The first thing Susan does when she gets to London is to track Jude down and rope him into going shopping with her. Robert's still in the States, wrapping up another film, and she's lonely, she says. Really, Jude thinks, she just wants an excuse to wander around the West End and consult Jude on fashion choices that frankly, he has no better idea of than Robert. When he tries to point this out, she cuts him off with, "You're an actor, you live in London, don't tell me you don't know anything about fashion."
"Have you seen my closet?" Jude says, then wishes he hadn't, because if she ever did, she would realise that some (all) of the clothes she made Robert get rid of in the past year aren't so much burnt and binned, but buried in the depths of Jude's wardrobe, and Jude doesn't really know how to explain that in a way that doesn't make him sound like a sad, obsessive parody of Brokeback Mountain.
It's really just better if she never finds out.
Somehow in the middle of this disastrous outing, they end up staring in at a window display that proudly displays the world's ugliest shirt. The both stare at it in bewilderment, then look at each other, then back at it in horrified reflection.
"No," Jude says.
"We aren't buying that," Susan says, with a nervous laugh.
It's like the product of a hippie throwing up on a lumberjack having sex at a rave. It's horrendous and neon and kind of glitters. It also costs over a hundred pounds.
They end up buying it. After that, they go their separate ways, as if too overcome by mutual shame to ever make eye contact with each other again.
Robert arrives a week later. According to Robert, the first live conversation he's had with his wife in a month goes like this:
"Hey, honey," he says. Then he catches sight of the shirt hung over the chair, tags cut off, and is more curious than anything. "Why do you have strange men's clothing strewn about?"
"Oh, that's Jude's," she says. (At this point, Jude interjects to protest violently that the shirt was never in fact his.)
"Well, that's all right then."
"By which I mean, it's yours. We bought it for you."
Aww, you guys are so sweet." He catches her around the waist. "Let's go to bed."
But instead of swooning madly into his arms like a dutiful wife is supposed to, especially after they haven't seen each other in an entire month etc. etc., she makes a grab for her sunglasses by the table on the door and then slips out of his grasp, skillfully evading. "I have a meeting, and you're supposed to go to dinner with Jude," she says.
"But - " he protests. "I haven't had you to myself in forever."
She kisses him. "Get used to it," she says sweetly, then ducks out the door.
"And that," Robert sighs as he tweaks Jude's nipple, "is how we ended up here."
Jude grits his teeth against a moan. "Really?" he manages to get out. He actually has no idea how they ended up here. They did go to dinner, he remembers that much, and he even remembers what he ordered, but everything else is a really blurry prelude to suddenly being in his flat having amazing sex.
He doesn't mention a word of this to Robert, though, because he just knows Robert will be unendurably smug about it. Instead, he says, "Please don't wear that shirt."
"What are you talking about?" Robert says blithely. "Of course I'm going to wear it, you got it for me after all. It'd be rude not to appreciate a gift. And I do appreciate it," he rolls on top of Jude and kisses him thoroughly, " a lot."
Then Jude's mind goes blank again in that particular way it seems to do when he's around Robert, especially when Robert's tongue is in close proximity to really any part of his body at all, and god, he's not seventeen anymore, he's bloody exhausted, there is no way they're having a second go at it, not this soon, not ever, except when he tries to point this out, Robert just closes his hand around Jude's miraculously half-hard cock and purrs, "Oh, but I think we are," and by god, Jude is aching for it, all of it.
He wears the shirt to the script reading.
Every time Jude looks up and sees it (which is often, as he's sitting right across from Robert), he gets the incredible urge to gouge his eyes out, because even that, as painful as he imagines it to be, would be a relief. At some point, he locks gazes with Susan, and can see his own expression of desperate horror mirrored in hers. Oh dear god, why did we buy that thing? What have we done?
This is why Jude needs to never go shopping with a woman ever again. Only bad things can come of it. Then he amends that to any person irregardless of gender, because probably the only thing worse would be to go shopping with Robert himself. The safest thing really would be to not go shopping at all, even alone, because what if he catches sight of something else that reminds him unequivocally and irrevocably of Robert and that same satanic urge to purchase it rises up again, against all common sense?
One day, he'll be afraid of going outside because the bloody air reminds him of Robert.
No one else seems to notice the absolute atrocity of the shirt, or at least doesn't stare at it in the way Jude can't help but fixate on it, like it's a road accident in progress or an angry bee trapped indoors, better keep an eye on it lest it transmute into something even more monstrous than it already is.
