Page 98 of The Words Beneath the Noise

Stop thinking. Just stop.

But my brain never stopped. That was the problem. That was always the problem. Couldn't just exist in a moment without analyzing it to death, without finding every possible way it could go wrong, without cataloguing the dangers.

And this was so dangerous.

If anyone found out. If Finch suspected. If someone had seen us leaving together, or noticed Tom never returned to his billet, or put together the pieces that we'd both been missing from breakfast yesterday and now were here, together, obviously having?—

Tom stirred. Made a sleepy sound and tightened his arm around my waist, pulling me closer without waking. Unconscious gesture. Instinctive. Like even in sleep he wanted me near.

My throat tightened. When had anyone ever wanted me near? When had I been the person someone reached for instead of the person everyone gave space?

Don't cry. Do not cry. That's ridiculous.

Cried anyway. Quiet tears tracking down my temples into my hair, which was probably a mess, which I probably looked terrible, which Tom would see when he woke up and realize what a mistake this was.

“Art?”

His voice, rough with sleep, uncertain. One eye opened, blue-grey and focusing slowly. “You alright?”

“Fine. Yes. Fine.” My voice came out strangled. Not fine at all.

He propped himself up on one elbow, concern replacing sleepiness. “You're crying.”

“I'm not.”

“You are. I can see tears.” His free hand came up, thumb brushing under my eye. “What's wrong? Did I. Did we. Do you regret?—”

“No!” Too loud. Too vehement. “No. I don't regret. I just. I don't know what this means. What we are now. If you're going to wake up properly and realize this was a mistake and I'm just. I'm spiraling. Ignore me. I'm being ridiculous.”

“Hey.” Soft now. He shifted until he was fully looking at me, face serious. “Look at me. Really look.”

I forced myself to meet his eyes, despite how vulnerable it felt, despite the urge to look away.

“We're still here,” he said quietly. “That's something. We're both alive, both together, both choosing this even knowing how dangerous it is.” His thumb traced my cheekbone. “And I don't regret a single second of last night. Not one. Even if this is all we get. Even if it's impossible. I wanted you then and I want you now and that hasn't changed just because the sun came up.”

“But what if?—”

“No what ifs. Not this morning.” He leaned down, kissed my forehead gently. “This morning we get to just be. Two men who spent Christmas Eve together. Two men who are going to get up, get dressed, and pretend to be normal while secretly knowing we're anything but.”

Despite everything, I almost smiled. “That's a terrible plan.”

“You got a better one?”

“Not remotely.”

“Then we'll make do.” He started to pull away, and my hand shot out, grabbing his wrist.

“Wait. Just. One more minute. Please.”

His expression softened impossibly further. “Yeah. Alright. One more minute.”

He settled back down, and I tucked myself against his side, memorizing the feel of him. The way his chest rose and fell. The steady beat of his heart under my palm. The particular combination of warmth and solidity and safety that I'd never associated with another human being before.

One more minute turned into five, then ten, neither of us willing to break the spell. But eventually, inevitably, the real world intruded in the form of church bells ringing across the grounds.

Christmas morning service. Which we'd both be expected to attend, or at least show faces at breakfast.

“We should move,” Tom said, not moving.