Bobby jumps, turning to find James staring up at him, looking calm and collected, and how is that fair?
“Fine,” he lies.
James starts to say something else, but Meredith approaches them and presses a key into Bobby’s hand. “The porter’s already bringing up your trunks. The two of you are in room seven.”
Bobby blinks, his heart pounding in his chest. “What, both of us?”
“Uncle Dashiell only booked three rooms, what can you do?” Meredith says, eyes twinkling. “Have a good night.”
She turns and saunters away, glancing over her shoulder to wink at them before she joins Albie and follows him upstairs, Beth and Gwen giggling in front of them.
Bobby and James stand there, not looking at each other. He can feel heat creeping up his cheeks as he watches the porters bring their trunks up behind the other four. He— Something changed, but he wasn’t ready to— He thought he’d have the night to talk himself up.
“I suppose we should...” James starts, his voice tight.
“Right. I’ve got the key, so,” Bobby manages, glancing at him before turning to face straight ahead and follow the porters up the stairs, his shoulders tense.
James bumps up behind him when they reach the top of the narrow, sagging staircase, and it’s like a bolt of lightning zips through Bobby’s whole body. He nearly stumbles up the last step, but James catches him, his broad hand at the small of Bobby’s back.
Bobby withholds a whimper of anxiety and lust and confusion as they follow the porters down the top-floor hall they’re sharing with just Gwen, Beth, Albie, and Meredith. The porters traipse into the room to leave their trunks, and neither man so much as glances at them when they come back out,uninterested in two traveling companions sharing a room. They have no way of knowing how complicated this little inn stay has just become.
Bobby stares at the cracked-open door of their suite. If they go inside—
But then again, if they don’t go inside, he might spontaneously combust.
“Right, well,” James says, nudging Bobby’s back, where his blasted hand is still resting, calm and sure.
Bobby lurches into motion, leading them both inside, step after faltering step. He closes the door behind them and then the two of them stand at the threshold of the room. It’s little more than a double bed, their trunks, a single chair, and the dark wood walls.
He glances at James, who’s staring at the bed with its questionably brown duvet, his kissable, plump bottom lip between his teeth. Flashes of their week at his country estate flit before Bobby’s eyes. If he could just unglue his tongue from the parched roof of his mouth, they could fix things, and then they could—
Or James could say no.
Even after his playful looks on the train, James could still say no. The marriage idea could be a bust; sometimes he, Beth, and Gwen do get carried away. James needs something concrete, something real, and maybe this won’t be enough.
Now that they’re standing side by side, arms brushing, Bobby doesn’t know if he could bear to have James reject him, again. It might be less painful just to hover here all night—stay in the maybe, and the possible, for the rest of their lives.
James finally rips his gaze from the bed and turns to look up at Bobby. They stare at each other for a moment, all the tension of the past few hours—the past few weeks, really—hanging between them. Bobby parts his lips, and James reaches up, hesitant, his hands brushing along Bobby’s cheeks.
He pauses, staring into Bobby’s eyes, his palms warm against Bobby’s jaw. Bobby swallows, questions pushing against his teeth, crackling along his skin. But they can wait. First, he needs to let James draw him down into a heady, desperate kiss.
His brain doesn’t know what to do, his heart thudding loudly. But his hands seem perfectly fine. They slide around James’ waist, curling upward to cradle his back, and Bobby leans into his kiss. The feel of his lips, the pressure of his tongue, the gentle caress of his fingers on Bobby’s cheeks—perhaps he’s fallen asleep on the train and is simply having another one of his wonderful dreams.
Then James pulls back, keeping hold of Bobby’s jaw. Bobby blinks down at him, holding tight to his back, worried if he moves, he’ll wake up. He didn’t think—he didn’t dare hope—he doesn’t know what this means, or how to react, other than to cling to James for as long as possible before this inevitably ends, again.
But James just stares up at him, eyes wide and searching. Bobby wishes he could get his brain to form words, to ask, to understand—
“I’m so sorry,” James whispers.
What in the hell is happening?James’ thumb brushes at his cheek, stealing his breath with tenderness.
“I did a poor job of explaining before. And I know I hurt you, horribly. And I am so, so very sorry,” he says, his voice brittle but sure. “I shouldn’t have for a second made you think that you were something shameful, or that our... love was ever the problem.”
Bobby thinks maybe he’s had a stroke. “Our...”
“Your brother is right,” James continues, smiling up at him.
Okay, he’s absolutely had a stroke. “What does Albie have to—”
