiet conversation, which is the closest it gets to privacy in this household. Tommy flips onto his stomach, leans over the blanket and plays with an ant and a stick. Eventually it bores him, and he sits with his chin on one hand, dozing.
“You requested my presence, Mr Innis?” The smooth voice sends him shooting to his feet.
“Mr Soot!” Soot is now dressed, he holds his custom parasol in one hand and has a book tucked under his other harm.
Lips curve into a sly smirk and his voice drops to a murmur as he says, “Please, you’ve seen me in my nightclothes. Call me Wilbur, I insist.”
“That’s improper!” he hisses. Ms Clem shifts and he lowers his voice more, “The Captain would kill me.”
“And she would not kill you for entering a gentleman’s room whilst he sleeps?” he takes a look much like a cat that Tommy feels quite the canary. He huffs, crosses his arms, and sinks to the ground.
Wilbur just laughs, settling carefully and resting the parasol handle into a notch in tree roots so he stays beneath the shade.
“Why the parasol? I’ve never seen one like it, unless its new fashion I guess.”
“It’s to protect my complexion,” he says, with a lilt to his voice suggesting its a well worn joke. Tommy does not quite understand, but gives a perfunctory little laugh before cringing. How feminine.
Wilbur smiles at him, sitting with his long legs folded underneath him and leaning against the bark of the tree behind him.
“So, what would you like to do?” he asks. Tommy casts his eyes away,
“I did not honestly think I’d get this far along. I just wished to enjoy two good things at once.”
“Aww, Tommy,” Wilbur coos, extending his hand to the border of the shaded area. He shivers with being addressed so informally and leans forward so Wilbur can briefly touch his face. “Oh, I do apologise. You’re right, that was -,” he starts to get tongue tied.
“Wilbur.” He tests the name out, feeling how it rolls over his lips. The murmuring of his name sends the other one silent. They stay suspended in the moment, fingers to Tommy’s cheek, until Ms Clem lets out an incredibly pointed and fake cough. Wilbur pulls his hand back like he has been burnt, picking up his book and cracking it open in his lap. Tommy leans back until he is lounging, occupying the rest of the blanket, staring up into the rare blue sky. The sun warms his stomach. He’d read that cold blood creatures, reptiles, sat under the sun to warm and awaken. What a nice life.
Every now and again, he’s point his hand straight up into the air, proclaiming a cloud to be shaped like something or the other. Wilbur will hum in agreement, and turn the page of his book. He must be one to savour words, Tommy thinks. Captain Puffy had said that Tommy read too fast, but he could never keep to such a languid pace. He tips his head so he can look at Wilbur, catching the eyes that were already looking at him. Instead of looking away, thereby allowing Wilbur to intimidate him and win, Tommy shifts so he can push himself up by the elbows and stare the other down.
“What are you reading?”
“Poetry.” Wilbur looks at the book.
“Oh,” then “What kind?”
Mr Soot’s hand pauses a moment as he turns the page. He keeps his gaze carefully down as if disinterested in the conversation.
“It’s love poetry, Tommy.” His eyes do not move on the page and he sits so still.
Tommy glances to the porch, Ms Clem has fallen asleep with her embroidery in her lap. Butterflies flit through his stomach and he tugs a lock of his hair, hesitant to ask,
“Would you read to me?”
Wilbur flushes, a rare sight, and bobs his head in a nod.
Tommy shuffles in an unsightly manner until he is sat under the parasol, pressed next to Wilbur, who thumbs through the pages for a moment before finding one. Tommy sinks down, tentatively touching his head to Wilbur’s shoulder.
“’Remind me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours,
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,’”
--
“Tommy, I did not know there was a music room!” Wilbur exclaims as he throws open the library doors. The Captain raises an eyebrow at him and he replies in turn.