As they head out, Guy brushes past them and remarks, "Nice shirt, Downey." Jude's fairly certain that it's meant to be sarcastic. He hopes.
When they reach Jude's flat, the door safely locked behind them, Jude and Susan are both on him like sharks, unbuttoning the shirt and tossing it onto the floor in record speed. "Well, well, somebody is eager today. Two somebodies. Aren't I lucky?"
Then Susan shuts him up with a kiss, and Jude's hands freeze halfway down Robert's jeans, because exactly what is he doing here? He's never done this before, not with both of them, not with Susan.
It's like she's telepathic: in that very moment she seizes Jude's hand, and they corral Robert into the bedroom between them.
They bounce onto the sheets together like they're in a movie, but then Susan laughs, rolling over to kiss Jude, and it's all unmistakably real. She's a warm, pleasant weight on top of him, and her mouth is perfect and beautiful. He gets lost in the soft lushness of it for seconds, minutes, and she kisses back not like she's curious, but hungry for it, until he's absolutely breathless from her desire.
Robert makes a soft sound beside them. They both turn to look at him, but he just waves his hand. "Don't mind me," he says, sounding just as breathless. "Carry on."
Jude might protest, except Susan's fingers are already unbuttoning his shirt, and he's suddenly aware of his thumb pressed up against the bare skin just above her hip, just his thumb, one fingerprint of contact, and he wants more. He's hindering more than helping, he knows, when he tries to pull Susan's shirt up and over her head, and she eventually has to do it herself, her hair emerging rumpled and fuzzy on the other side. It's endearing, seeing her less than perfectly made-up, and he grins. She grins back, and then they're kissing again.
He can handle her bra himself, one-handed even, and then they're both wriggling out of their trousers and his boxers, and there is so much new skin to explore, Jude doesn't know where to start. Susan doesn't hesitate: she bites lightly down Jude's neck, flicking her tongue lightly against his skin as she moves down.
Then the bed is moving, and Robert is there, his hand possessively squeezing Jude's thigh as he whispers in Susan's ear, "I want you to fuck him." She turns her head and kisses him in response. Jude curls upwards so he can mouth at Susan's pale breasts, scraping his teeth over them and suckling at every inch he can get his mouth on. Susan bends obligingly so he can set to his task in earnest, and he becomes so absorbed in her soft, breathy gasps that he almost jumps when Robert wraps a hand around his cock.
It's shortly replaced by Robert's mouth, and it has Jude arching and muffling a cry against Susan's skin. "God, Robert," he chokes out. Robert's mouth is generous as always, almost sloppy in its eagerness, perfect. "I won't - I won't last."
Robert obligingly stops, but it's only so he can find a condom and roll it onto Jude's cock. Then Susan is sliding down and canting her hips, and then, oh god, sliding onto him, enveloping him like a glove, and that's Robert's hand still around the base of his cock, pressing against his bollocks, and the pleasure is white-hot beneath his eyelids.
Susan is moving, rocking against him experimentally as she searches for a position that works for her. She finds it quickly and starts moving with purpose, working herself up and down him in short, avid thrusts, taking what she wants. Jude makes the mistake of opening his eyes and is nearly undone by the sight of her above him. "Oh, fuck," he breathes, his hips stuttering helplessly and breaking her rhythm.
"That's the idea," she says wickedly.
"Isn't she gorgeous?" Robert mumbles into Jude's mouth, and then kisses him, hard. It's entirely unlike Susan's kisses, but in that moment they seem to blend into one person in Jude's feverish mind. He feels like he's going mad surrounded by so much skin and the soft sheets, all the hands touching him, the mouths, the wetness and the warmth: his skin is damp with sweat and he's burning up hard and fast, like a firecracker.
Whoever let Robert and Stephen sit together at supper should be shot, Jude decides. And that person is Guy, who looked as if he was going to sit right next to Stephen, but ducked away at the last moment, leaving Robert to claim that seat.
Which leads to Robert telling Stephen all sorts of things like, "I watch Wilde often," and "What was it like, kissing Jude?" and "I would totally not object if you were to recreate such a scene right now." Stephen takes this as a challenge and turns to Jude, giving him the filthiest kiss imaginable.
Twenty seconds into it, all thoughts have fled Jude's head except for the persistent one wondering if he could somehow slip under the table for a quick wank without anybody noticing. Stephen's hand is resting lightly against the back of Jude's neck and Jude can't help but shiver into the touch as he's literally being snogged senseless.
