Archive of Our Own ^beta

Edward knew he was not a bad person. Logic was enough to dictate that.

For instance, he was a very diligent student who gave his absolute best, even when he did not feel it necessary nor worth doing so. He respected his authorities, was quiet, polite, and well mannered. He disliked prying, refrained from gossip, and kept his space tidy. He held his tongue, which prevented him from being a bore, but gave his efforts to not appear unfriendly if someone warmed to him. He was a happy, good-natured drunk and average athlete usually picked somewhere in the middle for cricket and first or second for rugby by feature of his sturdiness. He liked theatre and tolerated operas (although he did fall asleep during William Tell) and enjoyed Arthurian legend and Norse mythology enough to make conversation when pressed. He preferred horses, but did not mind dogs, nor the majority of cats he’d met, and he rather enjoyed fishing if the weather was good. His taste in art was sensible, his style modest, his skin prone to a healthy tan, and was complimented for possessing a fine thick head of hair and an attractive face on enough occasions it warranted noting.

So he understood that being so helplessly in love with Thomas Jopson was not any particular form of divine punishment.

He was only more aware that he had not done nor lived the sort of saintly, extraordinary, life that might warrant such a thing. He was certain that somebody like Thomas was reserved for very exclusive echelons of people, least of all him. He hardly deserved a person that he had, multiple times, thought might be hiding angel’s wings up his sleeves.

He watched Thomas approaching on his bicycle, one long leg dangling as he slowed to a stop, wheels clicking and his nicer school shoe rasping at the brick pathway.

“Did I keep you waiting long?” Thomas’ asked, knowing full well he was right on time. Edward smiled internally at the careful mediation of his accent - the properness and formality in each word to prove that he was not just some other boy from Middlesex.

“No,” Edward said, hands in his pockets, watching him step off his bike so that he could walk beside it. Thomas bent down, uncuffing his trousers from the inside of his sock, his hair still falling over his face in stiff waxed strands. In a way, Edward was disappointed to see him no longer riding. There was something about Thomas on his bicycle that made him pleasantly heartsore - how he leaned to one side or another, gliding along, his hair coming undone from its deep part and falling about his eyes, and his jacket waving in the breeze. How long and lean and lovely he looked, parting through the crowds, nimble as a little skiff.

Thomas  looked very happy, and at ease, when he was on his bike. His face was peaceful, and his pale eyes soft and tranquil against his pink cheeks from huffing slightly up the hill. He’d remarked before how riding gave him time to think, or not think at all if that was what was needed - whichever it happened to be on the day he was able to meditate without struggling, putting him in a very good mood by the time he got to Edward.  

They fell into step together, their strides matching, Thomas with one casual hand on the handlebars, guiding his bike like Lucy used to lead the calves around the yard. The bicycle, Edward noted, was far better behaved than a baby Hereford.

Thomas tucked his hair behind his ear as they walked, the action catching Edward’s eye each and every time - he did not miss the way Thomas tilted his chin down as he did so, like he was a bit shy to it. It was too adorable to ignore.

He liked to walk like this, beside him, over the brick and cobbles and across the lawns of school on days with long late afternoons, his hands busy in his pockets, and a little nervous flush under his collar.

They went to the river and sat on the embankment together to watch the rowing teams go by, Thomas’ bike in the grass like it had lay down for a midday nap. They laughed a little, chatting here and there tho it was more Edward nodding along with whatever Thomas said. Edward sometimes rested with his head cradled on his arms, and Thomas twisted grass up from between his splayed legs, his feet flexing in invisible time to something, his collar undone and his jacket draped over the frame of his bike besides Edward’s.

They’d get bored and go to the little chip shop closer to town, or to a window for a cold cut sandwich, or to the stall on the riverfront for an ice cream.

They’d talk and eat, sharing whatever between them. Pretzels, or a lemonade - roasted nuts steaming from paper sacks in the winter time, and a little flask of brandy passed back and forth as they strolled if the wind was particularly biting.