“We’ll continue this tomorrow then.” she says, striding from the room. That suits Tommy just fine,
“I did not think you’d be so excited by music?” Wilbur stops before shaking his head,
“Sometimes I think we have lived out whole lives together, not just these past weeks. No I adore music, come!” He takes Tommy’s hand and leads them out of the library.
“The music room was something of Mr Sam’s mothers, he never liked going in there after she passed.” Wilbur glances back at him,
“Did you know her well?”
“Not really,” Wilbur stops in front of a door, “But I always liked the piano, Mr Sam taught me a little, but no tutors would come this far out.”
“I would have thought the Captain would teach you?” Tommy shakes his head,
“She is marvellous at many things, but music is not one of them.”
“A pity.” And Wilbur opens the door.
The room is dusty, it swirls in the air and carpets the ground. Instruments and stands and areas to lounge had been covered in large swaths of white cloth to protect them. Thin curtains, grey with age but no doubt bleached on the other side, protected the inside despite the lack of any winter sun. It really was a bleak day, but no matter. Bleak days come many days a week in northern England.
Wilbur walks across the room, kicking up dust which makes Tommy cough. He nudges aside a curtain warily,
“Is it damp enough for your complexion?” Tommy jokes and Wilbur laughs, apparently deeming it so by the way he tugs a curtain open, dust flying up into the room again. Then he pulls the window open, allowing in fresh air. The breeze ripples the curtains gently, blowing a curl that rests over Wilbur’s forehead. Ms Clem appears at his elbow and he yelps and turns. Miss Clara is behind her.
“We’ll start cleaning in here,”
Wilbur nods, thanks them and pulls Tommy away.
-
It honestly does not take the pair long to clean the dust from the room. When Wilbur has finally finished pillaging the library for music scores (and then naturally critiquing them and the person who made them while Tommy laughed) and they return to the music room, it’s like a whole new place.
It still smells slightly musty and dust is still in the air, but it doesn’t blanket the entire room. The cloths protecting the furniture have been taken away, revealing the grand piano and low fainting couches. Tommy wanders to the piano, staring down at its ivory keys.
Tommy remembers being newly picked up off the streets, dried from the bath he’d been forced into like a feral cat, and sat on Mr Sam’s knees while his mother played something or another beautifully. The next day he’d ended up in this room, sat on the piano bench with his feet swinging. He’s pressed a flat note and gotten his hand smacked by the old woman and sent away for not asking permission ‘like a proper young lady’. He remembers being a year older, Mr Sam patiently trying to teach him before he left Tommy with Ms Clem and went on another of his work trips.
He presses a few notes in slow succession, playing a little scale.
“Nicely done Tommy,” Wilbur praises as Tommy jumps, torn out of his memories. He’s holding a large stringed instrument, much like a violin but bigger.
“It was nothing,”
“Nonsense, I’m sure you’ll have talent if you carried on with it.”
Tommy pulls away from the piano, gesturing at the instrument Wilbur is carrying,
“A guitar?”
“My favourite instrument,” Wilbur smooths his hand down the frets, then plucks the strings, cringing slightly. “Not very in tune,” He fiddles with it, tightening the of the strings until the sound they make is at least satisfactory. Tommy watches his long fingers shamelessly. “Let me play you something?”
“I’d love you to.”
Wilbur grins.
They spend the afternoon in that room.
Wilbur plays him little songs, delighting him to hear music and when Wilbur worries that the old strings will break, Tommy asks him if he can play piano.
This leads to them sat on the piano bench, thigh pressed to thigh. Music scores are placed to be read and Wilbur’s clever fingers dance along the keys.
“Can you read music?” Wilbur asks, swapping to a different score.
“No,” the answer is short, but fills Tommy with shame.
“No matter,” Wilbur plays a simple tune, “Can you copy that?” Tommy does so, producing only a slightly stuttering replica as Wilbur smiles. “Keep doing that for me, over and over. Can you?”
“I can.”
“Good boy.” Heat flushes his cheeks and he fumbles, piano making an ungodly noise. Wilbur chuckles, then he sets his fingers in starting position.