After, Jude is desperately trying not to look affected, curling his hands around the chair to keep himself from doing something mad, like pulling Stephen back. Robert is applauding, Susan is smirking, and Guy has his head in his hands.
Stephen, sounding enormously pleased with himself, says, "You really didn't think having me around would lessen the homoerotic atmosphere on set, did you?"
Guy stares at him with dawning horror on his face, like he just realised he actually has to direct all of them.
Just then, a hand lands in Jude's lap, and he completely loses track of the undoubtedly scintillating conversation that's happening in front of him. Because there's a hand. Slipping down the crease of Jude's thigh. Stroking the hard length of his cock, right through his trousers.
Jude slowly turns to Susan, who offers him a bright innocent smile. One that is actually not innocent at all, because that's her hand.
Stephen gives him a fascinated look, and Jude has the sudden foreboding that he knows. Because Stephen is one of those people who is all-knowing. Rather like Sherlock Holmes.
Then Robert leans in and whispers something that Jude emphatically hopes is not, "I think my wife is giving Jude a handjob under the table," and Stephen nods as if he's not at all surprised.
Looking back on that dinner, Jude isn't sure how he managed not to disgrace himself utterly.
On set, Robert and Stephen strike up a fierce competition over who can say their lines to Watson most insinuatingly. It is starting to drive Jude mad, because there's only so many times one can hear "Doctor Watson" in an inappropriately lascivious voice without snapping. He's fairly certain it's already driving Guy absolutely bonkers. It is even, Jude suspects, starting to affect Robert, because he corners Jude in his trailer that evening and kisses him like they're still on set, growling "mine" deep in his throat after they're both panting.
Robert's hands are scrabbling at Jude's belt, and Jude doesn't have the presence of mind to suggest they take this elsewhere. It's only when he's trouserless and bent arse naked over the back of the couch that he realises this is probably a prelude to being buggered in any culture and starts to panic a little. "What are you doing?" he says, tensing and trying to unjellify his legs enough to stand up.
"Shhh," Robert says against the base of his spine, then kisses him. Lips and then tongue, dragging down his sacrum to his coccyx, then, "Oh god," says Jude as Robert's tongue penetrates him, "what - " Then he tries to shut up and only succeeds in making a completely undignified mewling sound when Robert hollows his cheeks and sucks on his arsehole like it's a straw. He shoves his arse against Robert's mouth greedily, and he vaguely thinks he should feel ashamed, but he's too undone to care. Robert's hands are kneading his cheeks, spreading him and pulling him apart, and god, Jude had no idea that anything could feel this good.
Just as Jude is certain he's about to come, Robert pulls off and remarks, "Stephen said - "
"Can we not talk about Stephen fucking Fry right now?" Jude snaps.
"Really?" Robert says, stubble scraping along Jude's back. "Because it kind of sounds like you want to."
"Fuck you," Jude says, except it's enormously ineffective, tonally speaking, because Robert's finger is slipping into him like it belongs there, and then crooking exactly right, and it feels like Robert just pulled a string, the one fragile thread holding him together and he didn't even know it, and now it's unravelling fast and he's coming onto the couch without even being touched, trying not to shout because he doesn't want to bring some dedicated, unsuspecting crew member running.
The thing is, Robert will not actually shut up about Stephen. Robert wants to have sex with Stephen's brain. Everybody knows this. Stephen knows this. Robert's on the verge of taking an advert in the paper or just writing it in the sky. Jude wonders why Susan doesn't seem worried about it at all, and tries to ask subtly something to that effect.
"Oh, don't worry," Susan says. "He was like this about you too."
"Oh," Jude says, empathising because Robert is a deeply obsessive and trying man. Then, "Wait, what?" And shut up, he's not panicking, he's not.
Susan takes him by the arm with a gentle smile on her face, and she says, "Jude, breathe." Think, Jude hears, and okay. Given Robert's newly discovered propensity for bending Jude over and sticking his tongue up Jude's arse at every possible moment, and some impossible ones, it doesn't remotely feel as if they're done.
"But - he - I - what - " he says, mentally flailing, because how is he supposed to take this, really?
She takes pity on him. "He wants to have sex with Stephen's brain. He wants to have sex with your..." and she waves at Jude like Jude should really know, but he doesn't. His what? "... everything."
