Page 30 of The Words Beneath the Noise

Just that. Just no. No hesitation, no qualification, no careful parsing of duty versus desire.

“No,” he said again, softer this time. “I am not going to report you, Art. Not now. Not ever.”

Something in my chest cracked open. I felt tears spill over before I could stop them, hot against my cold cheeks, and I pressed my hand over my mouth to muffle the sound that wanted to escape.

“I thought,” I managed, voice breaking, “I thought you would. I thought when you saw where I was going, what I was, you would...”

“Would what? Hand you over to Finch? Watch them drag you away for the crime of wanting to be yourself for one bloody evening?” Tom's voice was rough, angry, but not at me. At the world. At the laws and the fear and the whole rotten system that made this moment necessary. “I have done a lot of things in this war that I am not proud of. I have killed men. I have followed orders that made me sick. But I will not do that. I will not destroy someone for loving wrong.”

“It is not wrong.” The words came out fierce, fiercer than I intended. “What I am is not wrong. What those people in that room are is not wrong. We are not criminals, we are not sick, we are just people who want to love and be loved and that should not be a death sentence.”

“I know.” Tom reached out, slowly, giving me time to pull away if I wanted to. When I did not, he laid his hand over mine where it rested on my knee. His fingers were cold from the night air, but I did not care. The touch was so gentle, so careful, that it made me want to weep all over again. “I know, Art. I know.”

We sat there in the darkness, his hand over mine, and I let myself feel it. The warmth of him. The steadiness. The impossible gift of being known and not rejected.

“I have never told anyone,” I whispered. “Not outright. Not like this. There have been others who knew, who guessed, but I have never said the words out loud to someone I...”

I stopped. Could not finish the sentence. Could not name what Tom was to me, what he was becoming, because naming it would make it real and real things could be lost.

“Someone you what?” Tom asked, quiet.

I did not know what to say. Did not have words, in English or Polari or any language, for the enormity of what he was offering. So instead I leaned into him, let my head rest against his shoulder, and felt the solid warmth of him holding me up.

We stayed like that for a long time. Long enough for the cold to seep into my bones. Long enough for the tears to dry on my cheeks. Long enough to feel something shift between us, some wall coming down that could never be rebuilt.

When I finally sat up, my body ached and my eyes were swollen and I had never felt more wrung out in my life. But beneath the exhaustion was something else. Something that felt almost like peace.

“I should go,” I said reluctantly. “Early shift tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Tom stood, then offered me a hand. I took it and let him pull me to my feet, and for a moment we stood there face to face, close enough that I could see the faint lines around his eyes, the places where the war had carved itself into his skin.

“Thank you,” I said. “For... for all of it. For following me. For not running. For being here.”

“There is nowhere else I would rather be.”

He said it simply, like it was obvious, like it cost him nothing. And maybe it did. Maybe for him, this was easy, this loyalty, this steadfast presence in the face of everything.

For me, it was a miracle.

SEVEN

THE BLACK BOOK

TOM

Art's notebook. The one he carried everywhere. I'd watched him write in it a dozen times, pencil moving in quick, precise strokes, face gone soft with concentration.

It sat in my hands now, worn fabric cover soft against my calloused palms. Heavier than it looked, weighted with whatever truths he committed to those pages.

Something cold settled in my stomach that had nothing to do with the December wind.

I turned the book over in my hands. Black fabric, slightly frayed at the edges. Someone had stitched initials inside the front cover: A.P. The letters were crooked, done by hand rather than machine, and the imperfection made my chest tight.

This was personal. Private. The kind of thing a man kept close because it held the truth of who he was when no one was watching.

I should return it immediately. Find Art, hand it back, walk away. Clean and professional. No complications.

But my thumb was already lifting the cover.