Micha widened his eyes.
“It’s so very strange. I’ve never felt so confident in the beauty and benevolence of the world, and its creator, but I suppose I must be very far from grace indeed, to be who I am, and do what I have done.” Thomas shrugged. “I presume an answer will come to me in time. But, whether it does or doesn’t, I must consider how to proceed with my life.”
This had not been a conversation Micha had ever envisioned having. Certainly not less than twenty-four hours after a few kisses and a hand job. “Why? Can’t you just go on with it?”
“Well, of course I shall go on with it. But I can hardly remain in the church, can I? I cannot preach duty, chastity, and obedience when I am neither dutiful, obedient, or”—Thomas smiled—“chaste.” And, suddenly, he whirled round, right there in the lane, and pressed a swift, clumsy kiss on Micha’s astonished lips.
“What the fuck are you doing?” cried Micha, looking wildly in all directions in case someone had seen them.
Thomas burst out laughing. “There’s no one here.”
“Yes but . . . yes but . . . you don’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“What do you mean, ‘Why not’? It’s obvious.”
“The only sensible reason,” said Thomas mildly, “that I can imagine for not kissing you is you not wanting to be kissed.”
“There are lots of sensible reasons.”
“Is that among them?”
“N-no but—”
So, of course, Thomas kissed him again. Micha froze, though his heart hammered wildly. This was stupid. Madness. Somebody would surely catch them. And then Thomas made a soft, yearning noise against his mouth, and Micha found his fingers had coiled into Thomas’s hair and he was dragging him closer until their bodies met as intimately as their lips. Thomas, it seemed, was a swift learner. There was no hesitation in him, no anxiety. He shaped the kiss, but he did not control it, and he claimed Micha with painstaking care, and a thoroughness that made his knees shake. Thomas’s tongue slipped lightly between Micha’s lips, explored him, worshipped him, took possession of the deepest corners of his mouth. It was a sweet, certain communion, and Micha felt precious. Annihilated. He heard someone actually whimper and realised—with some bewilderment—it was him. He pulled away, pressing fingertips to his mouth, as though he had never been kissed.
“I love doing that.” Thomas gazed at him with naked adoration. “I think about it all the time. I love the sounds you make. I love the way you look at me.”
“Stop it.”
If only it was more of an act. That might have made it bearable. It was what a whore did, after all. But this was neither entirely truth nor entirely fiction. It was something else, something both and neither.
“Sorry.” But Thomas spoke so entirely unrepentantly that Micha had to bite back a smile.
“Stop looking at me like you want to propose. I told you, it’s just sex.”
“Oh,” said Thomas, in the same giddy fashion, “if only we could be married.”
“You can wear the gown.”
“A small price to pay.”
“Stop it. It’s not funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be amusing. I think it makes perfect sense. How could love ever be sinful, whatever form it took? So really our only wickedness is fornication. And that is only because we are denied an alternative.”
Micha sneered. “Does this help you sleep at night, Father? Look at yourself in the mirror in the morning? It’s still wrong. And pretending there’s more to it makes you a hypocrite as well as a pervert.” Thomas reached for his hand and Micha jerked away. “What the fuck are you doing now?”
Thomas made a gesture of surrender. “Micha, if I truly believed that what I did with you was wrong, I would not do it. That is why we are granted conscience. I am pretending nothing. I love you. It’s very simple.”
Micha’s mouth fell open. Pure disbelief. A touch of horror. And a swirl of something else much less easily articulated. How could Thomas just say that? Out of nowhere. As if it was easy. Of course, Micha had said it to Isidore often enough, the words such meagre messengers of his fervour, and Isidore had always said it back. Always said it back. As light as his caresses. This was nothing like that. And yet there it was, something else Thomas had given unasked.
“Oh dear,” Thomas went on, rather wryly. “I can see by your expression I have not pleased you. I know you’re not in love with me.”
“You can’t love me,” whispered Micha. “You don’t know me.”
Thomas smiled at him gently. “What has knowledge to do with love? Love is a kind of faith, is it not?”