And the really amazing thing is, Jude believes her, wholeheartedly and completely, because that's the sort of power Susan has. When she says something with that look in her eyes that's not pity but maybe almost love, and that funny half-tilt of her mouth like she's trying not to laugh and yet dead earnest at the same time, you know it's true.
So Jude stops worrying, although he grows increasingly glad that people can't have brain sex and produce tiny brain offspring, because the longer he spends on set, the more he thinks Robert and Stephen's brainspawn will turn out to be terrifying evil masterminds who take over the world.
He doesn't mention a word of any of this to Robert or Stephen, who most likely wouldn't take notice even if he shouted it from the roof tops, because they are too busy telling each other the most intimate details of their (and probably all of their friends' and coworkers' and everyone they've ever come into contact with's) lives. He thinks, as he enters and they exit costuming, he hears Stephen say something about a chicken and a dildo, Robert nodding enthusiastically, and he really, really, really doesn't want to know.
On their day off, Robert wears that shirt, and Stephen had the opportunity earlier that morning to tell him that it's the most hideous shirt he'd ever seen, and it would only be improved if it were to be defecated on by a pigeon. Robert gleefully tells Susan and Jude about this after they wake up at a normal time for hard-working people on their day off, and then spends the rest of the day trying to get a pigeon to poop on him.
"It's really not the novel experience you seem to think it is," Jude tries to tell him, but Robert's not listening.
"Oh, by the way," Robert says, coming back and draping himself over Jude after the hundredth time running at a pigeon like an insane man, "Stephen knows about us."
"What?" Jude sputters. He looks at Susan for support, but she just shrugs. Robert's segues into important and possibly life-altering topics could use some work. A lot of work.
"Yeah. He was like, 'I noticed you exited the domicile of our mutual friend Mr. Law,' and I was like, 'Indeed, I did exit the domicile of our mutual friend Mr. Law,' and then we went to first breakfast."
"Don't say first breakfast, you sound like a hobbit," Jude snaps on reflex, then groans. "He's going to tell everyone."
"He is not, he's very discreet," Robert protests.
"Believe what you want about the man, but he's an incorrigible gossip. Half of London will know by tomorrow. Half the world probably already knows about it right now. It's probably on his twitter. I swear."
"Better here than Hollywood," Robert says, and bites Jude on the nose right in the middle of the park (mostly empty, but still) before disappearing in search of more pigeons. Jude wonders exactly how long it'll be before Robert is ruing those very words, because the paparazzi in LA have nothing on the tenacity of the British press.
Miraculously, it doesn't seem to be anytime soon. Stephen either kept his mouth shut for once, or he twittered (twitted? twat?) about it anyway and everyone laughed it off except a small but dedicated subset of scary fangirls. He would check for himself, except he honestly doesn't understand the internet these days. He doesn't understand how Susan can sit there and catch up on the entire world's news in the time it takes him to make his coffee.
Robert doesn't either, but one day he comes in announcing he's going to become Stephen's disciple in technology. Jude can only see awful, terrible things coming of it (Re: Robert and Stephen's evil brainspawn) and finds himself secretly hoping that Stephen will kill Robert in frustration before Robert manages to get a twitter account or a facebook or a whatever-it's-called-these-days.
Meanwhile, Robert shows his continual appreciation for the shirt by wearing it often. Jude and Susan conspire to hide it while he's not paying attention. Somehow, it's always found again. It's beginning to wear Jude's nerves thin, all the sneaking around and trying to come up with clever locations where Robert will never think to look. It's like psychological warfare that's taking place right in the middle of his home. What happened to nice and relatively normal?
He's reminded that relatively normal doesn't actually exist when he walks in on Susan staring at his open wardrobe. Namely, at the section that contains all of Robert's discarded clothes. He tries to sneak away and pretend that never happened, because that section of his wardrobe doesn't (shouldn't) exist, but she turns and catches his eye in that moment, and it's too late for denials.
"Hopeless," she sighs. "Hopeless."
Then she snatches up the godforsaken shirt - hanging over a chair, smirking at them, if a shirt could be said to smirk - and marches out of the flat with it, to find a bin to burn it in as it should have been all along, Jude only hopes.
Unfortunately she didn't, because Jude receives a parcel from one Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street a week later. It contains Robert's hideous shirt. Jude is torn between tears and extreme jubilation, and is about to banish it to the wardrobe (shamefully) like everything else, when the doorknob jiggles and Robert waltzes in.
"I can see you got my package," Robert says. "Well, my other package."
Jude sighs, because why does Robert think his terrible innuendos actually work?