Together they make music, Tommy growing more confident in his own small part.
And when Wilbur’s fingers slow, Tommy’s coming to a stop with them, Wilbur takes Tommy’s face in hand and kisses him softly on the lips.
--
It is on a dark December morning when the news comes.
They had taken their breakfast in a dining room, as they usually did. The cook does not arrive until the late morning, but he makes sure to prepare porridge the evening before. They’re well adept at fending for themselves in the sleepy hours.
The Captain buttered her warmed bread while Miss Clara went to receive the weekly post. Wilbur dozed in a chair leeching the warmth from his cup through his hands and Tommy stirred jam into Ms Clem’s tea and porridge for her. She said he always made it for her best, so now he does it every morning.
“Is there anything for me?” Tommy inquires, when Miss Clara slips through the door. She holds a few envelopes, a few she passes off to the Captain and a one she keeps for herself.
“Not this week, Tommy,” he nods, Mr Sam does not often write. This late in the year, with the weather ever worsening, it is unlikely he will visit before the new year. It is a shame he will probably not meet Wilbur, but the whole chaperone business would probably come back if he did. Tommy quite likes the freedom he gets.
Tommy pushes Ms Clem’s dishes over to her and tucks into his own. He almost chokes as he laughs at Wilbur, who almost spills his drink while dozing. He sends a mock glare back and Tommy sticks his tongue out in retaliation until the Captain reprimands him half heartedly.
The joyous mood shatters with the crack of porcelain.
Tommy’s head whips around. Miss Clara has her hands over her face, staring her letter down. Her teacup shattered against the table from where it was dropped, tea spilling over the edge and onto her garments. He sits, stunned for a moment, while the Captain leaps into action. She pulls Miss Clara away from the table, murmuring to her and wiping some of the tea from her. Then she pulls her from the room, presumably to get her dry and to make sure she is not harmed.
Wilbur, languid in his tired state even now, reaches over to the letter. He picks it out of the tea, the edges sopping and stained and skims it. Ms Clem walks away to get supplies to clean up. Tommy pulls him out of the shock and starts picking up shards of porcelain, cupping smaller parts in the few larger curves.
“What happened? I’ve never seen Miss Clara like that.”
“Her sister -”
“Has she lost the baby?” he interrupts,
“No, her fiance passed away.”Tommy thinks of the lambs dull eyes.
“The second heir?”
“Hmm”
“I did not think him to be that old.”
“He was not,” Ms Clem had entered the room, with rags and dustpan and brush. Tommy drops the porcelain shards into the dustpan. Ms Clem takes a few clothes and begins cleaning the table. Tommy steals a few from her, kneeling to get what had pooled on the floor. “Does it say how he died?”
Wilbur rescans the letter, “He’d been found in his bed, looking like he’d withered in the night.”
Ms Clem pauses slightly, before folding her rag and continuing, “How terrible. That poor woman.”
“What will happen to her?” Tommy asks,
“They might send her away with a stipend to raise the child secretly.”
“But they were to be married.”
Ms Clem shrugs, “Then probably not.”
--
The mood was subdued in the sitting room that evening. There was no music, nor arguments about the best port in Germany or Spain.
Tommy sat curled next to Wilbur. He stared into the fireplace trying to not think of dull, dead eyes nor how he might look withered. Wilbur smoothed a hand up and down his back.
Ms Clem and the Captain sat on either side of Miss Clara, talking to her quietly.
--
But life goes on for the living, and eventually news comes that Miss Clara’s half-sister will stay in the household which settles Miss Clara’s heart.
That day thick clouds cover the sky, blocking out the sun. Tommy and Wilbur race over from the manor to the stables. Wilbur ducks in first and Tommy closes the doors behind them. He’s pressed against the heavy wood from behind, careful to not squish him, and he laughs as soft kisses are pressed behind his ear. Strong hands turn him around, and he faces Wilbur who smirks,
“Hello darling,”
“Oh Mr Soot,” Tommy plays in falsetto, tugging the man closer until they’re flush against each other, “how terribly improper.”
