intolerablexsacrifice‌:

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_{Flint had risen instinctively just after Thomas did, unsure of what he’d done wrong but deeply concerned; he couldn’t tell if this was anger, or upset, or something else entirely, and therefore could not predict how Thomas would proceed. If he left the room, James decided he would not follow- it was usually better to let Thomas come to him, and not go searching.}

_{But Thomas turned, and Flint watched him warily, concern etched into his face. Thomas’ voice–the cool stiffness of it–made something in his gut twist unhappily, made him want to stare at the floor. He didn’t–Thomas would likely notice such a dramatic shift in demeanor–but both hands came to fidget with the hem of his loose shirt.}

_{“Ah,” James nodded once in acknowledgment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.” In all of his dreams of what this life might be like, he had never accounted for just how drastically the two of them might have changed. He would not have given Thomas up for the world–it was still a struggle to have him out of sight even briefly–but sometimes, the man was all but unrecognizable. He had no doubt that he was often the same to Thomas.}

_{Such drastic change between them both meant that the rules had changed, and James was still unsure of what they were (for both of them- and some rules could not be known until they had already been broken)–but this, this he could remember. No touching without asking first. He could do that. He had been adept at keeping his hands to himself, once upon a time: he could become so again for Thomas’ sake.}

_{Expression smoothing out into something more measured than the worry and guilt from before, James stopped fidgeting, and folded his hands behind his back.}

_{“If you need a moment–by all means. It’s alright.”}

“Neither did I.” He could not tell if that admission cost him something, or if it was simply a relief to acknowledge something broken in him with someone who recognized that it was broken. James seemed to collect himself, for which Thomas was grateful enough that he slowly lowered the book, and finally set it at his side with an acceptance for the fact that the alarm in him had already caused the damage – and James was giving him the space necessary to build the bridge they both needed. 

He inclined his head at the offer of a moment, though more out of gratitude for the offer of it than the intention of taking it. He stepped over, setting the book down and reaching for James – not taking hold, but simply offering a truce of his own, in the form of himself. He didn’t know what else to offer, if truth was to be examined, but if nothing else it should at least indicate that he was not cross with James because of this. 

“It – “ Hmm. Strange to find himself without words to describe precisely what was wrong with a situation, when painting such visages had been his gift and downfall. But then, he’d rather been trained out of that in some ways – for days and weeks that had stretched on too long, words stolen from his lips, a mind too muddled to function – 

“Its the hair. Nothing else.” Words thrust down, if only to drag himself away from the dark path his mind wished to tread. “At least – nothing else that bears mentioning, at this moment.” He had always insisted that James use his words – through coaxing, training and command – and for the first time he wondered if perhaps he had been cruel for doing so, when he thought himself kind.