Robert cozies up to Jude, insinuating himself in the meagre space between Jude and the table, and bats his eyelashes. It's a gesture that's utterly ridiculous and unbefitting a grown man, so Jude just gives him a dour look.
"You're mad at me," Robert says, as if he's arrived at a brilliant deduction.
"I'm not mad at you."
"Awwww, don't be angry. It's the shirt, isn't it? You picked it out for me and you're sad Susan told me to get rid of it."
"It's not the shirt," Jude grits out. "I'm glad you sent it to me, although why you chose to send it to me I can't fathom, as it was hanging right there yesterday morning, and - "
"So let's go to bed," Robert says in that ridiculous sexy whisper-growl that Jude's body certainly appreciates while Jude's mouth continues to ramble on like a madman.
"I should set it on fire. I might as well set everything on fire, actually, but Susan already knows, and I don't - and you're going to find out, and I. I should go."
Robert is looking at Jude in that strange way that Jude suddenly comprehends, because it's how Robert looks at Stephen Fry all the time, and somehow seeing it directed at another person makes more sense than seeing it constantly directed at himself. It's awe and admiration and fascination all wrapped up into one, and just, fuck this all, because Jude can't handle it, and he's edging towards the door when Robert catches him by the sleeve. "Wait," Robert says. "You can't go, it's your flat. Let's talk about your newly discovered pyrotechnic tendencies."
"I'm not under house arrest," Jude points out. But he doesn't actually go.
Robert is suddenly very close in that overwhelming way Jude will never get used to, no matter how many times it happens. He crowds Jude against the door then leans in and licks up Jude's neck to the spot behind Jude's ear that involuntarily makes him melt.
"Let me fuck you," he whispers in Jude's ear. And Jude shivers against Robert, hard, and then his hands are coming up and capturing Robert's head, so he can dissect Robert with his mouth. Robert deserves to be taken apart for what he does to Jude's churning insides every. Single. Day. It's brilliant and breathtaking and downright scary and the worst thing is, it can't possibly last. Might as well take it while he can, and fuck it if he comes out of it completely mad in the end.
Jude kisses Robert like his life depends on it, kisses him until Robert stumbles into him and Jude's practically holding him up, kisses him like the world is about to blow up and this is their first, final consummation of their terribly doomed love. Jude kisses him until he feels like he's drowning, choking and smothering at the deluge against his senses, and has to pull back before he loses himself in Robert completely.
Yet Robert still manages to resurface with his smugness intact. "Just for clarification, was that a 'yes, take me now' kiss or a 'I'm going to distract you now so you forget all about your nefarious plans' kiss?"
"That was a yes," Jude snarls at him.
Robert just grins and nods towards the bedroom.
If Jude's ever undressed so fast in his life, he can't recall. Certainly not with Robert on top of him a second later, rubbing up against him, kissing him soundly, utterly bereft of clothes as well, a somewhat rare occurrence in their usually quick-by-necessity encounters.
They stay like this for long enough that Jude begins to wonder if Robert's forgotten about his plans already, until one of Robert's hands works its way around the curve of Jude's arse and then down the sensitive skin of his lower thigh. He slithers off Jude a moment later and returns with slick fingers, and Jude helps out by pulling his knees up and spreading his legs.
"Look at you," Robert breathes, as he relentlessly sinks two knuckles deep into Jude. Jude squeezes then pushes back against it, eager for more. "That's it," Robert says, leaning up and kissing Jude again, like he can't quite resist.
Soon he's twisting two fingers inside of Jude, in the process of working the third one in when he groans and pulls them out, all at once. "No," Jude protests, wanting them back, his eyes snapping open to catch Robert's expression coalescing into pure desire.
"Sorry, I can't," Robert says, "I just need - " Then he's sinking into Jude, slowly but inexorably, and Jude forgets to breathe.
"Oh, fuck," they both say at the same time, and Jude almost laughs, his body tensing with the effort. Except that has Robert gasping and jerking forward, a little quicker than he planned, and god, it's perfect right there, Jude's own cock flexes hard against his stomach, so he squeezes again, purposefully this time, encouraging Robert to move.