“I’m terrible indeed,” Wilbur chuckles, ducking down to kiss him sweetly in juxtaposition to his dark tone.
Henry huffs from her box, kicking the wood and Wilbur pulls away with a groan,
“You’re a horrid hell beast,” he tells her as she paws at the ground. Tommy slips away to the other side of the stables,
“She’s not that bad,” he checks the slow burner, shovelling a handful more coal onto it heat the stables. He wipes his hands on a rag as Wilbur complains
“She just hates me,”
“How sad.” Tommy’s voice does not convey tragedy. He pours oats from their sack, shaking it to check for weevils first. Then he walks over to the stable, feeding Henry who tucks in. He pats her neck few times.
--
“Why are you awake?” Tommy jumps, instinctively grabbing the poker and spinning on a heel to attack. He stops with one arm raised above his head, facing Wilbur. Then he gives a great exhale, lowering the poker slightly before deciding that affronted is his favourite state of being. He points the tip of the poker at Wilbur’s chest and snaps,
“Why are you? Creeping around! I could have brained you! Then you’d be dead on the carpet, how about that?! Ugh!” Wilbur just laughs, stepping into the room. He’s dressed and wearing shoes, how odd this late at night. They click with each step. Tommy feels somewhat exposed in his long nightshirt. Wilbur sidesteps Tommy’s weapon and sinks into one of two armchairs by the fireplace.
“I didn’t expect you to try to attack me,” he laughs, “But I should have, you were ready to attack me the night we met.” That felt so long ago, that night under the trees, “I was just worried, you’re never normally up at this time.”
“And you are?”
“You know me, too fond of my day time naps. Makes sleeping at night nigh impossible.”
“Have you been out then? That’s stupid, it’s cold and it’s dangerous.” And Wilbur laughs again,
“We met because you were walking through the woods at night. Anyway was Just on a little stroll, the moon is lovely, but not as lovely as 'thy golden hair.'”
Tommy shakes his head, “Don’t butter me by being sweet. It’s far too cold.” Mid-December had left even the grounds around the manor treacherous. And while it was no big chore, Tommy and Wilbur had taken to looking after Henry and other activities in the barn since they were less likely to slip on the ice.
“I hardly feel it. Come sit won’t you, Tommy-love?” He pats the arm of the arm chair. Tommy closes his eyes and listens, trying to cast his ears out. Wilbur pats the chair again “No one else is awake.” he assures. Tommy nods. He places the poker back into the the fire. Ignoring the other armchair, he perches where Wilbur gestures.
“How bold, Mr Innis.” Wilbur teases
“Don’t Mr Innis me, Wilbur Soot.”
“Of course, of course.” A hand slides over his knee and Tommy can feel the cold even through the cotton. His legs shift, thighs rubbing together, fanning a flame.
He then takes Tommy’s hand, gently crossing Tommy’s arm over his body as he brings it to hover by his face. Wilbur’s eyes cut over to him, in silent question. The embers crackle and he bows his head, giving permission. Lips press into his palm, then move to press little kisses against his pulse point. Tommy curves his hand, taking Wilbur’s face in his hand.
Wilbur moves, Tommy’s arm curling around the back of his head, and buries his face into his neck. He slides his fingers into thick, dark hair, moaning as Wilbur gently bites down.
“I could just eat you,”
“Uh?”
“Tommy you’re so warm, so alive,’ he pulls at the neckline, mouthing down the column of his throat as his head tips back. Wet gathers in his core as he whimpers. Tommy grabs at the back of the armchair so he doesn’t fall, legs being guided into Wilbur’s lap, “I could just ruin you right now.”
“Why don’t you?”
