Tag: james/thomas

likesolastalgia:

jamesflintmcgrawhamilton:

tikkunolamorgtfo:

jamesflintmcgrawhamilton:

Imagine the first time after the reunion that James woke up and Thomas wasn’t there

WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS

i mean. primarily to hurt people 

The heat is oppressive. A kind of sticky, all-consuming
presence that forces itself at them from all sides. It’s the kind of heat that
James is used to by now. The kind he used to deal with by ignoring it, or
stripping down and climbing into his bunk and lying, useless, still, and
languid, until a breeze picked up off the sea.

But he doesn’t mind the heat now. When he nods off to sleep with his head against Thomas’s chest,
their bodies pressed limb to limb in the small bed they share. When Thomas
walks up behind him as he’s cooking or reading, trails gentle fingers down his
shoulder so as not to startle him, and then wraps strong arms around him from
behind. When James trails his hand through Thomas’s sweaty hair. When they curl
together, naked and out of breath and sweaty, James thinks he might kill the
first person who tried to take this away.

He doesn’t think that need would come so fast, mere weeks
after they’ve found each other.

When he imagines it, and he tries not to, it is violent. There
are men bursting into the room, there is shouting, he places himself between
them and Thomas. But when it happens, it’s silent, almost peaceful. He blinks
for a moment in the early morning sun, and turns over, to face an empty stretch
of bed beside him. It feels strangely cold, like a block of ice dropped in the
pit of his stomach.

He sits up slowly. It’s a difficult process, to freeze your
mind over once it’s already thawed. And he knows deep down, that he should have
expected this. He let his guard down, he let Thomas down again. And now he’s gone.

He’s gone.

James’s breath hitches. He swallows down panic. He knows how
this part works, has done it before, with blood streaming down to the end of
his sword to coat his fingers. Sticky, like sweat.

He pauses on his way out only to find something to use as a
weapon, a knife, a chair leg. Anything, really, for the people who have taken
Thomas away from him again. The door creaks slightly as he pushes it open, but
he figures it doesn’t matter if they hear him coming. It won’t help them.

And then he sees Thomas. He’s striding up the path towards
their small home, shirt sleeves rolled up, a new blush of red from the sun
spread across his cheeks. A small smile plays across his lips. He’s happy and
alive. Thomas’s smile breaks into a grin when he sees James, and somewhere in
the part of his brain that isn’t thinking about dropping a kitchen knife, James
marvels at the way that just the sight of him can make Thomas smile. It scares
him sometimes how much softness is still left in Thomas, after everything he’s
been through. How quickly he was able to destroy that softness in himself.

The knife falls to the ground with a muffled thump on the
sandy dirt ground.

When Thomas reaches his side in a few hurried strides, he
has stopped smiling.

“I’m sorry,” James breathes, feels the way his hands are
shaking and his vision is blurred, “I woke up and you were…I just assumed.”

Thomas opens his mouth to respond, but seems to think better
of it. Instead he reaches out, his hands catching James’s forearms as he starts
to tilt forward, unable or unwilling to bear his own weight anymore. James
rests his forehead in the crook of Thomas’s neck, feels Thomas’s beard,
scratchy and no longer new against the back of his neck. Soft lips graze his
temple.

Their bodies are pressed together, limb against limb. He
feels Thomas’s heartbeat where his hands are pressed against his chest, his
gentle breaths against James’s ear.

The Georgia heat wraps around them like a blanket, warm,
comforting, and something like home.