"Like that," Jude says, and cries out when Robert rocks into him, short shallow thrusts opening him up until he's spreading his legs wider, welcoming the stretch of it, hooking his heels around Robert's thighs to hold him closer. He didn't realise he's closed his eyes until Robert's hands cradle his face, and they spring open just as involuntarily at the touch. Robert's fingers curl around the back of Jude's neck, supporting his head so Robert can lean down and kiss him. Jude kisses him back, messily, desperately, gasping for breath and not caring at all, only wanting to get closer, as close as he can to Robert. It's not enough and too much all at once, but he can't struggle with it, spread-wide as he is, he can only hold on and take it until his world narrows down to Robert's hands and Robert's hips, Robert and him, moving as one. He's wholly surrounded as he's always hoped and feared, but he isn't being smashed to bits as he's sometimes envisioned. He is not the building and Robert is not the bulldozer. He's the rushing river, and Robert is the bridge.
Later, when Jude wakes up, his hands are cuffed to the headboard. He is still naked, but mostly covered with a sheet. There is a piece of paper on his chest, and he reads it upside down, laboriously.
I tied him up so he wouldn't run away.
Susan arrives approximately five minutes later, looking moderately surprised but not shocked to find Jude in the state he's in. "Oh, so that's what the key is for," she exclaims, and Jude supposes he should feel grateful that Robert didn't feel the need to completely reenact the scene from their last movie, not that Susan would particularly mind. She picks up the note and frowns. "What's this about running away?"
"I wasn't - " he starts, but Susan stares him down. He drops his gaze and tugs uselessly on the cuffs, and sighs. "Can we, I don't know, just cuddle a little?" he asks, and then promptly wants to die, because did he really just say that?
"Of course," Susan says. She unlocks him then curls tightly around him, giving him no chance to escape even if he planned to. Instead he buries his face in her wonderful breasts, and just breathes. It's amazing how easily he can breathe around her, really, like she's a giant carbon monoxide-eating plant and not another human being who sucks up just as much oxygen as everyone else.
Then he has to shift, because his arse kind of hurts.
"My arse is sore," he admits, because the only thing more humiliating than telling the truth would be to have her thinking he's trying to rub one out against her on the sly.
Susan snorts. "Robert's wanted to fuck you since forever," she says. "And he gets a little rough sometimes, I should know." A pause. "Is that why you want to run away?"
"What?" Jude says, raising his head a little. "No. That was - I don't know, added incentive to not run away. Or a really devious plan to lull me into complacency so he could chain me up afterwards." Thinking back to the scenes leading up to this one, he realises with a new sense of despair that nothing's really changed. Robert's shirts are still in the closet, Jude's still a mess, and Robert and Susan are for whatever reason, still here. "I just," he says, and then has to make an effort of breathing out steadily, because it wouldn't do to start hyperventilating on top of it all, "I don't know what this - what all of this is supposed to be."
Susan gently pulls away and props herself on her elbow, looking down at Jude. "Is that what this is all about?" she says, like it isn't the turmoil of Jude's entire life, to be caught between these two brilliant, enigmatic individuals and not know which way is up. Her expression shifts into sympathy, and she says, "Of course. We should have. Jude." Then she kisses him, sweet and reassuring.
"Anything you want," she says, and he almost doesn't understand, because they're generous people, the both of them, but no one is that generous. No one. "It's your choice, Jude. It's always your choice."
"What if," he asks, chest tightening, "I want it to be more than - what if I want it to be too much?"
"You can't," she says simply. Her hand grasps his, squeezes it tightly. "There are no limits to our love for you."
He wants to protest that of course she doesn't mean that, no one can mean that, and they have a marriage to consider, all three of them, and careers and families, and everything is inextricably tangled up and even something as good and lovely and perfect as this will have to end sometime, it's just not sustainable, not with all the other messy details of their lives in existence contriving and scheming to pull them apart as they always do, so of course it will not last forever, Jude knows this even as he wishes it to his core being.
But she's looking into his eyes, and he can read the truth there.
"No limits," he repeats, testing the words out.
"No limits," she agrees.
When Robert gets home:
1) they put him in the cuffs as punishment for being the one who actually ran away ("What, you think I didn't want to be here to tell Jude we love him? I had work! Ow!")
2) they don't emerge from the bedroom for a very long time
3) they make Robert get rid of that shirt once and for all.
Robert sends the shirt to Stephen. Stephen links them to a youtube video of himself exorcising the shirt and setting it on fire. Jude thinks about all the other shirts he has and wonders if Stephen would come exorcise his closet. He thinks it can't be the strangest thing anyone's ever asked Stephen to do before.
Not that it matters, really. He's got what's important within arm's reach, curled up amongst the pillows right next to him, and at the moment, he can't care less about anything else.