Wilbur pulls back, Tommy freezes tilting his head back up to look at him, worried he had said something wrong. He’s beginning to apologise when Wilbur pulls him into a kiss. Wilbur tastes like copper and tea, the taste being pressed against his tongue. He’s warmer than he usually is, how odd.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
“I know about sex,” even if he hadn’t had it. Wilbur had promised more than a fumble in the hay like he’d read about in Miss Clara’s books and Tommy hadn’t felt too keen with Henry as an observer.
“That’s not what I’m talking about. Tommy, there are things hidden in the dark no one knows about.”
“That you know about?”
“Yes.” Tommy pulls away took look him in the eye, the ember light casting Wilbur’s eyes with a red sheen,
“Would you tell me?”
“Not yet,” Wilbur kisses him deeply, pressing his promise of “Soon.” into Tommy’s mouth.
Tommy grips at Wilbur’s clothes as Wilbur gently bites and sucks at his collarbones, lathering where his chest begins to swell with red marks. Pulse begins inside him as Wilbur tangles a hand in Tommy’s hair, tugging his head back to bite at the skin there. Tommy moans, a hand ghosts up the outside of his thigh to rest behind the curve of his ass.
“Wilbur,” he gasps. Wilbur pulls away from his neck, relaxing his grip so Tommy can look at him. Tommy’s chest heaves, presses against Wilbur’s own.
“Yes?”
“I feel,” how to describe it? The way his insides twist and pulse, “I feel weird.” he settles on.
“How darling?” Wilbur looks worried until Tommy drifts a hand to his lower stomach. Relief fills his features and he coos “Oh darling, let me help you?”
And with his nod, Wilbur pulls away, standing out of the chair and offering it to Tommy with a flourish. Tommy laughs at his silliness, shifting to drop into it. Wilbur kisses the top of his head, breathing in his hair before he kneels on the floor in between Tommy’s legs. He pulls his glasses off, tucking him into a pocket.
“Here sit forward,” and Wilbur lifts him under the thighs and ass, pulling him to sit on the edge of the cushion of the seat. He presses one hand into the seat behind him to help him stay there. When Wilbur begins pulling up the long nightshirt, brushing his hands along the little embroidered farm animals with a small laugh, Tommy presses one foot to the floor to lift himself up. Tommy gathers his skirts up with his other hand. Wilbur helps him, running his hands over milky calves and thighs until the fabric is bundled in his lap. Shyness leads him to cover himself even as sweet kisses are pressed into the inside of his knees and thighs.
Wilbur pulls one of his legs up, hooking it over his shoulder, with a ‘lie back love’. Tommy’s chest heaves and he lovers his arm until his shoulders hit the back of the chair, stopping him at and angle. He can watch from here, looking down the long line of his body to the dark curly head of hair between his bare legs. He’s gripping at the bundle of fabric in his lap with desperation.
Wilbur, the glow from the fireplace illuminating his hair like a red halo and casting his face into shadow, catches his eyes and smirks.
“Please,” Tommy whispers, hell her whimpers it more like.
“What do you want?”
His mind casts around in panic. Anything he’s ever read hadn’t prepared him to the man knelt between his legs or the chair or the heat and twisting inside of him.
“Please,” he begs instead and Wilbur takes pity on him. He sinks down, pushing the bundle of fabric and Tommy’s hand up to his stomach, revealing a thatch of dark blond curls. His shoulders push Tommy’s thighs wider and he gasps as he’s spread open.
“Oh such a pretty boy.” Wilbur murmurs, talking to himself like he’s admiring art. He presses a thumb against one of his lower lips to show Tommy off more. Wilbur chuckles, “And so wet for me too.” His eyes flick up to meet Tommy’s “Have you ever touched yourself here?” He runs a finger gentle down the centre as Tommy’s hips shift.
Tommy’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head, blonde hair flying around his face. Wilbur coos pityingly, “Oh darling, they really teach you all so badly. None of you know your own bodies at all,” Tommy shifts away, feeling like he’d fallen into an iced over lake,
“Do you mean women?”
“No, just people with this body type.”