They’d watch the skaters on the river during the cold months, and boys pulling sleds up the hillside to tumble down it after the first snow. Thomas would tuck his arm through Edward’s and Edward would watch him pant into his muffler, adjusting it every now and then.

It was so strange, at first, simply having him as a friend, before he knew he loved him. Edward had not ever had a best friend before, if one didn’t count horses, or his brothers, and so each casual intimacy they cultivated was an astounding experiment.

Thomas was so easy going and kind. So generous with him, coaxing him to talk and never complaining that he was too dry. He would look him in the eyes, nodding his head, reaching out to touch his arm if his voice faded, encouraging him even if they were in company and nobody else bothered to listen. It was a mystery to him the way he treasured Edward immediately for no reason Edward could easily find. For him, it was the opposite. Who wouldn’t like Thomas Jopson?

Edward was happy to listen to him go on about anything he liked, for as long as he wished.  In the early days Thomas would catch himself mid sentence, blushing to a pause in his words, saying he was sorry for dominating all the conversation. Edward could only smile dreamily back in response. He couldn’t have minded any less. Tom Jopson could read him the almanac and Edward would think it better than any Shakespeare he'd ever heard.

He loved him best in the dappled sunlight of this sort of day, the light spotting on him through the trees they walked below, like the little beams of light were vying for a chance to kiss his forehead. The weeks leading up to summer let-out, where the campus was both reticent and restless, were ruthlessly green and the air had a sleepy, humid weight to it. Edward clenched his fists in his pockets, his throat getting tight with the question he wanted to ask Thomas, and had been trying to find a way to ask for as long as he’d thought of it.

The summer before they’d parted rather easily; everything between them was still very new, and they were merely becoming close in the way that boys often did: confidants and dependable partners for the idle time between classes or late night stupors after too much liquor. A culmination of little intersections - hobbies, and other superficial thing -, that aligned nicely enough to fit them together. Thomas was aid to Professor Crozier, and Edward happened to borrow books from him a few times a week. Thomas suffered over his logic proofs, and Edward happened to be quite good at them.

It began as only a little bit of assignment help, but soon that became dinners at the chophouse while they read each other's papers. They discovered they were both eldest with younger siblings (Harriot, Fred, Dick, and Lucy, respectively. Robert for Tom) and enjoyed hunting (Tom had never shot a repeating rifle) and had a web of mutual friends (if the Terror Supper Club counted as friends, which Edward supposed was true). Edward was a year ahead, but Thomas was so competent that hardly mattered. They argued about ethics over pints and which Dare sister was better looking before agreeing Lily Elsie had them both beat over Frenet, which was Tom’s favorite.

Before long they were saving seats for each other in the lecture hall, and borrowing pencils, and paper, and books and picking each other's hair out of their combs. Edward began waiting outside Thomas’ flat each morning with a hot bun and walking him to the Philosophy college where he laid out the paper and started the kettle for Crozier and in the evenings they took Neptune for his walk back to Crozier’s house, where Thomas let him in the back garden and bid him goodnight.

They attended the nickelodeon, and watched football games, and threw wads of paper at each other when they fell asleep in the library. More than once Thomas had banged on his bedroom door to wake him after oversleeping, and helped him sloppily dress after a night of half-baked cramming. Barely awake Edward  never missed Thomas’ rueful sighs over how plain all his suits were as he stood in front of his closet.

They found themselves in that sort of place where they knew what the other was doing at any given minute of the day, and nothing was ever taken up or cast off without the opinion of the other, and seeing them apart became as strange and uncanny to observers as it was to them.

Since January, when his foot stepped back on campus, Edward had been silently dreading the break where they would no longer be seeing each other come June. He’d miss countless moments of watching Tom glide so effortlessly up to him at their meeting spot on his bike, and all summer he would mourn the look on Tom’s face whenever he saw that Edward was waiting there just as he always was.