“I’m not a woman.” It’s a statement he’s proclaimed most of his life, once he realised what was just so different about him.
Wilbur kisses the juncture of his thigh, “You are not. You’re my handsome pretty boy.”
Settled at the affirmation, Tommy sinks back into Wilbur’s grasp. “Yours?” he pleads and Wilbur hums in agreement. Tommy really likes the sound of being Wilbur’s . Wilbur’s Tommy.
“You just need a little help don’t you?” Tommy nods desperately as the heat comes back at full force and worse. “We’ll go slow, don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
Fingers stroke against his opening, spreading his slick, rubbing it into his skin and the edges of the thatch of hair. He sinks into the feeling, much like a massage, breath catching as Wilbur’s fingers begin to dip into his opening, coaxing more slick. Wilbur’s fingers move higher, rubbing in little tight circles until he hits a point that makes his legs tense.
“There you are.” He murmurs, pushing down and Tommy arches his back, mouth opened but unable to make sound. Wilbur keeps going, bringing his other hand to dip a finger into him.
“You’re so warm,” he presses the compliment into his thighs. Tommy whines as a second finger begins to stretch him, rubbing at his insides. His hips shutter, pleasure running up and down his spine and he struggles to breathe. And Wilbur pulls away both hands.
Tommy sobs at the sudden emptiness and lack of stimulation. His hips cant, tears slipping, and Wilbur rubs his hands up and down his thighs.
“I know, I know,” he soothes, “but this will make the next thing better, I promise.”
Wilbur stills for a moment, manhandling him so one leg hooks over the arm of the chair obscenely. He sits back, taking in the view as Tommy settles. He takes one of Tommy’s hands, unfolding the fingers and bringing it south. Tommy flinches as Wilbur presses two of his fingers into a little bump, bringing the spark back. Tommy hesitantly rubs before going more confidently, Wilbur teaching him the fingering much like he had the piano.
“Good boy Tommy,” Tommy hums, hardly having enough air to breathe let alone reply. Although of the air is punched out when Wilbur spreads him open, ducking his head and -
“Oh Wil!”
Licking into him. His fingers stop and start as Wilbur alternates between licking and sucking, sending his toes curling. The pleasurable pressure peaks and his thighs close to trap Wilbur in place as his hips shutter against his face. Wilbur laughs and gently bites, hands gripping into the meat of his thighs, forcing them open as he moans. Wilbur judges his fingers away, sucking on the bump harshly. Tommy sobs, gripping Wilbur’s hair to try and ground himself. He feels more than hears Wilbur moan and is about to apologise when fingers spread him open again, moving in and out quickly. His inside screws and his eyes roll, the chairs leather squeaking as he snaps apart, with a loud keen of “Wil!”
Wilbur pulls his mouth away as it begins to hurt, replacing his fingers with his tongue gently coaxing him through the aftershocks. His chest heaves and he grips at Wilbur’s fingers despite the slick soaking them.
Eventually Wilbur pulls away, pushing himself up to kiss Tommy’s lips. His lower face is wet but he doesn’t seem to mind. Tommy kisses back, tasting the bitter-sweet elixir as a tongue presses against his own. His chest burns from lack of air and he breaks away, gulping in breaths.
“Wilbur that was-” indescribable. His mouth rests open dumbly. Wilbur rubs his cheekbone, pressing kisses to his cheeks,
“I’m glad. You tired my dove?” Tommy nods, exhaustion settling in as the embers on the fire dies out. “Come on then.” Wilbur pulls away, standing up over him. Tommy struggles a moment to sit up, taking the offered hand to stand. His skirts flutter back around his ankles, wrinkled. His legs shake and he buckles, catching himself against Wilbur’s chest. Wilbur holds him up and then lifts him in his arms.
“Oops,” he giggles, “I think that was a bit much.”
Wilbur carries him to his room. He tucks Tommy into bed and kisses him gently as his eyes slip closed and he falls into slumber.