It was cruel, he thought, to leave behind the look of Tom being so happy to see him. Deeply unfair. 

“You’re very quiet today, Edward Little,” Tom said as they passed the hothouse, the glass walls fogged from the flowers and plants inside.

“It’s nothing, Tom,” Tom , Edward thought proudly. He called him Tom now. A real mark of the progression of things, one he could point to. He liked it so much. He liked Tommy even more, but he was very sparing with that one. That one was reserved for only the most tender of occasions.  

“You certain?”

He had not revealed his own nicknames out of personal embarrassment, but, eventually, maybe, he’d catch Tom would calling him Ned, as his family did. He wouldn’t mind that.

“Only just thinking,” Edward replied, shifting his hand in his pocket again. Tom rambled on about Henry Peglar, his flat mate, to fill the quiet and Edward smiled at the stories, watching his own feet, feeling the sun quite hot on the top of his head. He’d be nearly blonde by the time he left for term.

He was thinking about how much he despised the idea of not being with Tom, having barely made it through the holidays without sending him at least ten letters and a smattering of cards, all brief but so devoted to the thought that Thomas might be missing him just as much. My aunt brought me another tie from Italy; My mother burnt the roast on Sunday; Harriot is engaged and made my father turn pale as a corpse but the lad is alright, I guess; Fred dropped a candle during the vigil and nearly caught a woman’s skirt on fire and Dick laughed so hard it interrupted the service; Lucy got a real pearl necklace for Christmas; my cousin taught me ten dirty phrases in German but I don’t know how to spell them to write them down, so I’ll wait to tell you; I'm very drunk on wine right now; The horses don’t mind the weather but it’s too cold to ride; Please tell me how it is with you; Please tell me how you are; Are you staying healthy? etc. etc.

Thomas barely had time to form reply before he sent a new one. 

It wasn’t his fault. Having to say goodbye to him after the night in the hedgerow had nearly killed him - he wasn’t sure if he could survive another separation.

They’d all been knackered on hot punch and the lot of them tumbled out into the fresh snow to go caroling, or something along those lines, eventually breaking up their dissonant shouting in favor of someone pulling off their tie for a game of blind man’s bluff in the hedge maze near the old war statues. 

To Edward it sounded far too much like some scene in a children’s novel, but Tom was excited by it and in the end became the blind man much to everyone’s amusement.

Is that Edward Little?  

Edward wouldn’t have found his fuzzy, drunken, tongue if he meant to, watching Thomas stagger through the snow with his bare hands outstretched. He’d caught on quite quickly, Edward was sure. Of course he did; Thomas was so clever, and he heard everything and knew everyone. Why else would he have let him lead him into that little corner the way he did? Edward’s heart was beating so loudly at the time it was evidence enough of who he was. Surely Thomas could hear it.

The moon was full and very bright that evening, and Edward watched as Thomas came towards him one foot at a time, grinning mad in the dark as he lunged out to catch him, his dimples deep in his cheeks in the way that told Edward under the blindfold he was squinting his eyes with delight.

I bet it’s Edward Little, he repeated, a bit louder, unable to gauge their true distance yet, and Edward had smiled so hard he thought he might break abruptly into a laugh and properly give himself away.

Eventually, Tom’s  slender hands fell upon his coat front, touching it all over, rubbing at the buttons as if to decipher them, and Edward willed himself to stand completely still as he did. Tom’s hands touched his collar, his shoulders, even traced down his sleeves to his hands where they paused over Edward’s fists balled at his sides.

Hmmm Tom said, pushing his hands back up over his chest. Not many wrinkles in his suit, and good buttons on his coat,  he postulated, still smiling so large.

It’s me , Edward wanted to blurt,  but the game was much too fun. Tom doing this was not anything he could waste. He wanted to stare at him uninterrupted for the rest of his life. He wanted to hear the soft waltzing piano playing in the back of his head, the rest of their band distracted, forgetting Thomas Jopson and Edward Little entirely. He had never been so proud or content with his own shyness and obscurity as when Tom suddenly touched the cold pads of his fingers to Edward’s chin, making him nearly gasp.

A good chin… Tom’s fingers skated across his jaw and then cupped his face. Good clean shave... it must be Edward Little .

Edward swallowed, still transfixed on Thomas’ own giddiness, the flush of him, his full plush lips stretched in so much gladness..

He was always so glad that it was him, that it was Edward. He had never, in his life, seen such a thing - or known he could cause such a reaction. Had someone so close to touch the way Tom was, and know him that way, just by feeling a little bit.

I’m right, aren’t I? Won’t you say I’m right, Edward, please? He laughed, and went to tug the blindfold but Edward caught his hand. Snow floated down, catching on their lashes, and Edward squeezed their hands together tightly as he leaned in and kissed him on the corner of his mouth in the softest way he could figure how, having never done it before, not even to a girl. Oh, but Tom was better than any girl he could think of - 

Oh , Tom said in earnest surprise, and Edward felt his hands clench in his grip, but not to get away, not at all. He leaned forward, his chest tipping into Edward’s broader one - and then Edward let go of his fingers and Thomas immediately put his arms around his neck, as though he’d done it a hundred times before.

In Edward’s head he heard what he always heard when he looked at Thomas - his sister Harriot plunking out La Plas Que Lente in the living room, the notes tripping slightly in time with the tempo of his heart. Sweet, inelegant. Loud in bits and soft in others, disorganized in its attempts and charmingly amateur.

Thomas drew back, pulling the blindfold off in one swift motion, mussing his hair.

I knew it, he whispered, so very, dearly, pleased with himself, eyes burrowing into Edwards’s own. The blindfold dropped to the snow beside their feet.

Well done, Tommy, Edward murmured, touching his warm face, tracing the lower line of his lashes with just the edge of his thumb before pulling him close by his waist, Thomas curling around him tighter. 

It was such a marvelous secret, kissing in the snow for what felt like an hour. Till even their hair felt cold, and they could only rub their noses over each other’s faces and slip their hands into warmer spots and breathe each other’s breath. Tom was so tidy in his arms.

“Tommy,” Edward blurted, stopping short as he broke out of the memory. There was a bit of a rattle as Thomas stopped as well, turning to look at him. He hoped he wasn't being rash. 

“You alright, Edward?” Thomas questioned, tilting his head in an owlish manner. “You look like you’ve got a fever -,”

“Would you come to Bath with me, this summer?”

Edward couldn’t look at him. He scuffed his shoe on the pavement.

“I know it’s on short notice - ,”

“Sure,” Thomas said, as easy as breathing, and all of Edward's fear swirled away. “If it isn’t an imposition.”

Edward’s head lifted to find Thomas' eyes twinkling at him across the little distance between them.

“It isn’t, at all. We've got plenty of rooms."

“It is fine with your mother, right?” This time Thomas did hesitate, his fingers flexing on the handlebars. 

“Definitely,” Edward answered quickly.

Thomas looked so knowing it made him embarrassed.  

“Positive, then,” Thomas said, backing his bike towards Edward so that they were closer again. “There’s nowhere else I could think of rather being,” he continued. “I’ve never been to Bath,” he added brightly. “Henry says its full of old Roman sites!”

“It’s alright,” Edward stuttered, shrugging indifferently to hide how silly and relieved he felt. “Just in Somerset - not Bath -,”

He covered Thomas' hand with his own when he was close enough, squeezing it to calm his nerves, or convey something he hadn't been able to quite rightly with words. 

Thomas kissed him on his hot cheek, and the record wobbling on the needle inside him crackled to silence on one final, satisfying, chord, turning with a flash, like the spokes on Tom’s bike when they caught the sun.